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all-purpose-dish-soap · 1 month ago

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64 / 4.1k / soap soulmate au, final part

...

"You doing okay?"

Hearing Graves’ voice knocks what little breath you had out of your lungs. It's been months, but that's him. Your old boss. You never thought you'd hear his voice again.

"I've been better," you say finally. "Been awhile."

"Yeah, it has," he says. "Wish you'd've called me to catch up sometime, rather than under the circumstances. You don't sound too banged up. They treat you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask how you feel. I asked if they roughed you up."

You feel your own temper shorten in response. "I need you to call KorTac off."

There's a pause. You can imagine his frowning face, the way he's thinking that one over. "I'll take that under advisement," he finally says, but you can tell he's not going to do what you ask of him. "Puttin' me in a predicament here, kid. You're giving those boys a hard time, and here I thought I was helping you out. Paying your bail, so to speak."

"It’s more complicated than that."

"Always is. Let’s just have you dropped off back on base with us. You can clean yourself up and we’ll talk."

He waits for your crisp yes, sir, but it never comes.

He speaks again. "You got somewhere else to be?"

"I can't go back."

"Can't or won't? You got something you ain't tellin me, soldier?"

"I said I can't go back. And I'm not your soldier anymore. You're not my boss. I don't work for you."

"You know Shadows don't leave one of our own behind. Not to rot in some CIA prison cell. So lose the attitude," he says, voice like iron. "This ain't a good time to play games, kid. You're comin' back with me because I spent a pretty penny on you. You owe me. You have your personal business, fine. Come on back to base and let's talk this out face to face before you go makin' any hasty decisions."

You're so frustrated it's hard to form words. You should be grateful. You know that. Graves doesn’t pretend to care about his men. He cares enough to lead from the front. But you met your soulmate, and you can’t act like it didn't change you. You need to make things right. You also can’t exactly tell Graves you kind of sold him out.

"Hey. Focus up." He doesn't raise his voice to a command. Still, the order is in his voice, and you have been long trained to follow your commander's orders. Then he sighs. "What happened to you, kid?"

"You betrayed the 141. You killed innocent people in Las Almas, looking for them."

You can almost hear his jaw working behind his clenched teeth, the muscles in his face tight. He does not allow this kind of disrespect. "You think I like what I had to do? General Shepherd's orders were clear. We followed them. 141 did not." He huffs out a sigh. "I didn't enjoy it. But that's the job. You of all people know that."

You swallow. "You told us they were our brothers. You killed innocent people, Commander. Johnny said he saw you do it--"

"Johnny?" Grave's voice rises. "You on a first name basis with Soap now?"

"We all know what happened in Las Almas," you retort. Your skin goes hot at the way he says Johnny's name. "I won't work for Shepherd anymore after that. I won't fucking do it."

"Don't pull that with me." The warning is written in his voice. This isn't like you. To the Shadows, you’re calm. Cold. You don't lose your temper. You don't talk back. Especially not to Graves. "You think you can walk away at the drop of a hat just because you don't agree with an order? It doesn't work like that. You follow an order, even if you don't like it, even if it pisses you off. You don't get to decide what you think is right or wrong to carry out. When I give you an order, you follow it. That's your job. Your loyalty is with me. Not with the 141."

"I did my job."

"Then act like it," he snaps. "Stop acting like I'm some evil bastard out here. I made the only choice I could. Task Force 141 was not supposed to be there. They knew my orders, and what did they do? They came after my men, went behind my back, screwed us over. We did what we had to. You wanna be pissed at someone? Be pissed at them."

You glare down at the ice, but say nothing.

"You know I'm right." He knows you. He's getting to you. "And you know what else I find interesting? You don't seem a bit surprised to hear me alive." His voice is too casual and sharp as a knife. "Didn't you get the memo? Did no one forward you my obituary, soldier?"

You stiffen. You're not supposed to know he's alive.

"You're an awful liar. Always have been." He pauses for a long moment. "It ain't easy, surviving against the 141 if they want you dead. You know how I managed it, soldier?"

Yes. "No,” you retort. “And stop calling me that. I'm not your soldier. I don't work for you anymore."

"The hell you aren't. Maybe you're not on the payroll anymore, and maybe you're no longer under my command, but once a Shadow, always a Shadow. That makes you my responsibility. And my goddamn headache." Something shuffles on the other end of the line. "You know exactly what I'm willing to do to keep one of my Shadows safe. But if you're so keen on turning yourself in, fine. I'll have you in front of Shepherd's desk first thing tomorrow. Is that what you want? You know Soap and Ghost put Shadows in the ground that night in Las Almas."

"Shadows tried to put Johnny and Ghost in the ground first."

"This isn't about who shot first. This is about you." His voice is dangerously low, but he keeps his temper in check. Then he huffs a laugh. "You keep callin’ him Johnny. Makes my brain itch." Johnny MacTavish. John MacTavish. Yeah, that's it. "I'll be damned," he mutters.

You touch your exposed soulmark compulsively as if to hide it. Most soldiers hide theirs, but yours has always been tough to cover up. He's seen it more than a few times.

"Got you right out from under my fuckin' nose."

Your stomach tightens. You feel too exposed, like suddenly he’s putting the story together--how 141 got in.

"Shoulda known. Shoulda known. You know the military has a registry for this shit. There are rules. What's wrong with you?"

"I made a mistake," you mutter.

That might be the funniest thing he ever heard. And he's heard some good jokes. "You don't make mistakes, kiddo. You never have. That's not how I trained you." He's right, and you know it. "But hey. Guess it's true what they say about it."

"What?"

"Soulbonds. Make you take your best-laid plans and raze ‘em. Full scorched earth.”

“This isn’t about that. I’m making this decision on my own.”

“You think?” He takes a puff on his cigarette. “I don’t. I don't blame you, either. You sure as hell fought it as best you could. Didn't give in to save your own life. If that's not the soulbond making your decision for you, soldier, I don't know what is."

You look up at the sky. For all the time you spent working with Graves, that past version of you might as well be dead. Maybe that’s the grave you’ve been digging. "I can't work for Shepherd anymore. I won't do it."

"You're a good soldier, 86. You were loyal. I still think you're loyal, even if I'm not who you're loyal to," he finally says. His voice is still calm. It doesn't make you feel any better. "You know if you choose to walk away from this, the next time we meet might well be as enemies."

"Then I guess we won't meet again, sir."

He says nothing. Then he lets out a long huff. You really are going to do him dirty. You can hear his scowl. "That's a damn shame, kid. But you have more of a spine than I gave you credit for," he says. There's a tone of reluctant respect to it. That's as close as you're going to get to a compliment from him now. "You're a loose end, then. You'd best stay well out of the way. Mine and Shepherd's. I hope you're not making the wrong choice, 86," he says quietly. "I really hope you're not."

"It’s out of your hands now. And pay KorTac," you add. "Pay my squad. They did their job."

That makes him scoff. "Now why would I do that? You might be a traitor, but you're still my investment. You were worth more on my payroll than theirs, and that’s a fact I intend to maintain."

"You owe me," you remind him.

"Don't push your luck," he warns. "You're an asset. You don’t get the privileges of rank anymore. But, well..." He sighs. You imagine him with his heels kicked back on his desk, cigarette in hand. "I’ll tell you what. I’m in a charitable mood. I'll pay them off. I'm a man of my word when the time comes to pay off my debts. Hell, I’ll even throw in a tip for a job well done." Despite the annoyance in his voice, you don't doubt he'll do just that. "But that doesn’t mean I trust you anymore. I trusted you once, and you went rogue. I let you go now, that means I expect you to keep my secrets. Don't you go singing if Shepherd puts you in a chair. You got that?"

You glance up out of the corner of your eye at Soap, whose hands are still clenched in tight fists at his sides. "If Shepherd puts me in a chair, he's the one who's gonna sing. Not me."

Graves chuckles. "You're a good soldier, 86, but you can't take on an old war dog like Shepherd. Leave that to someone more qualified."

"Like who? You?"

"As I said, you best steer clear. I don't want to hear your name again." His voice hardens, and you hear your old commander again. "Good luck, kid. You'll need it. And give Soap hell."

You toss the phone back to Horangi. He listens to what Graves has to say. Then, eyes meeting yours for a moment, he wordlessly moves out away from the river, leaving you weary with relief. It's over. Finally.

Soap watches him disappear into the trees. Then, he looks back at you, alone and shivering on the ice. You look half-dead, bleeding, and your lips are near blue. He wants to make his way to you, but the ice is scarcely holding you. It won't hold him, too.

"Oi," Soap calls. His voice is rough with anxiety. "Get over here. You're gonnae freeze to death even if you don't fall through."

You blink up at him. Standing in the rising sun the way he is now, he looks like someone’s guardian angel. Yours? You'd like very much to be wrapped in his wings.

You make your way over to the bank, but the rocky ledge up is slippery and icy. Behind you, between the ice where you're standing and the bank, there's a yawning gap. To your left, there's a bridge, but snow has already melted off the surface of the ice, and it looks thin. "There's no way up," you call. "But downriver..."

"No’ a chance in hell I’m going to let you try to cross that," Soap says as he approaches the edge. "You'll be swept away and drown, hen. You're not in any condition to swim, and even if you were, that river's too bloody fast to risk it."

"Then what do you suggest?"

His eyes sweep over the river once more. It's wide; too wide to attempt a jump across. The ice has fallen in, leaving it almost impossible to make it to the bank. It isn't safe. The longer you stand there, the more the ice cracks under you. He admires your guts for putting yourself on the line like that to get back to him, but damn you. His blood pressure has never been higher.

Soap throws off his pack and slings his gear onto the bank. "I'll pull you up."

"But..."

"But nothing." With the adrenaline still pumping through his system, Soap thinks nothing of the risk of the bank collapsing under you both with his added weight. The only thing on his mind is getting you back in one piece. "We both know damn well, if I was the one on the ice now, you'd already be down there trying to help me, so for once, just shut up and let me help you."

Can't argue with that.

He pulls out an ice hook--mountaineering equipment; he was prepared to climb this mission, luckily--and offers it to you.

You toss the grenade as far as you can in the opposite direction. Then you raise your hands to grasp the rope. He's holding the sharp end and giving you the handle. You try to keep hold, but as he lifts, your bloodied hands slip just as the grenade explodes nearby, too close, spiderwebbing the ice with a final crack.

You land hard, break through, and disappear under the freezing water.

Soap has never known panic faster than when he sees you go under.

He dives after you. He has to get you back to the surface before whatever air you had in your lungs gives out. Your survival is his survival.

He finds you in the rushing black abyss when your fingers hook around his sleeve. Wrapping his hands around your arms, Soap anchors you to his chest.

You come to in his arms. You're colder than you ever have been in your life. Your fingertips tingle in pain and numbness. He's carrying you ashore somehow--far downriver, thinner ice--and he ducks into an old cabin with you in his arms.

Soap kicks the door shut behind him and moves into the cabin to set you on the floor, propping your back against the wall. His hands work fast as he pulls out his knife to cut away your soaked thermal clothes and gear. You dip in and out of consciousness until he wads up a fistful of gauze and packs it into your side wound. The sudden pain chokes you. Then a wave of nausea washes over you. You’d like nothing more than to tell him where precisely he can shove that gauze, but you’re too lightheaded.

"You with me, hen?" His gruff voice wavers. "I need you to stay awake."

He gathers you up in his arms and lifts you into his lap. It's a tight fit, wedged underneath the frosty window and between a table and an upturned stool. You register the warmth of his skin on yours and dimly realize he's stripped both of you almost bare, huddling around you to prevent hypothermia.

You soak up Soap’s body heat instantly. He's a furnace, and he needs to be, given the state you're in. He tucks you as close as he can. You're both shivering, but he doesn't care. He can be cold as long as you're warm. His broad body shields you from the drafts leaking into the decrepit cabin.

"No, no, eyes open." He tilts your face up as your eyes flutter. "Don't go passin' out on me."

You gaze up at him in your stupor. Maybe it's the blood loss, but even through your own pain and frustration, he's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

"You have really odd eyes," you mutter. "Like blueberry soft serve."

Oh, you're definitely delirious. Maybe concussed.

But he can't deny the look you're giving him right now makes his stomach flip. The sight of you in his lap, your frost-scorched fingers wrapped idly around his ID tag and staring up at him like he's just pulled the moon out of the sky for you... it's the first time he’s seen you with your guard down.

He swallows and keeps you pressed against his skin. There’s a lot of blood. He can’t tell what’s yours and what isn’t. "You're in no shape to flatter me."

You hum, your fingers dabbing idly at a smear of blood on his chest.

He doesn't move to stop you. Instead, his eyes flick down to your hand. Your fingers leave a trail of sparks over everywhere you touch.

With a soft sigh, Soap catches your wrist. "Quit it, hen."

"Quit what?"

"Teasin'. Makin' me wish you'd put those hands to other uses," he says, voice quiet and rough. It's just you and him in the little cabin. The world is far away. His thumb rubs against the inside of your wrist, trying to bring some warmth back into your skin. "You're in no shape to be feelin' me up, either."

Your head lolls against his shoulder. "Maybe it's the perfect time. Maybe we won't get another time."

Hearing you say that twists his insides into knots. He leans down to rest his forehead against yours. "Maybe you just need to shut up and let me take care of you. Don't talk like that." His voice leaves no room for argument. He tightens his grip on you, pressing you closer as if he can somehow press that into your skin by sheer will alone. "There'll be plenty of times for you to get your hands on me."

"Mm." You tuck into him tighter. You'd be mortified with yourself if you weren't half-dead from blood loss. "Sorry."

He exhales into your hair, pressing chaste kisses there.

You're practically in his lap, the two of you tangled into each other from head to foot in the space under the window. He's surrounded by the smell of you. It's a soothing presence in all that surrounds him.

He shouldn't want to touch you, shouldn't want to take advantage of your weakness--but the thought of having you so open and wanting, of you willingly in his arms, makes something in him ache. Makes the selfish parts of him scream.

"You're a pain in my arse," he says. He focuses on taking inventory of your wounds, brushing over your arms with his touch to assess the damage. "You gonnae bleed out on me?"

You shiver a little as he drags you closer by your bare thigh. "Wouldn't be the worst way to go."

"Oi," he snaps in warning. He slides his hand up your side, checking for bleeding. It’s just as much a caress over your bare skin. He has to ignore how his skin tingles every time the curve of your body slides against his in that tantalizing way. Something in his lower belly tightens. "You don't get to tap out after makin' me go through all this trouble for you. You're livin' through tonight or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else." He moves his hand up to the base of your throat, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around your neck and tilting your chin up to look at him. He fixes his blue eyes on yours to take in the dazed expression on your face. "I'll drag your arse out of hell and tan it until you can't sit right."

You're too weary to laugh, but you rest your scuffed cheek on his thumb, and it pushes your lips into a smirk. "All for me?"

"Aye. Hell of a lot more trouble than your pretty face should be worth."

You pull free and rest your head on his shoulder again. "Where do you live?"

"Glasgow," he says. "Not sure I should be tellin' you that."

You trace his chest around the chain of his ID tag. So many muscles. "Probably not."

"And what about you? Do I get to know?"

"No. Maybe. If we get out of here."

"Yeah? Well, you're not goin' anywhere with this wound. Bleedin' out, nearly froze to death, and still mouthin' off. No idea how to shut up and be good." He looks down at the injury, assessing how bad it really is in the dim light of the cabin. "You lost a lot of blood. I bet you feel tired." He brushes your hair off your face. "Stay awake a bit longer. The boys'll be here soon."

"I shouldn't," you mutter.

Soap doesn't miss the slurring of your words. He knew the blood loss would affect you, but he was hoping for more time before he had to really worry. "Shouldn't stay? Too late to get away from me now," he says, trying to keep his tone casual. Your skin is too cold for comfort. The gauze in your wound soaking through with blood can't mean anything good. "I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Sure as hell not letting you out of my sight. You've got a lot to repay me for."

You try to keep your eyes open. Every blink is more sluggish than the last. "Like what?"

"Runnin' away and makin' me chase after you, for one. Puttin' yourself in the line of fire for me, second. Takin' a swim in a frozen river. Scared me to death." He presses his lips to the crown of your head, a gentle, chaste touch at odds with the possessive, dominating instinct he can feel creeping into his thoughts. You're vulnerable right now, something he should never want, but part of him wonders if he’d ever have caught up with you without this. "Aye, you owe me. First thing we do once you're patched up? We have a long talk. We have a whole hell of a lot we need to say to one another. And you'll answer every question I ask you."

"I dunno if you'll like the stuff I say," you mutter.

"Hardly matters. You’re plenty keen on spittin’ fire at me as it is. No reason you can’t keep tellin’ me everything I don’t want tae hear."

Another shiver wracks your body.

Soap rubs your arms. "You gotta give your word you stay awake for me, aye? Stay here."

His radio beeps nearby. You huff. "Fine."

"Fine." He leans over to grab his radio and tries to keep an arm around your shoulders to keep you warm as he does. He keeps you cradled against his chest as he responds to Price.

"Soap here."

You don't hear the conversation. Instead, you listen to Soap's voice vibrate through his chest. He speaks to Price in hushed tones, talking about your condition and the team's ETA.

Price has a laundry list of questions, but Soap manages to wrangle them into holding off until they have everyone back on base. No sense exhausting you on a mission that's already been a shitshow. Finally, they're done. Soap lets the radio go to focus entirely on you again. "Still with me?"

"How long do we have?"

"Shouldn't be too much longer," he says. He checks your side again. The coldness of the air has soaked into the wet gauze. You shiver again. It makes something in him ache. "ETA's about ten minutes out."

You pull his lips down to yours and kiss him.

He's surprised, but he doesn't pull back--not from you. He lets you kiss him. Your taste seeps into his brain and turns all rational thought to white noise. One hand cups your jaw with a surprising gentleness, and the other slides behind your waist to keep you against his body. He's gentle--you need to be handled with care right now.

He pulls back before he loses himself in the desire to deepen the kiss. His eyes search your face, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your lips.

"You're lucky you're injured," he murmurs. "Or you'd be in a very different kind of trouble right now."

You shiver, but not with the cold. Just that one kiss has you feeling much warmer. You touch your name where it's written on his arm. Then you curl your fingers around the back of his neck and pull yourself closer. "Hold onto that thought for later," you murmur. "Give me something to wait for."

Then you kiss him again.

...

← previous part / [part 13] / epilogue →

part 1 / more Soap / masterlist

thank you <3

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gumiluver · 1 year ago

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NO PREP? NAUGHTY GIRL. ~ JJK NSFW SCENARIOS

synopsis: you let him hit it without foreplay ;)

(pls prep!! foreplay is super important!!)

cover pic credit: Aloneexe19 on pinterest

lovers <3: afab!reader, gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, fushiguro/zen’in toji, ryomen sukuna

PART TWO <3 | EAT ME! ~ GOJO

byr/important: the content written in this fic is not suitable for individuals under the age of 18, minors please do not interact

cw: nsfw, pwp, dacyphilia (satoru, suguru), manhandling (all characters), dark content(-ish) (all characters), pussy slapping (sukuna ofc), light bondage (sukuna)

Satoru 🖤

Loves a good challenge, especially if it deals with him fucking your pretty pussy into oblivion.

Satoru doesn’t really think you’d be able to take him all fully tho. You’re his perfect pillow princess and he’s your knight in shining armor. He’d do anything to please you, and that usually meant lots of foreplay. He loved to see you absolutely drenched, he makes it a personal goal of his to make you soak the bed each time y’all fuck.

So when you come up to him and tell him you wanna spice things up, add a little fun to the mix, he’s a bit taken back. No foreplay?? Is this a punishment??

Your sex lives were never boring, of course, but who doesn’t love a little sexual exploration?

He’s quick to move things into the bedroom, stripping you down to nothing and laying you on your side. He’s got his back to your chest, spooning you gently as he grips your inner thigh and hoists it over his hip—granting him special access to your puffy pussy.

The feel of his washboard abs against your back and his erect cock poking your entrance made you all hot and bothered. Your legs being spread and pinned with his own only furthered that vulnerability, his manhandling making your pussy throb, “let me do it ‘toru,” you whisper shyly, reaching your hand down to line his pretty tip up to your pussy. He smirks, backing his hand away and caressing the curve of your hip. He cups your breast and places gentle kisses across your neck, biting here and there along the way.

You’re struggling to push him inside, his tip too big for your pert hole. You whine a bit, trying to swivel your hips around in hopes that his tip will slip in. He chuckles at your measly attempts, “want some help with that pretty girl?”

Before you can even answer, the hand that was grasping your tits shoots down to grip the base of his cock. Your little hand suddenly losing the grip you had on him as he starts to press his tip into your pretty pussy. You let out a high-pitched moan, already feeling so much resistance with just his tip. Tears welling a bit in your eyes as you look up to Satoru, whose piercing blue eyes are carefully watching your reactions.

But this time, Satoru feels something different—something foreign to him. It makes his tip pulsate ridiculously and his balls tighten to the point of pain, ‘it can’t be…’ he thinks, giving an experimental thrust to push an inch inside you again. You let out another loud moan as a couple tears start to slide down your cheek, eyes closed tightly and brows furrowed.

“H-holy fuck, ahhh,” he groans out. The pornographic sounds erupting from your boyfriend makes your pussy unconsciously clench unbelievably tight, so much so that it might push out the 1/4th of his cock that’s just barely being pushed into you. You’ve never heard him so loud, so animalistic; it makes your head spin with lust and want.

You’re starting to squirm around him, breathing heavily as he continues to sheath his cock inside of you inch by agonizing inch. The pain a bit more pronounced than the pleasure, but you knew that once the pleasure hit, oh…it would hit. He’s peppering kisses along your jaw and licks away the tears that happen to slip past your eyes, he can’t help but feel his dick twitch each time your innocent doe-like eyes look at him, almost begging for him to hurry up and bottom out.

“Such a good fuckin girl,” he grunts out, starting to feel himself lose control over seeing you struggle and cry over taking his dick—makes him feel like a school boy busting a nut for the first time. The tightness of your princess cunt makes his heart skip a beat, subconsciously bucking his hips further and completely bottoming out inside you.

You gasp suddenly, gripping the bedsheets and letting out a languid moan that radiates throughout the house. He sees you try to worm your other hand down to your pussy, wanting to add a bit more pleasure into the mix by rubbing your neglected clit. He chuckles, grabbing your wrist and placing it back to your side. He laces his hand with your own to prevent you from trying any stunts like that again, not wanting to ruin all the fun that the two of you were having, “ah ah ah princess, remember what you said? no foreplay, so don’t even think about touching my pussy,”

Suguru 🖤

Was curious to see if his pretty baby could actually take him all in without his usual foreplay.

Suguru loved to spend hours in between your thighs, playing with your cute cunt — even when you were overstimulated and begging for him to let you have a break. He just couldn’t help himself to your slutty hole—so slick, so pretty.

He was an inquisitive man by nature, always questioning the outcome of his actions and taking leaps of faith to better understand the inner workings of people—especially you. He loves studying your body, your reactions, what you like and what you love, what makes you go crazy and what makes you lose your sanity.

So when you bring up an idea, a “challenge for yourself,” so you say—he’s more than happy to take up your offer. What kind of loving boyfriend would deny his baby what she wanted?

“Remember, tap my leg three times if it gets too much,” Suguru says, gripping onto your thighs. You nod, smiling at him as a way to reassure his mind, “I trust you sugu, s’okay, I wan’ it,”

That was all it took for Suguru to flip like a switch. Sure he treats you like a princess, but he has to be mindful over his constant need to manhandle you. He’s suddenly got you folded up into a mating press, your knees pushed up to your head while he leans dangerously close to your lips, his eyes piercing into yours. “Can’t wait to mark you up with my lips baby,” he says, a hum rumbling from his chest as he closes the gap to give you a brief kiss.

He comes back up to take a breath, and you can’t help but notice the darkness in his eyes—a cloudiness that makes you question if you’re his lover or his prey. A cheshire cat-like smile blesses his sharp face, his gaze begins to travel down towards your empty little hole, ‘so sad,’ he thinks, quick to position himself to line his tip up with your cunny and fill you up to the brim. You whimper at his abrasiveness, your pussy clenching with anticipation.

He starts to push his tip into you, slowly, looking up every so often to gaze upon your angelic face. Those innocent little eyes now closed and scrunched together, tears threatening to spill out as you cover your mouth with your hand to hold in your pathetic whimpers and whines.

Suguru clicks his tongue in disapproval, pinning your wrists above your head and pushing himself in your tight cunt a bit deeper—a simple warning. You knew better to hide those pretty moans from him, but those same moans teetered across the border between moans and screams of pleasure.

“Look at you, all stretched out nice and pretty for me,” he says, a venom-like lustfulness lacing his tone. You couldn’t help the quiver that overwhelmed your pussy from his nasty words, making his cock slip in a bit easier despite the lack of prep. He lets out a long, low groan as he continues to ease in, careful to not push your limits. While he was a freak in the sheets, that didn’t excuse him from employing the basic ground rules of consent.

And if Suguru knew one thing for sure, it was everything and anything dealing with you.

Your whimpers are bouncing off the walls, no longer able to control the projection of your voice. Your body starting to become overwhelmed by the sheer stretch his cock brings to your little pussy. The depth his dick is reaching inside you felt as if he was trying to reach for your soul. A soul for him to consume, for him to claim. You couldn’t control your voice, and now you couldn’t control your body.

And Suguru liked that. In fact, he loved seeing you go absolutely fucking dumb when he bottoms out in you, just so that he can bring you back into reality. The power he holds over your body and the amount of trust you place in him makes his head spin and his heart burn with love. He can’t help but soothe your quivering body to help ground you back to him, “your thighs are shakin’ so much baby, need me to slow down for ya?”

Kento 🖤

Was shocked to hear that you wanted to attempt a feat as big as that, but when he heard your explanation he couldn’t help but feel his heart swell with love and his dick ache with anticipation.

Your innocent claims of wanting to alleviate his tension by offering your own body for him to use in any way he wanted was dangerous. His absolute strength has been known to make powerful curses and sorcerers shutter with a simple glance of his, and he always made sure to separate that strength away from you.

That’s not to say he was never tempted to mark up that beautiful body of yours. See the shape of his fingers imprint themselves on your hips. Hearing your pleading cries and whimpers for him to ease up or slow down. Oh yes…a part of him has always yearned to see you lose your sanity when he has his way with you.

“Wanna help you relieve your stress, daddy,” you whispered in his ear, kissing his neck slowly and nibbling at that one spot underneath his jawline, “wan’ you to take your frustration out on me,” you mumbled, voice laced with so much need that it made his knees weak. He groaned, a deep rumble emitting from his chest that made you squeeze your thighs together.

He can feel his rationality slip, his muscles unnaturally flexing as he tries to calm himself down before he looses his composure and does something he will regret. He looks down at you, and you peer up at him. “Fuck,” he thinks, realizing he probably shouldn’t have looked to you for reassurance when you looked so damn delicious and needy. He can’t help himself when he lunges for you and and pins you to the wall. A hand wrapping around your head to grip the base of your hair, making your neck jolt upwards and force you to meet his eyes. His ease with making you so pliable demonstrated his ungodly strength and turned you into nothing but a shaky mess.

“This is a one time thing, understood?” He grunts out, his sanity slipping from him. He always swore to never bring work home, to never use work-stress as as an excuse for misbehavior. But god damn did your offer sound tempting. You sounded tempting. To make matters worse, you mutter out three words that finally make him snap:

“Don’t be gentle,”

He groans and strips you of your clothes like a starved man. The veins in his arms pulsating, his breath turning into pants, his cock absolutely throbbing—pulsating. It felt like his pants were about to rip from how hard his fucking cock felt.

He moves his hand towards your cute pussy and starts to play with your clit, kissing you feverishly and sucking your tongue into his mouth as he tries to prep you. Your quick to react, pushing his hands away and moaning into the kiss, “just put it in k-kento, wanna feel aah—all of you,” you say during the kiss, moaning into his mouth sweetly. You can’t help but want for him to stretch that thick cock of his inside your lil cunny.

He’s quick to turn you around, face and chest now pressed against the wall while your ass juts out for him to admire. He’s biting his lip, groping your ass and pressing his cock against your folds.

But he doesn’t press his tip in yet. Oh no, he wants to watch you push yourself back into his cock. After all, you insisted on foregoing his usual time spent in between your legs, licking and suckling onto your pretty little cunt.

Quickly taking the hint, you start to back your pussy up onto his cock. The burning stretch from taking his tip already making you gasp and shake. It felt like he was splitting you open, ‘maybe I should’ve let him prep me after all’ you think, gaslighting yourself into fearing the worst. He gives a soft chuckle at your poor attempt to take him in and couldn’t help but tease you a bit, “you can fit more than that now can’t you, darling?”

Toji 🖤

Thinks it’s funny that you want to take all of him in without any prep. You? His pretty pillow princess?

No matter how many times he fucks you, he still needs to spend hours between your thighs to ensure that you are absolutely soaked with your arousal.

Despite his efforts, you always manage to struggle taking his cock in one fell swoop. Whining and whimpering about how “it’s too big” or “you’re too deep,” and Toji would be lying if he said it didn’t stroke his ego.

He almost says no — almost, until you started mouthing off to him. He just had to put his brat back in place, maybe teach you a lesson or two.

“So desperate for it aren’t ya? Well, if ya want it so bad then ya better start takin’ it.” You shifted on his lap, hovering above his cock to line yourself up with his tip. Toji spreads his body out, completely overtaking the couch the two of you were currently on. He rests his head on his hand, an act to reinforce his big ego by having absolutely no intent on assisting you on your journey to wreck your pussy. After all, Toji was never one to reward bratty behavior.

“Come on now, take all of my cock baby. What happened to that attitude? Huh? Already too fucked out from tryna’ take my dick, huh baby? Yeaaaah, that’s right baby, go on n’ sink down on my cock,” he taunted, his eyes wild with amusement and lust as his hands gripped your ass and waist firmly. It felt like you were choking—the stretch so overwhelming that it literally took your breath away.

He noticed your shallow breathing and swiftly moves a hand from your waist to grip your chin — snapping your attention back to him and how good he was making you feel.

“Breathe,” he commands, and you’re suddenly grounded back to reality as your lungs fill with much needed air. Your walls relax a bit more, giving Toji the opportunity to bottom out inside you fully by pushing your hips down.

You belt out a moan Toji has never heard the likes of. He feels his balls tighten as he watches this absolute goddess above him become completely destroyed by his massive cock. He puffs his chest out and let’s out a loud groan, followed by a low growl,” good girl…now get to work,”

Sukuna 🖤

Has always like the idea of ravishing your pussy with one thrust of his cock, and thought that it would be the perfect punishment to give out to you the next time you forget your place.

And god damn it did he want to put you in your place right fucking now. The way your smirking up at him, raising your brow and folding your arms across your chest. That big ass ego of yours starting to make you feel on top of the world, seeing as you’ve made the king of curses become a pussy whipped simp who would literally set the world on fire for you.

You knew he would never do anything to actually hurt you, but that didn’t mean he abstained from all of his sadistic ways; and you, being a masochist, loved to set him off.

You shudder with anticipation, a devilish smile appearing on Sukuna’s face as he hovers over your trembling form. He has your wrists tied above your head as his massive thighs spread your own thick ones apart. A light sheen of sweat covers your skin that creates an aura around you—resembling a light of protection that coaxes Sukuna to corrupt it, to do his worst. His cock already hard from gazing upon your naked form, so docile and helpless.

God it makes his cock fucking ache.

“You did this to me, now you’re gonna fix it,” he grunts out, stroking his thick cock in front of you to add emphasis to the problem that you caused. You whimpered, more than ready to take whatever cruel punishment he has intended for you.

Your plush pussy clenched aimlessly, begging to be stuffed by your king. You’re squirming around helplessly as you watch him pump his cock, drool starting to pool in your mouth, “pleaseeee ‘kuna, hurry uuuup,” you whine, shifting your hips upwards as if to beckon his cock to you. Your tantalizing hips and bratty attitude continuing to stir the fire within Sukuna.

He scowls at you menacingly, smacking your thigh, covertly showing his disapproval of your behavior, “you’ll take what I give you, when I give it to you, ” giving your pussy a light spank before he brushes his tip against your folds. A single swipe only, just to rile you up a bit more.

You’re huffing and squirming even more now, starting to feel antsy over the lack of stimulation Sukuna was giving you. He usually gives you so much pleasure all in one go that it becomes too much, so this lack of touch and stimulation makes your heart skip a beat—not from excitement either, but out of fear.

As you’re getting lost in your thoughts, you’re quick to miss Sukuna line himself up towards your tiny pussy, slamming himself into you with one. sharp. thrust.

“Thaaaaat’s it slut, take this dick, fuuuuuck,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way your tight lil cunny squeezes his fat cock and how your usual angelic voice has morphed into a whorish scream. He’s pushed himself so far into you that you feel yourself inadvertently creaming around him. The sudden onslaught of his cock piercing into your cunt shocked the pleasure system of your brain and sent you overboard, coaxing you quickly to the brink of an orgasm.

But this time, Sukuna meant business. He’s let you get away with this attitude for far too long; to reward you would just reinforce that bad behavior. As quick as he is to thrust himself fully into you, he’s just as quick to pull his cock out; and before you can even complain about it, Sukuna’s hand expertly moves to cover your mouth. He’s glaring at you, an ominous smirk plastered on his face as he scolds you, “you better not cum until I tell you to, I don’t care how good it feels you better hold that shit in, understand?”

A/N: Thanks for reading! This is my first time posting for the jjk fandom—what did y’all think? Do I hear a part twoooo? 🤔😳

Likes, comments, follows, reblogs, and any other form of interaction is greatly appreciated <3 #supportcreators

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vatelixx · 2 months ago

Text

The visionary, the willing executor,

Spencer Reid x afab!UNSUB!reader (written with mid!seasons Spencer Reid in mind)

SMUT!! copious amounts of angst (there’s traces of fluff in there as well if u get out ur magnifying glass)

BASED ON THIS SONG (it got so stuck in my head that I had to write something that correlated):

──── autistic spencer (it’s not explored that much, but it’s always gonna be present in my oneshots), evil evil reader (im not being dramatic this time. she’s literally a serial killer. like her ‘body count’ is copious. but idk, she’s kinda sweet. if u squint and ignore the bodies). They were in love ur honour !!! they’re still in love ur honour !!!! She pays him a visit two years after he found out about her homicidal tendencies (they miss each other, Spencer might also hate her a little but it’s okay, don’t worry about that).

Warnings: sub spencer (aaaaaaalways), maybe perhaps some vague, very faint mentions of switch!spencer but idk i blacked out writing this, choking, mentions of death and general behaviour that would get you a life sentence, praise more than degradation surprisingly, coming untouched, crying (you’d think that was a kink or something?), she fucks the good out of him, hopeful ending (eh, kinda), mentions of dante’s inferno, copious amounts of religious imagery, greek mythology references, this isn’t dead dove at all i promise.

w.c: 5k

a/n: everything i write has been so angsty recently. i’m working on something softer for my next upload i swear (alongside the requests, I promise, they’re being written im just a die-hard perfectionist). aaaaanyway, happy (belated) halloween!! It’s Spencer’s favourite season so i thought i’d write him getting destroyed by a serial killer (god when is it my turn????)

────────────

Spencer would consider himself a good person, by default. It’s reasonable: a renowned member of the BAU, with intellect he’s weaponized for morality. The blood etched onto his hands is justified. Necessary evil for greater cause. He’s willing to blemish his skin for the virtue, for the lives of others.

He remembers naivety. He remembers being so fragile he could easily crack into fragmented pieces of wasted innocence. Maybe that’s been stolen from him now, maybe the ruins of his sacrifices are too sharp to touch upon still, but he’s good. He knows he will always be good.

And yet, there’s a bruise. Something ugly and distorted that stains his skin. Something that has the ability to crawl deep into his bones and leave behind a mess of pain. Something bad. Festering and tainted, it haunts him with every breath.

You.

You, who came into his life as an abundance of sunlight. Helios personified. Pretty and warm, and everything he needed. He wanted to kiss you: the moment he stumbled into the coffee shop, tousled hair, overworked and raw from a burdening case. When you took his order, marking constellations onto the styrofoam cup. Andromeda, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia. Later, much later, then when you became an indomitable presence to his apartment.

But for all the good he’s preserved, Spencer knows he’s not allowed to receive it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” is the first thing he says when he finds you waiting for him. He always knew you would come back; you’re bound to follow him indefinitely. Like his shadow, his guilty consciousness, his cracked past of addiction and pre-pubescent torment.

He let you go. When the act was over, the curtain drawn, when he saw you. Homicidal, the perpetrator of the case he was working on, malevolence packed into the frame of perfection, oh even still, he let you go. Free to continue the cycle of death, he was left to scramble in the mess of his own misguided heart.

There’s risk in reward, and reward in risk. You’re meticulous, hedonistic to the last detail. But Spencer? Well, he will always be the one loose end you could never quite force yourself to clean up. The thread that kept untangling, even as time passed. Cut it off, you should be rational, wash every bleeding trace of him from your skin.

But there’s irrationality in love.

Blood adorns your features; there’s no need to touch up your appearance, to return to the domesticated facade you once used on him. No, he’s been exposed to the ugly now. There can be no do overs, no back-tracking, game over try again doesn’t exist in real time.

“What are you going to do about it?” you ask, and god, hes just as beautiful as the day you left him. So perfectly real, with dragging exhaustion and pretty brown eyes to ease the sting of his tight-faced, troubled expression.

You didn’t cut the phone lines, nor move the gun he keeps stashed in his cabinet drawer. Down the hall, to the left. You know he won’t make any abrupt actions. Know, in an intuitive way, telepathic communication between past lovers.

“It was a gamble coming here, aren’t you pleased to see me pretty boy?”

Spencer has to fight every urge he has, every moral he believes in to not lunge at you; to not strangle your slender neck, crack you in half, destroy you the way you’ve destroyed his sanity.

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since you cataclysmically uprooted his routined life. He fell in love with softness, not the jagged edge of a blade.

“I let you go. Wasn’t that enough?” it feels too natural, fighting in his apartment, some sort of twisted lovers quarrel. There’s a definite list of everything he should do in this moment, and despite all logic, he just blanks at the sight of you.

“You had to come back. Rub salt in the wound. Do you get off on this?” a sigh falls from his pretty lips, “Actually, don’t— don’t answer that. We both know the answer.”

“I get off on you,” you correct.

It’s true. If he was to analyse you, profile your warped brain like his other unsubs, he’d find nothing but unyielding loyalty to him. For all the damage you’ve done, there’s always been one anomaly to your detachment.

He stands right before you.

And, sure, maybe you’ve got a leg up in this situation. Perhaps the distorted memory of you holds him back: lazy nights and tangled sheets, his body pressed up against yours. The way he’d talk, quantum physics, philosophy, rambles that dissolved into open admissions of feelings. There’s a lot that was fake, but to be a good liar, you have to add subsidiary details of truth.

God, he wishes the world would be cruel—a cosmic alignment of karmic righteousness that would grant him relief: some kind of justification for what he must do. But the universe is indifferent, nothing but a distant star, a fleeting speck of dust in the grand scheme of life. There’s no such thing as good or bad, only consequences.

Consequences. Consequences for his actions. Butterfly effect. He can comprehend it. But, there were many things he adored about you, while the illusion of love was tangible. The way your hair would curl just above your shoulders, your skin in the morning light. The way you’d laugh at one of his obscure Star Trek references, better yet his criticism on modern, inaccurate horror. He could stare at you for eons, as though he was trying to make out the secrets of the universe in the constellation lines of your scars.

The illusion of love, as it was. He sees you now with the clarity of reality, the same way a mirage fades away as you approach; a distortion of perception.

“And you get off on me. Even now. Don’t you?” you say, shifting forward to close gravitational space.

There’s no way to disregard this morbid connection. No psychological justification he can exploit to demean your feelings. You’re not a psychopath, nor anything that relates to a lack of empathy. You feel— you feel empathy for all of your victims, the line of bodies that mark your path. But it goes deeper than that. There was reasoning for your actions, just as there was for his.

“Say it,” you goad. And there’s satisfaction here, sure. Something mean and condescending. But there’s also hurt, because he was supposed to be a means to an end, and now, he might very well be your end.

“Say you miss me. C’mon boy genius, a few little words and i’ll have enough content to satisfy me for years. Don’t be mean— you know I hate being edged.”

He does miss you, every day that he wakes up, his bones too hollow and cold to leave his bed. The ache in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, too empty to function. No amount of caffeine can fill the void in his skull where thoughts of you used to reside. The longing, the desire for the past to rewrite itself.

“You’re sick,” he tries. But he’s not good at this. Not when the love remained after the inevitable fall out, not when the darkest parts of him still clung to want, even after he realised the truth.

“You’re sick, and..” he tries again, “and I hate how much I miss you. There? Is that enough? Are you happy? Got what you wanted?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “No. If I ‘got what I wanted’, I would still have you.”

Spencer dies. Metaphorically, literally, what does it even matter? He dies, respawns, and then kisses the admittance from your lips.

Instinctively, just like the past, your hands tangle through his hair, and perhaps there’s a sense of ownership to the gesture. The knowledge that he will always be yours. Scarred from your touch, returning to your lips like a dog with a bird. There’s a mindless attempt at anger on his part, biting lips and rough teeth, but just like always, he quickly melts.

He melts, and you catch him. Because for all it’s worth, lies and deceit aside, you’ve always loved him.

There’s something powerful to the gesture; knowing you have someone wrapped around your finger. Even after you’ve bared the worst of you, the ugliness of man-kind. There’s someone out there that will wipe the blood from your cheek, and kiss you through it.

“Oh, even better,” you mutter against his lips, “Much, much better. C’mon Spence, show me just how much you’ve missed me.”

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since he felt like he could breathe.

It hurts, it hurts so much, because there’s a sense of coming home to the kiss, and he just wants you to stay. To ruin him forever. To leave behind a deformed version of him, something unrecognisable and equally scarring.

You’re too loyal and he’s too susceptible to any form of attention. Because you want him, and it’s easy to fall into a cyclical cycle of self-destruction when you’re the catalyst.

“I did miss you.” he admits again. “You— crazy, homicidal excuse of a person.”

Spencer’s hand comes up to touch your cheek, the rough texture of skin meeting something soft. His thumb traces down the curvature of your jawline, a silent hello that doesn’t linger long, too soon to be replaced with his lips.

You push him back against the wall, a painful groan escaping your lips when you feel his hips canting forward, searching aimlessly for a friction you’ve both been denied. Two years. His body still aches for you. It’s primal, something perverted and tainted and so very good.

You knew this would happen. There was not a doubt in your clouded mind that he would deny you. What you do to me, I do to you.

“There’s my boy.” you mutter when you grip said hips, fingers finding their natural, fated position against divine bone. When he begins to find a stable pace, bucking up to meet you with every kiss that you press to his lips.

He whimpers when you touch him, soft sounds of need slipping past his parted lips into the confines of his empty apartment. He’s trying so hard to maintain composure, but he can’t find it in him to fight the inevitable. The ache of separation between himself and you. So he lets it happen, like he always does.

My boy, the possession goes straight to his head. One simple phrase and he’s untangling, breaking to pieces because yes, he is yours. And yes, he will forever want to be reminded.

“Mhm, mhm. Oh— oh, fuck.” he’s so hard, clothed cock pushing up against you with every movement. He could get off on less of you. He has. Every night.

And yes, it certainly feels like home. It’s only the thing your body has been aimlessly yearning for, day in and day out. It’s not fair, not fair to you, that you’ve allowed your resolve to crumble, your strategic, one-track mind, for the fleeting body of a past lover.

But then again, demeaning him to a past lover doesn’t even begin to articulate this.

You’re fairly certain he was put on this earth, just to torment you.

And you’re fairly certain you’ll always let him.

“God, you’re such a slut for me.” you say, drawing back from the friction just to prove your point. The disintegrating whimpers that bleed out of his mouth in response are enough alone to confirm.

His head falls back against the wall, baring that lovely length of his neck and its pretty bruises. He wants you to kiss him there, to leave one last mark before he says ‘I won’t see you again’ and means it this time.

“Don’t— don’t stop—” even as he speaks, a mess of jumbled words and breathless sentences, you’re still teasing him. He hates how much it works, how much he’d rather fall into the pleasure of your hands.

“Fine. Whatever. Yes. What do you want to hear? That it’s whorish the way I want you. That you’re able to just… corrupt me with all these dirty words, even though I have an extensive vocabulary. Even though i’m supposed to be—“

He’s not even sure what he’s supposed to be anymore.

“You know the extent of my devotion.” he concedes.

There will always be sadistic pleasure in reducing him to such an ignominious version of himself. You’ve seen it before, back when you were trapped in an artificial, yet domesticated, haze of bliss. But to hear it now? Even after everything has been said and done?

That’s a new type of pleasure.

You know he still holds onto the facade of you, aimlessly reaching for something intangible, something that never truly existed. “You want me to be good for you, huh? Just pack up my shit, leave it all behind, get better? Think about it. White picket fence. Coffee every morning. God— it would be insufferable. Coming home to feed the dogs, talking every night over the phone, begging you to be safe on a case, or or—“

Spencer breaks. Silencing your words with a pained whimper.

Usually, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that fantastical hypothetic. He can’t afford to. Months after he let you go, when the truth had been exposed to his naive eyes, he’d spend hours in a mess of aching limbs, dreaming up alternative realities where your hands weren’t stained from blood, and the most despicable thing you could do was make his coffee bitter.

So when you force him to open old wounds, to rehash past hopes, he falls apart. A whine escapes his lips, hips bucking, once, twice and then he’s coming untouched. Making a mess out of himself— and it’s sick, so very sick to get off on the thought of you permanent, the epitome of good.

Something he could hold onto without slicing open skin.

It’s not a good orgasm, it never is without your direct help, but at least it’s some form of release. In the aftermath, he blinks away tears, vaguely aware of the cum staining his boxers, creating damp spots through fabric.

There’s something painful, cutting to your gaze when you look at him. At the debauched sight, corrupted from just a few words.

Give it all up? For what? Him?

All things considered, it’s tempting.

“Spencer,” you mutter in the serrated moments between. When he’s still nebulous, caught in the aftershocks of abrupt pleasure. When he’s just gotten off, untouched, on the notion of a domesticated life with you.

He’s struggling to breathe. He’s spent nights gasping for you, reduced to the most debasing version of himself. So out of touch, you drove a blade through his back, catching his heart on the way.

“Why are you— doing this?” he asks, but before you can even answer, provide him with an explanation that will devastate, he’s lunging forward, kissing the lies that cling to your lips. Kissing you because his mouth hurts when it’s not attached to yours.

“One last time.” he says; he’s too intelligent, too intellectually adept, to allow this swallowing cycle of humiliation to continue.

But, underneath it all, he’s also inherently selfish for you. He’s fairly certain you were engrained into his skin, long before he fell into your barbed trap, teeth and penetrative ruin.

“Then you leave. You actually leave, never contact me again. No showing up at my apartment unprovoked. I have a good life without you. Understood?”

You scoff. He presses forward, “Understood?”

You don’t protest when he elucidates his life as good. Even if it’s quite the contrary. Even if he has to bare witness to depravity every single day, scrutinise his way through the minds of the most perverse. Perhaps this is a social experiment to him, perhaps you are the guinea pig, Laika sentenced to space. You know he loved you once, but it’s hard to comprehend the feelings remained unscarred, it’s hard to imagine you’re anything but a test subject now.

You look at him. Look at that pretty face. Your undoing. He could be your achilles heel, hamartia in its rawest form, or maybe you willingly chose to do this. Maybe fate, and divine intervention played no part in your attachment to him. Maybe it’s just chemicals. The logics explanation. Imbalanced, skewed chemicals.

“Don’t worry, boy genius.” you respond, “You won’t get anything, not even a postcard, from me. It’ll be like I never even existed.” no trace. D.C has always been a monotone cesspit of nothing anyway.

It’s cruel. Because if you leave, truly leave. And he never hears from you again, never catches you in his kitchen, drinking coffee with an unadulterated smile, then he will begin to forget.

The curve of your spine, the scars beneath your chest, the way your fingers fit into his own. The way he was able to memorise your body until he could draw it in the dark, when your body was pressed to his, when there was nothing but a false establishment of safety.

He knows he can’t forget. Not technically. But it’ll grow distant, it’ll be replaced with new normals and routines. That, that, he can’t compute.

“Good,” he says, kissing you again, kissing you because this is it.

Spencer wants you. In every sense of the word, he wants you so badly it’s killing him.

His bedroom still holds traces of you. That, itself, is a crime. But he just falls into you. The way lovers do. Your hands against his skin— his hair threaded through your fingers, your lips at the base of his neck. He lets you leave another bruise, a mark, a confirmation of possession, because even if this is the last time, he is, and always will be yours.

“Still the prettiest person i’ve ever seen,” you admit when he’s flushed naked beneath you.

There’s something in those doe-eyes, brown irises blown out of proportion, that hooked you. Even at the worst, it was still soft with him.

Slender frame, slightly arched, you want to bite into his hips, mark every inch of him as yours. It’s greedy, gluttonous, his messy hair, fanning out like a halo, the tangled curls he never bothers to properly care for.

“God, fucking look at you,” you grip his jaw, tilt his head back to bare that blemished neck of his. To have and to own. He’s so inexplicably different to you, so good it runs down to the bone. And maybe you’ve always been insatiable for what you’ve lacked.

He can’t take this. He can’t, not again. The past, the future will have to dissolve with this moment, because there will never be another again.

You will never get this close to him. It’s a terrifying thought, that this’ll be the standard of intimacy, of love - because he knows it isn’t. But he can’t risk the reality he’s faced with, the reality of living without this. Of living without you.

Your words only make it worse. He wants to beg you to stop. To cease the torture.

“Shut up.” He kisses you, as if to remind you that your mouth is made for kissing, for his lips, for a litany of dirty words that he can’t bear to hear. Those words are for someone else. For someone similar. Not him. Never him.

Defying fate. He gets off on being something bad beneath the surface. No one would ever expect it; boyish maladroit Spencer, the youngest of the team, willingly allowing, condoning, a killer to sink into his skin.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” you respond, muffled against his lips. “If this is the last time, i’m going to enjoy it. Going to enjoy the sight of you, all desperate for me alone.”

“You assume i’ve ever been desperate for anyone else—“ he counters.

“Oh, that’s it. Keep talking dirty to me.”

“It’s not dirty. It’s a factual statement.”

You pull away, a trail of saliva bridging the space between your mouths. If there is higher power at play here, you want to curse, to spite your creator. Because if ‘things’ had been different, if you had been born from the same rib, this could’ve ended differently.

Or for that matter, never ended at all.

“Sit there and watch me.” you say, and Spencer hates the way he obliges. Pushing himself up against the headboard, he stares at you, at the way you position yourself, standing by the foot of the bed.

“Do you even know what you do to me? Do you even understand the gravity your existence has on me?” you continue, unfastening the lace corset that clings to your frame. When it drops to the floor, breasts exposed, you run your hands across them, catching pierced nipples for a vindictive moment of pleasure.

“I— uh,” Spencer is admittedly a little distracted. Sex had always been something ruinous between you two. Something that conflicted his lack of experience, forced him to adapt.

He always wondered how someone so soft, the epitome of light, could be this obscene. Now he understands.

“Lost your words? Come on, pretty boy. I thought you had an ‘extensive vocabulary?’ Hm?”

He wants to touch himself, to ease the pulsing throb that centres in his cock. But he doesn’t, because despite the time that has passed, he still knows your rules. “Don’t use my words against me. I’m being tortured.”

“Tortured, huh?” your hands fumble over buttons until you’re reduced to a pair of panties, soaked throughly, leaving scarce to the imagination.

“So so tortured. Oh my god, who are you? Can I please have my soul back?” he’s joking, but not really.

“Well maybe if you beg for it,” your words fade into a mess of moans, fingers slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. Spencer’s head spills back against the wall; he looks more affected by the movements than you.

It’s easy to fall back into old habits. Relapse.

“Come here, come here, i’m having an existential crisis.” he says, watching as you slip one finger, then two inside you, struggling to stand now. It’s strange how pleasure can reduce the most antagonising minds to vulnerability.

“Please— oh fuck, please. Please. Don’t make me watch, I can’t. Need you. Need you so bad.”

He thought he found the core of torture in you touching yourself, but he was wrong. Because when you crawl closer, when you slot yourself between his thighs, lips finding skin that only you have ever touched, he sees the root of evil in his brain. The ninth circle of hell.

It’s justified, he supposes. For all the good he’s done, he has betrayed. Himself, his friends, family, existence itself. There is not one thing he wouldn’t ruin, just to feel you. It’s incriminating, so yes, he deserves to freeze in Cocytus. He’ll willingly plead guilty, accept his entrapment in the ring of Caina.

“Poor baby, look at you.” you say, kissing his tip, catching the pre-cum on your tongue. Spencer responds: fisting bedsheets, fighting the restraint to buck forward, to find misplaced solace in the warmth of your mouth. He’s sprawled out across sheets now, lying back in a tangled heap of want. “Shh, it’s okay,” you continue, “I like my men desperate.”

“Desperate? Ah—,” he fights the urge to shut his eyes, too aware that this is the last memory he will ever retain of you.

You, painted into his mind. The final evidence left in the fire: mouth sinking down his length, taking him to the hilt, watery eyes and leaking mascara.

“This isn’t even desperation. You’re killing me. Just, oh oh— please, don’t. ‘M gonna cum. Gonna cum—“

Is it sick that he doesn’t want to? If only to prolong this transitory moment of destruction? Like the lotus eaters, he will always be mindless in the pursuit of more, more, more of you.

You draw back from his cock, only to press a soft kiss against the tip. The gesture alone has him reeling, has him begging to be saved, to atone for every sin he found in the comfort of your divinely crafted lips.

“Gonna let me sit on that pretty cock of yours, hm? Let me use you one last time? Promise i’ll be good,” a lie, “So so good.”

“God, yes. Yes, please. That would—“ You take him deep, deep enough that everything aches. He only feels alive when you’re wrapped around him, when there’s not an ounce of distance between your bodies, when he can touch the insides of you. Pry open the raw, unfiltered version of you.

He only feels alive when he’s sunk inside the harbinger of death. He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.

You’ve got one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat against his waist, supporting you through each bump of movement. Eyes like marbles, Spencer looks up, and wonders why this will never be enough for you.

You look back, meet his gaze, as if you’re Orpheus, predestined to turn around, to always return. Even if it’s just for one last second. Even if the fall-out is so much worse than pushing forward blindly.

Oh, hes certain you’re carving a hole inside him, something that will only grow and expand, imploring to be filled by it’s inventor. It’ll hurt, for the rest of time, he supposes.

When he finds your hand around his neck, he isn’t startled. Neither, when your thumb presses against his throat, applying pressure until the world cracks and fades, distorting his refined mind to the here and now. He floats, feeling transient in the curse of your touch.

“That’s it. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He is a sacrificial lamb. The priests favourite. He will take the knife every time, and thank you for it after.

You release the tension, hand taking his instead. For all the cruelty you possess, you’d never think to harm him. Not physically at least. The emotional damage, however, finds you both. There can be no happiness in either of your worlds, not when the memory of each other festers. “Good boy— taking it so well. God, no one is ever gonna compare.”

He cries at the words. Pretty tears streaming down his face, because the reciprocation to his undying piety will forever trigger the warped chemicals in his brain. Will forever reduce him to something saccharine.

“Love you. Love you so much. Don’t go. Please,” he fractures, “please don’t go.” he begs, besmirched words he’ll regret in the wake of his pleasure. They don’t count, and yet, he knows, in the most depraved sections of his mind, they’re true.

You ride him harder. Back curved, finding god in the washed-out body of someone fatally destroyed. “Not going anywhere— fuck, fuckfuckfuck. That feels so good. You’re so good,” maybe it’s a kink to ruin something so perfectly spotless.

Maybe it’s a kink that he wants it.

“Say it. God, just say it. This once.” for old times sake, he almost adds. But that wouldn’t be objectively correct. For all the intimacy you shared, you never once articulated those three words. Perhaps it was to save your dignity, to hold pieces of yourself in the lies you beautifully crafted.

His thumb runs over your clit, and in the tangle of your orgasm, he almost thinks you forget about his demand. But after, when you’re still taking him, when you’re still clenching, unclenching, clenching around his cock, when you know you own every part of him, you answer.

“I love you.”

He falls apart. Hips canting, body squirming, whimper after whimper escaping his bruised lips as he releases inside of you. Pushed deep, defiled to the limit. For a moment, everything is okay, everything will be alright, because there’s pleasure, and it’s you. It’s always you.

How can he justify falling in love with you again? How can he, when he still clings onto the artificial love of the past? He’s not sure his heart can handle one set of feelings, nevermind two.

He takes you again, well… mostly you take him again. In ways that have him polluted with the remnants of your teeth. Canine marks, etched deep enough to bleed. He hopes the swelling leaves behind perennial scars, anything to remind him. Anything to hold onto when you’re gone and it’s cold.

After, when you lie together, he presses his forehead against yours and wishes he was in any other universe. One where you’re happy. Where everything is pure and simple, clean from sin.

There was always truth in what we shared before, you admit. Lazy nights spent draped over the couch, kissing him to silence convoluted rambles. Your presence in the morning, bathed in holy glow, sunlight bleeding over the pretty sight of you. The first night he touched you and saw god. And then the following night, when he ascended all over again.

He wakes to find no body. He wakes to find nothing. It feels like self-sabotage, the promise that you would leave, even if it’s quite the contrary.

In the absence, abstinence of your presence, he discovers traces of you in everything he sees, all of it, everything consumed, returning to the simple thought of you you you.

When the first postcard comes, Portland, dreary weather— beaches and ports, there’s no anger. No exasperation that you broke your word.

You love him, it’s morbid, but for someone like him, it overrules everything. Sanity, dignity, his own stable existence.

You overrule everything.

#criminal minds #sub spencer reid #sub spencer #halloween #unsub!reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #CRAAAAWLING BACK TO U #idk guys they might be in love??#all i do is write smut wtf (i need help)

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velovw · 8 months ago

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How would OW characters love you?

(Ft. Reaper, Genji, Ramattra, Hanzo, Venture and Cassidy)

A/N: It's been quite a while, but I'm happy to share a little thing I've written.

Reaper

At first, Gabriel would refuse the idea of being in love. There was no way the thing he had become was deserving of love - nor did you deserve to be with anything like him. The confession would probably come from you, or the feelings you two have for each other would simply be locked away and forgotten with time. Unsure touches, hesitancy in communication would plague your relationship early on, leading to frustrating fights and time spent apart.

Gabriel had spent so long being Reaper, that he had forgotten how to treat another gently, softly. Years of being one of Talon’s obedient and ruthless weapon left him scarred, almost a husk of the man he one day was. Patience, lots of it, would be needed to build a healthy relationship with him. With time, he would slowly start to mimic the actions you did to him - learning from you on how to love and be loved - this could lead to Gabriel learning to love you just the way you want him to.

Not big on romantic gestures, and doesn’t like PDA. He has an underlying fear that if anyone were to find about his weak spot for you, it would mean harm your way.

Genji

A cupid 's arrow.

It would not take him long to recognize the emotions he was experiencing, as the excitement and exhilaration of a new love were familiar to him due to his youth. The anxiety and giddy feelings were difficult to overlook or ignore. He would not hesitate to express his feelings, as he was quick at noticing if someone reciprocated his affections based on their reactions to his affections. He was accustomed to this aspect of a relationship and would confidently touch and remain close to the person he was interested in whenever possible.

Wouldn’t be able to hide your relationship, almost always bringing you up in a conversation. Excitedly calling you his partner.

Due to his past, Genji would have an underlying anxiety about performing well as a partner. He was good at sweet talk, enough to make your heart flutter - but when it came down to serious conversations and fights, he would almost shut down. In the past, whenever these things happened, he would simply dump his past partners and move on - but he didn’t want to do that now. So he would be awkward, asking you what he could do to amend the wrongs and fix the situation. He would heavily depend on you to guide him in that way.

Ramattra

Love? How futile.

He had no time for such weak emotions, no time to spend worrying over your safety when you were a human - the kind he hated with his very being. No. Ramattra only spent his attention and utmost care towards the cause he believed in.

Or that's what he desperately wanted to believe.

Every word, every moment would be recorded through his optics and stored forever in his hard-drive. Ramattra’s touches sometimes felt… ghostly. As if he was afraid of breaking you. But he was always sure to impose his threatening aura around strangers.

But the amount of stress his system felt when he saw you in the middle of the battlefield, how he was reluctant to end your life right where you stood, proved it all to him that he was *wrong*. Ramattra would take what felt like a lifetime to confess, seeing you sick and injured pushed him to it - the reminder of your mortality severely affecting him. Would try to do everything at once one day, showcasing his innocent and lack of experience in *love*.

A silent reminder of your importance.

Hanzo

Throughout the most part of Hanzo's life, there were only two things he felt the most. The bitter regret and the pain of tomorrow. Losing everything came at a great cost and it shined clearly when you met Hanzo for the first time, when you tried to befriend him - the look in his eyes. Hanzo would avoid you emotionally once he feels… different. Part of him knows what he feels but another one denies it with all of his strength. Not for pride, simply because he's afraid of losing once again.

A wall to talk to. His indifference at the start would drive you crazy, driving you away until he finally realizes how much more empty he feels with your absence. Even so, does a small act of servitude by giving you your favorite food - a small attempt to see if you still care for him. Just enough so he can *try* and allow himself to feel the gentle feeling of love.

Small smiles your way, brushing your hand with his while passing by. All small but mean so, so much for Hanzo. There is no shyness, just gentleness, and no fear of showcasing such feelings in front of others.

Venture

Spending most of their life researching and excavating did really not leave any space for romance. Venture would be quick to accept the feeling, the rush of adrenaline and giddy feeling quickly taking over their mind as they realized they liked you. It would be obvious to anyone around them. The way their eyes would be searching for you in the room, quickly asking someone if they've seen you and when they do finally see you - the biggest smile they can muster.

Your name would be mentioned by them every chance they get.

A confession would take mere days, and if you weren't totally sure about them - they'd at least hope you'd let them take you out on dates so you can get to know each other better. Small trinkets of their affection would be given to you, crystals and rocks being the main source of it, secretly hoping you'd try and find the meaning of them.

Their only flaw is being overly excited about the feeling, sometimes overly romanticizing you and getting disappointed when you don't reach their standards.

Cassidy

Smooth.

Cassidy would recognize the blush that would dust his cheeks when you were around, how he seemed to want to impress and sweet talk you. That would be his way of gaining your favor slowly, calling you sweet nicknames and trying to charm you with his words. A small brush of his shoulders on yours, opening doors for you and tipping his hat when he passes by - all small acts that are meant to sweep you off of your feet.

A relationship would bloom slowly, as he would like to ride out the early fluttering feeling of love. Going through all the small showcases such as holding your hand, gifting you something meaningful before taking you out on a date and asking you two to finally be oficial. To everyone else around you, it was clear that Cassidy was courting you - and no one else dared to attempt anything. Whispers of his past holding them back on doing so.

Cassidy’s flaw would be being too warm or too cold. Either giving you hurtful but helpful advice, or comforting and unhelpful ones. It would solely depend on his mood, but you can always tell when he doesn't really wanna make decisions. Sometimes he just wants to exist, to let himself breath without any worries.

#overwatch x reader #genji shimada #genji x reader #hanzo shimada #hanzo x reader #ramattra fanfiction #ramattra x reader #venture x reader #cassidy x reader #cole cassidy #reaper x reader #gabriel reyes x reader #overwatch fanfiction

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grunckle · 10 months ago

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Qualia and Ascension in Rain World

(To clarify I'm mostly talking about base-game lore and not including Downpour, but honestly most of these things can transfer over)

Qualia

One thing that’s relatively hidden in Rain World’s text and subtext is the concept of qualia. Qualia is described as being, “sensory experiences that have distinctive subjective qualities but lack any meaning or external reference to the objects or events that cause them.” It’s a personal sensory experience that cannot be comprehended by another person other than the individual themself, and are often hard to convey via language.

Qualia is a reoccurring motif in Rain World, but what’s more important is the way in which it’s conveyed to the player. The picture that’s painted is that of a world or civilization that placed a great importance on the individuals’ experience, and it’s shown through pearls or environmental details.

Here are some examples of qualia appearing in the text through pearls.

“It's qualia, or a moment - a very short one. Someone is holding a black stone, and twisting it slightly as they drag their finger across the rough surface. The entire sequence is shorter than a heartbeat, but the resolution is extraordinary.”

“A memory... but not really visual, or even concrete, in its character. It reminds of the feeling of a warm wind, but not the physical feeling but the... inner feeling. I don't think it has much utility unless you are doing some very fringe Regeneraist research.”

“This one... is authored by Five Pebbles, when he was young. There has been an attempt to scramble the data, but it's sloppily done, and most is still somewhat legible. It's written in internal language, or thoughts, so it is hard for me to translate so you would understand.”

But the most prominent examples of qualia and it’s importance in this world are the Memory Crypts and possibly ancient naming conventions. The deep purple pearl (shortened) found in Shaded Citadel states,

“In this vessel is the living memories of Seventeen Axes, Fifteen Spoked Wheel, of the House of Braids (…) Seventeen Axes, Fifteen Spoked Wheel nobly decided to ascend in the beginning of 1514.008, after graciously donating all (ALL!) earthly possessions to the local Iterator project (Unparalleled Innocence), and left these memories to be cherished by the carnal plane. The assorted memories and qualia include:”

Ancients likely mutated their own neural tissue into the cabinet beasts we see in Shaded, which were used to store their memories and qualia before ascension. Even james said once "how 5 pebs got the rot is a good hint here" in response to someone asking how cabinet beasts work, and how they're made.

Adding on to this, ancient (and iterator) naming conventions seem to be built off of the concept of qualia, with them focusing on individual images or experiences.

Nineteen Spades, Endless Reflections

Droplets upon Five Large Droplets

Two Sprouts, Twelve Brackets

Looks to the Moon

Generally, this all points to a world focused on the expression and preservation of the individual experience. You could even consider some of the echo dialogue as more evidence for this running motif, but I already have too many quotes lol.

Ascension

So now time to talk about my interpretation of ascension. In short, you turn into a worm, but I should probably explain more than that.

So its been surfacing on rw-tumblr that the light in the end of the game is called the egg in files. Although file names shouldn't be taken as fact or canon, it is pretty obvious given the birth imagery.

But something a little lesser known is what happens to the worm that takes us down to the void-sea depths. Void worms normally have a bright glowing effect, on their body, which is present for ours as well. But after it unhooks us, it swims down, and when it passes us on it's way back that glowing effect is gone.

To be honest, I don't really think this can be interpreted in many ways, but the most obvious one and the one I personally subscribe to is that the worm laid the egg. Biology and spirituality really aren't that different in Rain World, it's implied that karma is stored in the brain through Five Pebbles's slideshow. Adding on to that, we see voidspawn after eating an iterator neuron. One's spiritual state is innately tied to their mental state, and that dictates what and what they can't perceive.

And for that reason I decide to take a more biology leaning approach to what happens in the ending. At face value, we are fertilizing the egg of a void worm to be reborn into a voidspawn.

Not only do void spawn and void worms have multiple characteristics in common, (worm like bodies, tendrils/tentacles, glowing heads, void spawn look microbial and void worms are likely some of the oldest "life" in game)

but voidspawn are seen inside egg-like coverings and share the same egg light seen in the end of the game, confirmed to be the same thing by Videocult in a livestream they did.

I believe that all this points to ascension being re-birth into a voidspawn, which eventually undergoes metamorphose into a worm. Higher-dimensional beings, who manifest and give birth to a new world.

So how does this tie in with qualia? Another thing you might know is that the area in which void spawn are most plentiful is Shaded Citadel and areas in Shoreline near Shaded. And shaded is absolutely packed with Cabinet Beasts, even outside Memory Crypts. I believe these qualia-storing creatures are what manifest voidspawn.

From what we see in ascension, it still looks physical and largely based around the real world. Hunter still has his scars and see's an iterator, survivor sees the slug tree in a more mystical and formless state, and monk sees survivor frankly just looking like a normal slugcat. I think that ascension is a product of qualia. We transcend our earthly knowledge via the egg, and our own qualia is used to give birth to a new world. This is why voidspawn appear most in Shaded Citadel.

Now I won't be getting into Void-Worm theories too much here, I'm mostly focused on ascension but I can't ignore the Gnosticism parallels. For those who don't know, Void Worms heavily resemble the Yaldaboath from Gnosticism, along with sharing some similar celestial motifs.

and running with that some people theorize that, like the Yaldabaoth, void worms are responsible for manifesting the material world. Ascension seems to be a mix of the concepts of Gnosis and Nirvana, but I believe it might lean more on Gnosis.

From my limited knowledge, Gnosis is a few things, some of which being a state achieved from experiences or intuitions, and an essential part to salvation is personal knowledge. While researching a bit, I came across this text by Peter Wilberg called "From NEW AGE to NEW GNOSIS" which brings up some comparisons between Gnosticism and qualia as well.

"Gnosis is subjective knowledge of an inner universe made up not of matter, energy, space or time but of countless qualitative spheres or ‘planes’ of awareness – a knowledge obtained directly through inter- subjective resonance. It is the subjective science of this inner universe."

One thing though that has been brought up when discussing this is how this can be consolidated with the tone of the ending. It is pretty un-ambiguously happy, but if we're going with the Void worm Yaldaboath theory then that would put a bit of a sour twist on it right?

I agreed with these for some time, but now I actually think it ties in perfectly with Rain World's core themes as stated by the devs, "overcoming differences and finding empathy." I don't think the void worms are "evil" or malevolent, but I think they (and subsequently us after ascending) play a key role in demonstrating this theme.

By manifesting the physical world, we allow these souls to experience life and develop their own qualia so one day they can ascend themselves. We are shown compassion, and pass it forward.

#rain world #rain world lore #lore #rain world spoilers #gnosticism #gnosis

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

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[If you need to be mean] chapter 2

Chapter 1

Konig decided to meet his new favorite civilian at the cafe you work at. Unfortunately for both of you, you're both socially awkward. TW: Konig being a huge pervert, Canon-Typical violence, Dub-Con, Innocence kink, Age difference(Konig in his yearly 40, Reader in young 20)

Pairing: Konig x fem!Reader Tags: Fluff, Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Size Kink, Possessive Konig, Yandere Konig, Creepy scary stalker Konig, written mostly from Konig's perspective

— Did something good happen, colonel? You are practically shining.

Horangi always had this special ability of telling nonsense with the most serious face and deep voice. He also was the only one in his unit to ever be brave enough to joke with his superior – even though all the other KorTac members usually don’t risk their asses to be put on fire list because of some silly joke. He is the closest König has to a friend – and it’s kinda sad, actually, that a broken gambling addict is the only person who can read his emotions so well, even with his hood and permanently sour expression.

But something good did happen – you happen, of course.

He spend a few days of self-reflecting, drinking and punching training manekens in the gym, trying so fucking hard to put your adorable civillian face out of his mind. You were out of sight alright, but the way your features would get distorted into something even more adorable every time he closed his eyes, was concerning. He dealt with those little obsessions before – nothing that a few good rounds of jerking off until he would feel nothing but emptiness and hatred to himself couldn’t handle. He surely can’t fall that deep down, he only saw you for like an hour and it was literally three days ago!

— I read your reports about the last terrorist encounter. Good job, Horangi.

— And I heard about that civilian girl you pulled, sir. Thought we are bringing those to the police, not their houses.

— I had to make sure she wasn't a spy.

— And she wasn’t?

König thinks – would be far easier if he would have an official, legal reason to keep you locked up on the base without the right to come out. Would be far easier for him to just think about you as an enemy, so he would have normal reasons for thinking about you constantly, and not feeling guilty. It’s normal to think so much about your enemies – this is what keeps you alive on the field, if you can determine their shortcomings early and make sure that you can fight them. He would love having you as an enemy – it would at least give him some info before starting obsession over little ol’ you.

— No.

— That would give us at least some lead to the terrorist cell. Feels like all locals are protecting them from it.

— I understand your frustration. But at least they are not cutting our pay.

— We might as well rebel if they’d try to.

— We are not stepping on terrorist’s route.

— I was joking, sir. Only thing that’s left here except for card games.

Horangi hates stationing in this country as much as König is – and, given that he is a sergeant and doesn’t have as much rank expectations, can talk about this openly. This operation is perfect except for the lack of intel, lack of action and lack of basically anything to do – the local forces are handling minor threats, while mercs here are mostly to show off how the government has money to hire them. KorTac would pay for actually having to fight some bad guys around here – but the bigger ones are hiding and lower ones are already getting tracked down by the local military.

The only interesting thing to do, seemingly, is to obsess over local girls – and König thought he is better than this.

But he isn’t losing sleep over thinking about how scared and fragile you looked that night. Especially not even going to think about how adorable your little pout was, and the way your hands were trembling. He definitely doesn't want to know every tiny detail about your life, what you like and what you hate, what is your favorite position in bed and the color of underwear you are currently wearing – or even if you are wearing one. And he isn’t some sort of creep that would spend an obnoxiously long amount of time registering on social media – god, he is too old for this shit, it literally feels even more humiliating than his whole school experience – just so he can find your accounts and get instant masturbation material.

You really shouldn’t post so much half-naked photos – yes, this is a reel from your last summer vacation and yes, this swimsuit looks beautiful on you, but have you ever considered that some creep(not someone like him, he is palming himself very respectfully) would use those photos as a way to get themself off? Terrible, scary, he can’t wait for you to post some new photos – maybe in something that he would buy you, way skimpier and more expensive, so he could protect you from those people.

He looks at your posts about work – and he hates this stupid blue bird app because it never works for him, always filled with some assholes who are trying to argue with literally everyone, and the way he can’t even see your posts properly because of the weird ads. No, he doesn’t need a “Thing that would make your dick longer” he literally has a problem with making it smaller. No, he doesn’t need some dumb T-shirt even though he kinda reflects with the funny pun about pokemons and would love to wear something containing his major interest even though it would look ridiculous on a 6 '10 killing machine.

But König reads all of your short posts about the way you hate working in customer service, and his hand is almost slipping to the ad about wedding rings. You hate your job, he hates his – practically soulmates, even though he doesn’t really hate the killing part of his employment, he just doesn’t want to be in charge of people and making them steal the fun of destroying. He would, however, agree to get as many ranks as possible if that would mean providing for you. If that would allow him to be by your side and listen to your sweet voice, he would agree for the next promotion even if higher ups would want him to make some PR wawes and become a fucking fashion model.

But he is completely sane about you. Totally normal. Absolutely nothing is wrong with him when he can’t even think about visiting you in real life, but he leaves a like on every of your posts in every social media he has – you have terrible online safety habits by the way, he can already see what the inside of your apartment looks like, your place of work from three different angles, and how the front door of your apartment is held together by a very easy to destroy lock. He could snatch it in one deliberate kick, not even speaking about just shooting it. Not like he would need to, he wants you to be with him willingly. Or, at least, don’t fight him too much in case he would actually lose his patience and do something drastic.

It has already been three days and he feels like he is going crazy. He had those things before, overthinking about tiniest details in someone he never truly knew, but even then he’d understand that he can’t be with them – it could be his school crushes that were, ironically, crushed because of his anxiety. It might be some casual flings with his fellow soldiers that would either get killed in the field or never happen because it would be fraternization. Some random people he saw at the airport and already imagined life with multiple kids and a dog. He always knew he had a problem – but it was never like this before. Never dangerous.

The problem is – he knows that he can have you.

Maybe not in a traditional way, he doubts that you would just marry him on the spot, but he can court you at least. He can shower you with gifts or ridiculous tips at your job, he can just snatch you away and leave you as his perfect little bedmate. He can make his men kidnap you, and while it is inhumane and you don’t deserve this, he would calm you down – and then have his happily ever after.

He knows that he can have you – and it drives him crazy. He could stop himself previously, when he didn’t have anything for himself to be considered desirable – but now, with his rank and all the new opportunities and money it brings, he can’t stop but fantasize.

You under him, panting and blushing, lips puffy from kisses, skin glazed from sweat and marked with his teeth.

You under him, so wonderfully tight, not letting him go even for an inch – and you are perfectly taking him, no matter how gigantic he is.

You under him, smiling, cuddling after a long night – every night after a mission, where he could spend his free time deep in your body, listening to your melodic moans and little whines.

You under…

— Can I…can I take your order, sir?

He is a disgusting human being because lives of thousand people are on a stake, he would just doom them all if he wouldn’t find those terrorists soon – and he wastes time on sitting in this tiny ass cafe, trying to place himself on the small seat while being all too nervous to just talk to you. Like a person. Of course he had to go to your shift – he already determined which days you were working because it increased the number of angry “I hate my job and want to kill my manager” posts on that dumb social media, and he knows which hours you work at – of course it’s almost night time, the closing shift, because he simply can’t have himself not worry about you.

He is a creep, weirdo and all that words in a song that he’s been blasting in his tiny headphones all of these days because he can smell the sweetness of your perfume and the way you are munching on the pen you are using to write his order. Oh, yes, order. He is supposed to order something, he can’t just give you money for how adorable you look in that white apron – even though you are absolutely stunning and should get money.

God, he would murder everyone in this building just for them to never look at your legs again.

God, he would bury himself between them if only you’d allow him to.

— Sir, is everything okay?

He served in the military for far longer that you lived, probably. Most of his life, he got used to being referred to as something honorable, or referring to other people like that – and he never thought that just being referred to as “sir” would make his dick twitch in his pants. He crosses his legs, hoping not to get too imposing – he already towers over the tiny table like a giant he is, barely even fitting in it. He thinks he has a healthy amount of self-control – then he looks at you again, and thanks all the gods he knows for the mask he is wearing – at least under the black surgeon piece and dark glasses you won’t really see his blush. Or that little twitching in his eyes that is indicating danger.

— Sorry, I…can I, um, have a coffee? Bitte…please, I mean.

He hates how nervous he is – like high school again, asking his crush out just to be ridiculed. But you look perfect like this – controlled environment, you can’t just laugh at him and say that he is a weird nerd from another class, you have a manager who is controlling of such behavior. He would never tell on you, of course, he wants you to be happy, even if this job makes you the most miserable – even though he kinda thinks of you as a weak for this, his job literally involves killing people and he doesn't argue that much!

But you giggle – sweet, innocent sound, it drives him crazy even more than he previously was. It doesn’t feel like those girls at school – yes, he still can’t let that go, even though his therapist says he has to – and he loses all control at how beautiful you sound. He wants to take you away right now, pay you for your workplace however you get them, and just use you as he wants – no matter how socially unacceptable. He protects this country, he has the right for a little prize, right? No, this would be terrible, he shouldn’t just harass sweet little civilians like you, he should…

— What type of coffee, sir? Do you want some dessert?

This is a typical question, he was at cafes and coffee shops a thousand times but, for some reason, it feels almost like you are teasing him. You bite the end of your pen with those adorable teeth of yours – he wants to feel it on his fingers, he wants you to leave bite marks all over his body as a sign of marking him as yours. He smiles under his mask, hoping that you would somehow feel it – how happy you make him feel, how hard it’s for him not to lose control.

— No. Just coffee.

— Sugar?

He would like some sugar, of course – but the one he wants is probably not for sale, even though that adorable white apron of yours makes you look like a candy. He would love to unwrap you from those silly clothes and devour what belongs to him for the right of protector, but he knows how scared you might be. He is not a good person, he killed more people that he could count – countless fathers, sons, mothers, he shouldn’t even think about having a right for a family of his own after all of this. He is not a good person and his moral code changes with every kill he gets – but for hell sake, he wants to be nice with you. You deserve it, he knows. More than he is, for sure.

König doesn’t really like sugary stuff, it was always too childish, made him too energetic, disrupted his very peculiar way of eating things. Sweets makes him only more hungry, makes him crave more, and he wants to be as serious as possible – so he usually drinks and eats stuff that is no tastier than a pile of dry sand. But he responds before he can think, too focused on that shiny lipgloss you have on your lips. He would lick and bite it all – soon, he hopes.

— Ja. Thank you.

— Good choice, sir.

Your lips are curling into a small, shy smile and he likes sugar now. He isn’t sure if you are telling everyone that their order is a good choice, maybe you just want to get more tips, but he hopes that maybe, he is special. Maybe there is something nice happening to him after all. A small reward for not being a total monster on the last mission he had, even though he could. He can’t do anything but to stare at you, his only saving grace is the dark lenses of his glasses – he can’t wear his hood in civil situations, unfortunately, people would stare, stare, stare and that would make him want to pull their eyes out.

But you smile and he smiles also, even if you can’t see it. He is looking at your legs and, fuck, he is a disgusting old creature that preys upon younger women because he never had a positive experience before. He is a total creep and a monster that should be put down already – but he stares at your legs under that waitress dress, and he would pay your manager a few thousand Euros to cut the length of your skirt in half.

Then he sees all the others looking at you the same way – old people, young people, there aren’t a lot of guests at this time in the evening, most people are afraid of going into public places while the war on terrorism is going on. There aren’t a lot of people while it’s almost closing time, but he doesn't even want to think about all the other men looking at you like this. Devouring you with their eyes, probably leaving sleazy comments as you go through the small cafe, just as overworked as your other coworkers. He wants to take you from here.

You don’t deserve people looking at you like you aren’t even a person – only he can look at you respectfully, stripping you with his eyes. He can be soft for you, can be perfect – if you would just let him.

König doesn’t want to be a creep around you, but he was looking at your legs for five minutes already, picturing the way your body would look under all of these clothes, and his cock gets painfully hard. He thanks himself for wearing normal, baggy pants, not something tighter – at least his embarrassment is completely covered by his clothes.

— Here is your coffee. Anything else?

You look nervous, of course – but he seems way softer than he was a couple days ago, at night. The absence of his creepy mask is obviously helping, and because he is sitting, you don’t have to tilt your head too high, causing your neck to stretch uncomfortably. He looks awkwards, like a big dog that still tries to fit into his old bed, and it causes you to smile a little bit more. You made sure to place a couple of sugar cubes on the plate, so he could decide for himself, if he wants to use them all – but the mere thought of that giant of a man, a colonel, hardened soldier liking something silly and sweet is making you giggle.

He looks way softer than he was that night, and you can almost forget about how scared you were – how you were thinking that this would be the end for you, that one, overthinking part of your mind already making up the scenarios of getting martial lawed because of the broken curfew. You can even see his hair – and fight the urge to touch it a little. He is still who-knows-how-old and still a military presence in your peaceful country.

You still want to ruffle his hair.

He still wants to take your clothes off and make you his.

— Nein, thank you.

He stares at the cup for a good few seconds – if he wants to drink, he needs to actually take it off. He has many scars on his face, and his mouth sometimes feels like it has more dead skin than alive one – he doesn’t want to attract attention. Some people are already staring at his badge and how awkward a giant man like him looking in that cozy, tiny place – but he also wants you to see how much pain he can withstand without getting killed. How he can protect you from anything because there literally isn’t anything he won’t do for you. You would appreciate a man with scars, it’s a sign of bravery, right?

Then he thinks about all the times he would take off his mask and how people around him would look at him – with pity, with fear, with disgust sometimes even though he is certain that his face isn’t as deformed as some other parts of his body. He even almost managed to grow a beard once! Then he had to scrub it all off because hair was growing in very uneven patches and he looked like something crawled on his chin and died.

König fought in countless battles, spent his youth training to be the best killer possible, took part in many major conflicts and killed hundreds of people while feeling nothing but recoil. He isn’t afraid of anything – except for talking to people sometimes, maybe, and even now he is trying to work on it with his therapist, instead of just killing anyone who looks at him funny. He isn’t afraid of the dark, of death, of uncertainty in his life. But he is afraid of you looking at him unmasked and thinking that you, in fact, find him disgusting.

You almost want to take your time to look at what he will do – is he going to take off his mask? Is he going to drink right through the fabric? You have too much work to just stay at his table and stare, even if you want to – but you are trying to give him occasional glances as he just…sits at his table. Not even moving, just staring at the cup and sometimes moving his head to look at you – or just ornaments at the wall behind you. Yes, probably the ornament.

König sits at the table and, well, he doesn’t even want to drink his coffee because just looking at the way your ass sways under that terribly short skirt is enough to set him on fire. He wants to take you home with him – even though his home is all the way up in Austria. He would take you, you probably wouldn’t even be mad at you – you could be a perfect little family. He already waited too long to start one, never finding anyone who would win his heart for a long run but he was sure that this three-days-obsession would last long. He isn’t sure, however, if he likes it or not.

He ended up not drinking at all – he knows that he can’t just waste multiple hours, he already got his lieutenants covering the spot with paper work while their commander is away at searching for the love of his life. He wants to be with you longer, probably walk you home again and make sure to protect you from any creeps that would want to attack. He can’t have that, it’s obvious – he is a colonel, unfortunately, he is still on the hunt for those terrorists, he can barely give himself an hour of free time these days.

He already indulged in his fantasies too much when he folds a 100 Euros banknote and puts it into the bill – not sure about how much money it is here, not wanting to give you any trouble with exchanging currency, he just hopes that would be enough for you to at least not worry about food for a few days. Or buy yourself something nice – what girls like these days? Guns, books, some fancy lip gloss, a hat for their adorable little turtles? He would buy you a pet turtle, he always wanted one as a kid – right before his father said that all lizards are products of sinful corporations and a lazy pet like a turtle, unlike a giant dog breed, is completely useless and unmanly.

He doesn’t want to be here when you’ll get the bill – he is too afraid that he didn’t gave you enough, that you'd be disappointed. He would love to give you more, of course, but he doesn’t want to just shove you the money like you are some sort of cheap whore – he wants to give you gifts, something meaningful, to steal you from poverty altogether. König is an expert in infiltration and escaping arts, he can exit the location without anyone noticing a thing, even with his size – and then you look at him, directly into his eyes, covered by sunglasses – and your face is twisted in shock as you realize what exactly he left you.

— Wait, sir! Please, I…god, I will get you the change right now, I’m so sorry, it’s closing shift, I…I’m sorry, I completely forgot…

You are almost begging him to stop and let you give him his money, a honorable deed really – but all he can think of is how nice you would look on your knees, begging him to fuck you already. How perfect you would look all whiny and spoiled, asking him for something expensive, whatever your cute head would want. You would look so complete on his lap, tugging on his shirt and asking your daddy for a new toy. You would…

— It was a tip. Take it.

He wants to be able to tell you how perfect you look, how he wants to just throw you over his shoulder in a totally non-creepy way and make you his little wifey. How he would take multiple months of leave to just be with you, marry you, breed you. He wants to have a way with words, but they are useless to him – he can’t even say he likes you, it’s embarrassing, he is almost forty, he got his rank as youngest colonel in history of KorTac, he can literally have almost everything he wants – except for basic social skills.

He feels like a creep, an old man trying to steal that perfect girl from the shiny world, and he hates himself for it – but then you blush and he can almost convince himself that yeah, you like that creep too.

— I…shit, I mean, sorry…thank you, sir.

— Don’t wander at night again.

He feels like a scolding father and you giggle again, too innocent and naive to understand his thoughts.

— I won’t. Promise.

He then slowly leans closer, puts a hand on your shoulder again – goosebumps are running on your skin. His head is near yours now, he is whispering in your ear – and you are almost sure that you shouldn’t have come closer to him like this, that it’s unprofessional from your side, that everyone is staring at you. They are – and you try to ignore it, but…

— Wear shorts under your skirt next time. Never know who might look at your legs like that.

You would slap him here and there. You would scream and run away right now, but for some stupid, dumb, completely terrifying reason, you…almost like how protective he sounds. And the money he gave you is also helping – even if just a little bit.

König looks at the way you blush even more, and he knows already that he won’t ever let you go.

Tag list: @iwritesjud3

Please write if you want to be tagged in the next chapter!

#call of duty #cod x reader #cod x you #cod #konig mw2 #konig x reader #reader insert #yandere #yandere konig #yandere x reader #yandere cod #fem reader

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bobardo · 1 year ago

Note

I saw your reblog and i couldn’t help it…

I’m begging on my knees… write a breeding blurb. Doesn’t have to be long cause i can’t wait. Like 100-500 words

PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

THIS IS MY FIRST BLURBY, SO I HOPE U LIKE IT :D pls excuse any typos, most of this was written on my phone 🧍🏽‍♀

wc: 1.7k

cw: smut, minors dni, 18+. breeding kink, and more. not proofread.

It really had started out as a joke.

Thanksgiving inspires spending time with family, and family means entertaining all the new cousins and little nieces and nephews that had joined the family in the past year.

So, Y/N naturally gravitated toward the children.

They’re irresistible! With their chubby cheeks and gummy smiles, innocent stutters and big wide eyes that are subject to tears at any moment.

It’s not as if they put up much of a fight either, Cole and Oliver practically fell over each other to claim the thorn that was her lap.

She was consumed by them; if they went somewhere, she was right behind them making sure their little heads didn’t knock, stubby legs wobbly like a newborn doe. She ate on the floor with them (“The carpet’s comfy, Titi!”), played games with them—if you could even call it playing, they just oohed and ahed and slobbered over a deck of cards—laughed with them, wiped their tears for them, held them close, cradled them into a dreamy state that had her cooing in their ear.

And he saw. From his personal spot on the couch, that he’d homed since the first thanksgiving he could remember, he saw his girl becoming his family, too. He saw the hearts in the eyes of his nephews, he saw her adoration for them (not that he’s much better, they’ve got him wrapped tight around their tiny fingers), saw the bond that began to blossom between them.

He saw how calm Y/N looked as she cared for them, saw how natural she was.

And so maybe, on the car ride back he made a few teasing remarks about her motherly tendencies. And perhaps he mindlessly let it slip that he’d thought about her, pregnant, with his child.

But it was all in good fun, right? She’d scoffed in her seat—though the flush of her cheeks did not go unnoticed—slapping his shoulder to halfheartedly reprimand his crude comments. Sure, it sent a yummy tingle up her spine. And, yeah, okay, her panties got, admittedly, a little more uncomfortable after hearing his confession.

But that didn’t matter, because it was just teasing. Just words that he said to get a reaction, like always.

…Right?

———

Y/N now understands that he was not joking.

Not one fucking bit.

It’s kind of difficult to find miscommunication in any of his words now. She understands him, she gets him—Holy fuck, she gets him.

“Prancin’ around with babies on your hips, an’ you think m’not gonna wanna get you pregnant with my child?”

She gets him, with his fat cock stuffed in her snug, tiny pussy, filling her up, up to her fucking stomach. Literally. With the way he’s got her bent into herself—ankles up to her ears, thighs squishing her arms in, which in turn pushes her tits together, shiny with spit and quite bruised—his cock molds to her, pressing at her tummy, glaring at her. It scares her.

And it’s fucking everything.

She gets him, but she doesn’t fucking get how he has the ability to tease, mock, and degrade her so thoroughly, after so much time spent doing nothing but abusing her poor, helpless cunt. He stretches her out to the point of pain—unsurprisingly, there was little to no prep in the build up to their current state, though, at the time, it didn’t feel needed, she’d been dripping down her thighs as soon as the first button of his dress shirt popped. His cockhead shoves into her cervix relentlessly, viciously. He bullies his way through her, her essence soaking his prick to the base, a sticky mess between their crashing hips.

“Wan’ you stuffed full by the time m’threw with you,” he grunts against her lips, his hot breath fanning over her face, grounding her to this moment. She gasps with every plunge of his hips, the lack of activity in her brain clear as day from the cute, stupid look on her pretty face.

Eyes crossed in the middle every other second, glossy from past and reoccurring tears. Her cheeks puffy and rosy, glistening in the lamp-light from drool and salty droplets of tears. Her hands push fruitlessly against his hard, sweaty abs, chocking out spineless protests.

“S’big, too big— too deep, Daddy!” She cries sweetly, hiding in the puff of his pillows cushioning her head.

“Shhh, Baby, lemme fuck you, plug you up with my cum…” His hands move from the headboard, one pushing down on the back of her thigh, keeping her spread open for him, and the other to her ruined face, three fingers shoving between her kiss-swollen lips. She slobbers over them immediately, brows furrowed in devoted concentration, desperately aiming to please him. “Tha’s a good girl, Puppy, jus’ suck on Daddy’s fingers while he uses your cute, slutty little pussy.”

She whimpers through her gag, nodding dumbly, drooling all over again, the sparkly, moony glow in her eyes letting him know that her head is empty.

“You wan’ my babies, Pup?” His thrusts slow, working himself into her with a heightened calculation, forcing her to feel every vein and ridge of his big cock. She squeezes around him, whining. “Yeah? Tell me, were y’thinkin’ ‘bout it when you were takin’ care of the little ones?” His fingers slide farther into her mouth, his cock hitting places brutishly and delicately at the same time. “Were y’thinkin’ ‘bout bein’ my pretty baby mama?”

“D—addy,” She chokes pathetically over his fingers, tensing up in every way.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “you wan’ my babies, Puppy.” He picks up the pace again, pistoning his hips so her special spot, oversensitive from so much use, gets completely smooshed by his prick every single time he grinds back inside of her weepy pussy. His hand on the back of her thigh moves to the crease between her leg and her slippery cunt, his thumb poking her puffy clit.

“Oh, ma goo—ness!” she bleats, huffy, wiggling away from his assault.

“Cut it out, Sugar,” he tuts, the hand on her thigh coming down to smack against her cunt, strings of her silky cum stuck on his palm when his fingers move to fuss over her achy button meanly. “Fuckin’ take my cock,” he strikes her again, her hips jumping in response, tears sprouting and spilling from her bleary eyes. “Keep still before Daddy gets sick’a your squirmin’ and ties you to the fuckin’ bed.

When his palm makes rough contact with her swollen clit for the third time, Y/N comes instantly.

She squirts, everywhere, as a matter of fact.

“Oh, fuck, Puppy,” he groans, hips stuttering as his cock twitches, and before he can stop himself, he’s being flooded with an overwhelming warmth, his cum spurting in thick, white ropes that paint her insides.

There’s a lot. More than usual, probably. It fills her up to the hilt and then some, dripping from her cunt and smearing down her sloppy pussy lips, over her mound and his faintly hairy pelvis. He fucks her through their simultaneous orgasms, through the crippling, divine sensations that somehow fatten his prick even more, urging on his insatiable desire.

Y/N shakes beneath him, still crying over his finger, chomping mindlessly on them as the pleasure continues to roll over her in waves.

Eventually, his cock slips out of her, too soaked for his thrusts to remain precise. She gasps at the sudden, jarring emptiness, and he grunts, animalistically, at the loss of familiar, snug, wet heat.

He doesn’t immediately push back in, however. His eyes get distracted on the view of his milky cum gushing out of her stretched, abused hole. His hand drops from her mouth to join the other, smearing their mess into her flesh and spreading her puffy pussy apart. Inspecting.

His head tilts curiously while he collects his cum on his middle and ring finger that’d dripped down to her puckered entrance, scooping it up before tentatively pushing it back inside.

It does more bad than good, honestly; more cum spills from around his finger, leaving them right back where they’d left off. But, that doesn’t stop him from repeating the action. Once, twice, hushing her screechy crying when her massages it into her silken walls the third time, smearing it onto her special spot when he pushes it back in the fourth. He jams his fingers into her cunt until he loses count, and the sound of her messy, stuffed pussy is louder than both their moans combined. He adds a third finger and picks up speed when her hand wraps around his wrist, when her voice grows hoarse and she screams bloody murder.

“Too much, too—I can't, please!” she screams, eyes clamped shut, body trembling.

“Shut up, Puppy, ain’t shit too much,” he dismisses, standing to his knees and using his free hand to keep her pinned to the mattress. “M’gonna fuck my cum back into this slutty, precious cunt ‘til you fuckin’ squirt f’me again.”

His gruff voice, his big, veiny hands trapping her to the bed, the incessant press of his fingers into the perfect spot that makes her toes curl and her stomach coil tighter and tighter. The sweat that drips from his face—from the tip of his nose, across his forehead and temples, glazed along his cupid’s bow—his beefy biceps, straining as he fights against her involuntary shudders. His chest, massive and buff, firm and slick with sweat under her palm.

It doesn’t take long for Y/N to oblige his demand.

“Just like that, Sugar, wet the fuckin’ bed, keep fucking coming.”

She keeps fucking coming. When his fingers are gone and his pretty, fat, perfect cock is reintroduced, she comes then, too. Like, as soon as he starts to push in.

It’s embarrassing, pitiful; pathetic.

But she can’t help it. She can’t help anything that she does or says when her cunt is stuffed with cum and cock, her sore pearl rubbed and swatted cruelly, her tits fondled demeaningly. She just lies there and cries, and takes his lovely cock. She lets him dump load after load of his spunk into her, claiming her, marking her as his. Making it stick.

“You’re my little cumdump, Pup,” he grumbles harshly, squeezing her pert nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re fuckin’ mine to kiss, love on, take care of,” she whimpers below, crying for his mercy, “my dumb slut to use, fuck, breed,” he plunges into her as deep as he can go, leaning in close and whispering, “you’re my fucking girl; my pathetic, needy fucking puppy that’s obsessed with my cock.” Y/N nods, gargling agreement.

He smirks, “Yeah, my little breeding bitch.”

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sunshineandspencer · 4 months ago

Text

Cowboy hat rule, Part 3 (Tyler Owens, Twisters)

A/N: This was written as soon as I woke up the morning after seeing the movie, I woke up at 5am for some reason and this was spat out of me. I have no knowledge of it even after rereading it all, but the groupchat liked it so here you are. Also I’m working under the headcannon that you don’t get your hat back until you complete the rule.

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Fem!Reader.

Summary: In between butting heads with Javi’s team and running a successful YouTube channel based entirely around tornadoes, Tyler Owens is introduced to the most interesting woman he’s seen in a good while - and her sister.

Word Count: 946

Warnings: past emotional(?) infidelity (fuck anthony ramos for cheating on his fiancé), talk of beer, slightly suggestive (again, cowboy hat rule)

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

I have redone the form for the taglist now that I’m apparently expanding from Criminal Minds

So, apparently, Javi was working for a company that profited off the suffering of people that were most recently affected by the storms.

Of course, it makes sense. Old white guy, white hair, irritating face, makes sense he’s into real estate.

What doesn’t make it any better, is the fact that while both her and Kate found out, he only bothered to go and explain himself to Kate.

Nice to know he hasn’t changed. He’s always preferred Kate to her, even when they dated, he always called for Kate first on the radio.

If she tries hard enough, she can hear them through the wall.

But she’s not going to try.

Doom scrolling through that old guy’s website and pretending she’s not feeling sick about inadvertently helping this guy was cut short by a knock to her door.

Shutting the lid of her laptop, she shook her head and pressed the base of her palms to her eyes.

Getting up and walking to the door, she gave herself a few moments to try and decide what emotion to put on, not sure she’s ready to face her sister or - God forbid - Javi. Pulling it open and leaning against it.

Fighting the smile, and the genuine relief, when she was met with Tyler.

“Evenin’ wrangler, what you all the way up here for?”

It’s the second level of a motel, there are a lot of people up here. If he didn’t sleep in the RV with everyone else he’d be up here.

“Heard you hadn’t eaten, wondered if you wanted a pizza? It was the last one before the lady went home, should still be warm.”

Shrugging, he offers the pizza, margarita. Safe, lots of people like it - thankfully it’s also the only pizza she likes. And God she needs a pizza, and a beer, but she needs the pizza first.

“You actually- nevermind, come in, bring the pizza.”

As if he’d leave it outside, she holds the door open a little more and he steps in. Taking a good look around the room.

It’s not like this place has meaning to her, it’s a shitty motel room in tornado valley; they don’t build these with the expectation to last. The most you can do is collect stuff from home and wherever you’re staying and try to give it some personality.

But then his eyes fall on the white cowboy hat on her bedpost. Let’s correct that, his cowboy hat on her bedpost.

There’s the splash of meaning.

“You still have my hat.”

She lets out a soft snort, a pretty kind of laugh that she probably hates.

Sitting down on the bed with her pizza and opening it up. Resisting the urge to dive head first into the greasy shit she knows it’s going to be.

God- she’s never hated New York and her fucking fad diet more than she did right now.

Luckily, she’s not in New York, she’s in Oklahoma and a cowboy just bought her a pizza, she couldn’t turn it down now could she.

Offering him the first slice, she gives him a smug little grin, tilting her head. Acting all innocent as if she doesn’t know exactly what it means, his stupid cowboy hat has kept pride of place since she stole it.

“And you know how you have to get it back. Otherwise it’s staying on my wall. Add it to the collection.”

She’s not had a collection of guy’s cowboy hats since she was in college - it was a pretty decoration, and she loved watching the guys find their hats once they left.

But he doesn’t know that, and she liked the upset glint in his eyes at thinking there are still some hats waiting for their owners.

He took the slice and sat with her, and the itching silence caused her to sigh. Able to see his kicked-puppy look in the corner of her eye. Cursing her inability to say no to a pretty face, or even allow herself to hurt someone in the slightest.

“I’m joking, by the way. The only hat I have is my own, and that’s in Texas.”

Whether he knows it or not, Tyler Owens visibly relaxed at being told that. And that sends a concerning rush through her chest.

Something she really does not need right now, especially not with her sister and ex-boyfriend’s voice coming through the wall. A little louder now, probably an argument.

Her head turns, staring unseeing at the ugly painting above the bed. Not really paying attention, but knowing the words would come back to her later. When she really didn’t want them to.

Honestly, he’s barely said a word since he came in, still surprised he actually convinced himself to bring her the pizza. And now he’s sat on her bed.

Not wanting this odd little dream to disappear before he could grasp it fully.

This woman is a wisp of smoke, the angry clouds before a tornado forms, unpredictable and dangerous. Unpredictability and danger, the two things he’s dedicated his life to.. he wouldn’t mind making her a third.

Nudging her foot with his, he dipped his head down to finally meet her gaze. Habit from wearing the hat, the damn thing somewhere off in his periphery.

“I have something I want to show you, if you’ll let me. It’s a hell of a lot better than anything this place has given us yet.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t appreciate her dull tone, but knows she didn’t really mean it. Not when her gaze slowly returned to his, the fractals of guilt swimming in her eyes.

“A home away from home for you Alpine, trust me.”

Want more?! Good!

#tyler owens #twisters #twisters movie #twisters 2024 #twisters fanfic #twisters x reader #twisters spoilers #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens fanfiction #twisters fic #tyler owens fic

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l3tm31nn0w · 1 month ago

Text

At His Mercy

Mr. Reed (Heretic) x fem reader

You’re a PhD theology student wasting time at religious convention, bored out of your mind until you meet a charismatic older man who shares your interest in religion and blasphemy.

Warnings: p in v sex, religious trauma, age gap (reader is of age, nearly 30), degradation, oral (m and f receiving), overstimulation, wax play, religion used in an erotic way

(I have never written fanfic in my LIFE that’s how down bad I am for this man, forgive me if this is a mess lol)

You walked up to the mediocre coffee station for the third time that morning, preparing to stay awake through another dull lecture. It was day two of the Colorado Theology Conference and you had lost patience halfway through day one. You had hoped for more academic and agnostic speakers, but so far you’d heard nothing but actual Christian pastors and priests rambling on about the state of modern religion. For Christ sakes the keynote speaker was a goddamn prosperity preacher! You had to stay as long as could to please the big wigs at the university, each program had to send a PhD candidate for “professional development” and this was all they could find for religious studies. Lucky you.

As you poured the burnt coffee into your already stained styrofoam cup you glanced around the table trying to spot the little creamer cups to no avail. “Are you fucking kidding me?” You said under your breath, clearly louder than intended. “Well there’s always sugar!” You whipped your head to the direction of the voice, fearing youd get scolded by some pastor for daring to curse. The voice, a posh British accent that felt out of place in this cursed convention center, belonged to a middle aged man. He had a kind smile that reached his blue eyes effortlessly. He produced three small sugar packets and handed them to you. “I wish I could drink it black but I can’t handle the bitterness.” He chuckled as you mixed the packets into your cup. You smiled back at him and squinted to read his name tag, delighted that pastor was missing from his name. “Thank you Mr. Reed, I’m just glad to see a man that’s not a preacher in this room.”

His eyes traveled across your body and you almost called him out but he spoke before you could say anything. “I take it you’re not a woman of the cloth yourself, I hate to judge a book by its cover but I doubt many Christian churches would want that on display.” He pointed to the tattoo on your sternum. You giggled and relaxed, realizing he hadn’t been in ogling you, he’d simply been looking at your tattoo. He was the first person this weekend to look at it and smile, most had sneered at you once they realized what it depicted, not that any of them really knew beyond thinking it was a demon. “I know it’s not a good look for an old man like myself to be staring at a young ladies chest, but indulge me” his posh voice lowered with the last words and you felt yourself growing unexpectedly warm. “That fellow there” he said point towards collarbone “is Asmodeus, yes?” You looked up at him, realizing how handsome he really was up close. He had a classic attractiveness to him that no doubt made him popular when he was younger, but there was a bookish innocence to him even at his older age that drew you in. His instant recognition of the demon on your chest must’ve made you visibly light up because he beamed a smile right back at you. “You’re the first person to actually know who he is this entire weekend! I’ve gotten lots of comments but I’m sure you can imagine they were less than kind based on the crowd we have here.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded, enthusiastically agreeing with you about the overly zealous convention goers.

Relieved to have met someone with a more academic background you blurted out “I’m Y/N! Please sit with me during the next lecture? I think I’ll die if I’m stuck sitting between anymore church moms or worship leaders.” He smiled again, making the crows feet surrounding his blue eyes wrinkle up. “Absolutely Y/N, but only if we can sit in the back and whisper nasty jokes about whatever nonsense is being said on stage.” You laughed, a genuine laugh, and began walking towards the ballroom where the next lecture was taking place.

“So what brings you here Mr. Reed? You must be an academic if you’re not a Bible thumper like all these people. Forgive me for judging a book by its cover as well, but you must be a professor?” He certainly looked like one with autumnal colored cardigan, grey slacks and large clear rimmed glasses. “Oh goodness no, you flatter me! I’m just an old man with an interest in religion. I’ve been studying it for decades at this point. I’ve been to quite a few of these things, but usually they’re filled with academics not religious nuts. I think this one was advertised a bit incorrectly. I’m guessing you’re on your way to being a professor though?” He quiered back at you. “Yes, I’m getting my PhD in religious studies. I’ve been into religion as long as I can remember as well, I guess not as long as you. Oh god sorry that was rude!” You blushed a bright red realizing you’d called Mr. Reed old. He simply laughed and said “Darling don’t apologize for having eyes, I’ve clearly got a few decades on you! You must be what? 30 at most?” The blush from early only deepened at the pet name. Attempting to gain composure you coughed and replied “30 in April!” “Trust me, I’m ancient history compared to you.”

The two of you settled into the back row of the ballroom and you nodded toward the speaker, a Baptist minister who looked like he’d been alive during the crucifixion. You lowered your voice to a whisper “well not as ancient as HIM.” Mr. Reed stifled his laughter, a challenge you both attempted and mostly failed as you whispered back and forth for the next hour.

After the lecture the two of you slinked out the back worried you’d get a talking to for being too loud during the lecture. You looked at the paper schedule from your pocket and sighed “the damn keynote is next. I don’t think I can handle that grifter.” Mr. Reed grimaced in agreement. He looked down at his watch and then up at you. “Would you allow me to take you lunch darling?” There was the pet name again and with it came a flush in your cheeks. You chewed your lip, deliberating it. You were supposed to sit through the scheduled lectures and bring back notes for your thesis team, a way to prove the university’s investment in professional development wasn’t wasted even though it most certainly was in this instance. You looked up at Mr. Reed, studying his expression. You wanted to know more about this mysterious religious enthusiast full of dirty jokes who got excited by demons. Surely he had stories that would be more impactful than that prosperity preacher! You lied to yourself saying it was purely academic when in reality the heat pooling in your stomach was getting hard to ignore. You’d always fancied older men, but until now it was always talk. Always a day dream. Here was a handsome older gentleman who had a lot in common with you who was seemingly flirting without being creepy. You couldn’t let this chance pass. “It would be my pleasure! Let’s get out of here.” Your new companion’s face lit up and he guided you out the door of the convention hall. “Don’t laugh at how cliche this is, but there’s a rather good English pub down the road how does that sound?” You tightened your scarf around your face and nodded, a slight giggle escaping at that suggestion coming from the posh accent.

After a couple of blocks you’d reached your destination and settled into a booth at the back of the dark, cozy pub. “Can I ask a personal question that may be slightly uncomfortable?” Mr. Reed posited. You were becoming slightly infatuated and really had nothing to lose at this point. “I’m an open book, ask away!” “What is your reasoning for getting our good friend asmodeus etched upon your lovely collarbone? I know you’re far too smart for the standard answer of “he looks neat.”” You knew this would be coming the second he had recognized the demon on your chest. If you were going here, you wanted to play with him a little. “Well Mr. Reed, I can answer that, but first I need you to tell me what you know about Asmodeus.” Your older companion smiled at you dangerously and began, “Well, he’s present in all the abrahamic religions, usually as a demon king. He’s closely associated with the Angel Raphael. And, forgive me for being so crass, I hope this last reason may have motivated your tattoo: in the late Middle Ages the Malleus Maleficarum posited that he was the demon of lust.” His final word went straight to your core. You were almost dizzy from the rush of endorphins hitting you, sure it was hot that was boldly and blatantly flirting with you, but his knowledge of all the things that interested you the most may have been even sexier to you. You smiled coyly. “It’s your lucky day then Mr. Reed. His association with lust was absolutely the motivating factor.” He grinned at you and gave a look suggesting he wanted you to elaborate. “I was raised Catholic. My parents were all about it, we were constantly volunteering at the church. So at one point in high school me and this friend, Gabe, are put in charge of cleaning out the sensors. One day I walk in and see the parish priest trying to put a move on Gabe and I put myself between them. I tell the creep I’m running straight to the diocese and to my parents to get his ass fired. Well by the time I get home my mother is SCREAMING at me calling me a whore of Babylon, a jezebel. My father won’t look me in the eye. Turns out the creep priest had called my house and told my mom he caught me and Gabe fornicating in the church office and that Gabe told him I let all the other high school altar boys take turns with me. Obviously none of it was true, I was a virgin and Gabe was in the closet, which father creep knew and probably used to get Gabe to fall into line with his story. For the rest of high school I was the Catholic school slut and that came with all the cat calling and groping you can imagine. You’d think that would break my spirits when it came to religion, but it had been with me so long I couldn’t let it go. I didn’t believe the way my family did, but the stories, the imagery it all meant so much to me. So I fuck off at 18 and go to college in a different state for theology. Turns out I’m good at it. I graduate with honors. I get into a top choice masters program. I graduate from that program with honors. I know I’m hot shit and I feel like I’m hot shit and that I’ve come a long long way from being the Catholic school slut so I find the perfect image of Asmodeus and get him smack dab in the middle of my slut chest. Because he’s more than lust, he’s power, he’s danger. It’s a shame though, I spent so much time with my head in a book I never got to live up to my alleged Catholic slut persona.”

The second you finish your story your confidence falters and you feel your cheeks flush. You cannot believe you just shared all that with this man you’ve only known for a few hours. Mr. Reed broke the silence by quietly saying “You’re extraordinary.” You could tell he was being sincere and it made your heart beat faster. If he kept this up your old reputation may come true. “Well now you know my edgy religious trauma backstory, let’s hear yours!” He chuckled. “Well I can’t say I was ever accused of being the town harlot, though I don’t think I’d fit that part visually anyway.” You rolled your eyes at him, sick of his subtle self deprecation. He had to know he was handsome. Sure, he was old enough to be your father, but his age suited his features. The lines around his mouth and eyes came to life when he smiled. His greying hair was touseled in that messily attractive sort of way. The large glasses that sat in his face added to the sexy professor vibe he gave off. “Honestly I’ve got no tragic backstory. I’ve just craved the connection to a higher power since as long as I can remember. I wasn’t raised religious so as soon as I could read I started searching for the one true god. There’s so many religions is exhausting. Each of them have their own special qualities, but there was always something that let me down. I learned literally as much as I could. I’ve collected so many books and artifacts that my house looks like a damned theology museum. Then I found it. After my years and years and years of searching. I found the one true religion, the one true god.” He said those final words very seriously which contrasted greatly with his general quirky demeanor. You let out a little gasp. “So you’re not agnostic or an atheist then? I just assumed the way we were talking with each other you were agnostic like me!” “I was the picture of agnosticism for many many years. I don’t know what my discovery makes me. There’s no way to describe it.” Ok, now you were a little nervous. Was the handsome academic before you secretly a cult freak? He clearly sensed your discomfort and lightened the mood. “Enough of that though, you’re not some religious nut who needs to be convinced. I respect a solid agnostic. It’s good to be open to anything.” You smiled back at him, feeling just a bit more at ease.

You continued to chat about yourselves and various religious facts and oddities as you ate. Eventually you exited the restaurant and realized how long you’d been lost in conversation. The sun had begun to set and you weren’t quite ready to leave your new companion. His assertion of knowing the one true religion wouldn’t leave your mind. An old building across the road caught your eye. You looked over to Mr. Reed, his nose starting to flush pink with the cold. “Humor me?” You said as you stuck your gloved hand out to him. He smiled and placed his much larger hand in yours. You pulled him across the road and into the old stone building, a rundown yet still beautiful Catholic Church.

Despite your distaste for your family and your upbringing, you always felt a warmth and a comfort inside a Catholic Church. This one was small, but still had all the hallmarks of a cathedral: stained glass, wooden carvings of the stations of the cross, a giant crucifix of Christ in all his gory glory dead center of the aisle. You always found that there was a certain blasphemous sensuality in the depictions of Christ. Maybe you weren’t beating the Catholic slut allegations after all.

As you guided Mr. Reed into the church you paused to anoint yourself with holy water, old habits die hard after all. He skipped the water but followed you as you trailed around the church, your eyes on the architecture and decor, his eyes never leaving you. You finally settled into a few towards the front near the donation candles. The two of you were the only occupants and you closed your eyes, savoring the moment. Eyes still closed, you rested your hand on his and whispered “Thank you for seeing me. Nobody has ever seen me the way that you have.” You were met with silence, but his larger hand covered yours. After a continued moment of silence you opened your eyes and turned to him. “Please. What is this one true religion you believe so much in? I have to know. I can’t fathom parting ways and never knowing.” He looked at you very seriously. “Are you sure you want to know?” “Please.” You whispered desperately. “Ok, then close your eyes again.” He said in a hushed tone. You did as you were told and you felt him brush a strand of hair behind your ear. He leaned in close enough that you could feel his lips graze your ear and whispered “Control.”

Your entire body felt as if it was engulfed in flames. You squeezed the hand that still remained in your grasp and your eyes fluttered open. His gaze was hungry. You stared directly at him and said, louder than any of your previous conversation in the church, “Mr. Reed I think I’d like you to take me to see that theology museum you mentioned earlier.” “Of course darling.” In stark contrast to the way you had lazily lead him by his hand into the church, he quickly lead you out with his hand pressed firmly onto the small of your back. The old woman working the volunteer desk shot the two of you a puzzled look, she had no doubt assumed you were father and daughter until she saw the way his hand rested just above your ass.

He whisked you back to the convention hall parking lot and opened his car door for you, ever the gentleman. He had asked if you’d driven to the convention and if you wanted to drive separate, but you had ubered from your modest student housing. The two of you continued to make conversation as you had all evening, Mr. Reed even mentioning specific artifacts he would show you when you arrived at his house. Despite this the sexual tension was thick and heavy in his small sedan. A small part of you was screaming to yourself that this was insane and reckless, going to a second location with a man you just met today. But you had secretly wanted your day to end this way nearly the second you met him. His course whisper of the word control had sent you over the edge. All you do is think and decide and it gets so fucking exhausting. The idea of turning yourself over to him to do with you as he liked was just too good to pass up.

He pulled up to his house and opened up the car door, leading you into his house. You couldn’t help but smile as you walked in. It was adorable. It had the soft welcoming quality of a grandparents house. You wouldn’t dare say this aloud for fear of making him self conscious about his age. “Oh Mr. Reed your house is lovely! It’s so cozy!” You exclaimed. He smiled at you and then noticed you were shivering. “Cup of tea to warm you through?” He asked. You nodded and he disappeared into the kitchen. You settled onto a couch and before long he returned with two cups of tea. As he handed you yours his fingers brushed your hand for an extended moment and it sent shocks through you. Much to your embarrassment he noticed and winked. You drank your tea and continued to talk aimlessly until finally he said “Would you like to see some of my collection?” You nodded enthusiastically. Sure, “seeing his theology museum” was a ploy for him to take you home and fuck you senseless, but you also were dying to see his collection and he knew it.

He grabbed your hand and guided you down a dimly lit hallway into a large office. It was chock full of books, artifacts and paintings. You could’ve lost hours in here. He had things from just about every religion you’d ever heard of, there were probably a ton that you had no clue about. He let you wander around for a moment then retreated into a corner, returning with an intricate crucifix. “I think you’ll love this one, I saw how you looked at the one at the church.” He handed it over to you and you brought it close to your face to inspect the detailed paint job. It was a wooden carving, probably late medieval or early northern renaissance. The paint had faded, but the details of Christ’s wounds still shone a bright red. You rubbed your finger absentmindedly up the naked torso of the figurine and you felt Mr. Reed’s breath on your neck. “I watched you look upon the lord in that church and could tell your thoughts weren’t so holy. Is that your grand rebellion against your upbringing? Fantasizing about fucking Jesus?” You whipped around and faced him, your lips nearly touching. His pale eyes bore into you and for the first time this evening you were genuinely speechless. That serious, almost scathing tone from back at the church had returned. “How many times have you sat up late at night and touched yourself looking at him while you study? Do your droll professors know you’re soaking through your panties when they’re running through their slides?” Your face had to be deep red at this point and he was clearly relishing in your embarrassment. “When was the last time you got fucked y/n?” You looked away from him and that was all the answer he needed. “At what point today did you start imagining me fucking you?” He asked smugly. You thought back, trying to pinpoint the exact moment your thoughts turned to sin. “When you pointed out my tattoo. I thought you were checking me out, but realized you were genuinely curious about the tattoo. You knew what he was.” His eyebrow raised, seemingly pleased and shocked at your answer. “I thought you were handsome from the moment you handed me the sugar packets, I have eyes after all, but your intelligence is what sent a fire through me.”

You felt brave and brought your hands up to his hair, rifling your fingers through his soft greying locks. He closed his eyes and hummed an approval. After you broke the seal by touching him, he finally placed his hands around your waist and pulled you towards him, your chests flushed against each other. Your lips were barely grazing when he whispered

“Behold, you are beautiful, my love;

behold, you are beautiful;

your eyes are doves.”

Who was this man? One second he’s degrading you, the next he’s holding you tenderly quoting the Song of Solomon.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he broke the small gap and kissed you. It was a a chaste kiss, perhaps revealing he simply talked a big game and he himself hadn’t had a lover in some time. That was fine by you, there was something alluring about breaking him in. You went in for another kiss, hotter and heavier than his, your hands gripping his scalp, a moan building in the back of your throat. You broke the kiss and began placing kisses across his face and neck, settling in to craft a hickey on his right side. You left his neck with a pop, satisfied by the red mark left behind. You whispered into his ear “and when was the last time you fucked, Mr. Reed?” He brought his hands up to your face, pulling it to look him in the eye. “I must confess darling it’s been quite a minute. Once you reach my age the options slim out. I’m also not one to just stick my cock in whatever makes itself available. You, my dear, are special. And if you’ll let me, I can show you that while it may have been awhile for me, I promise you I’m not out of practice.” You answered him with another kiss. He smiled and released you, causing you to frown at the lack of contact.

“Give me just one second!” He called back to you as he began running around his office. He began putting together what you could only describe as a nest in the middle of the floor laying blankets and pillows around. He grabbed your hand and guided you to the floor. “Now darling, will you let me show you how a man treats a lady? I doubt those piddly little boys you’ve messed around with had a clue how to make your body sing.” His words went straight to your core. The idea of an age gap alone always turned you on, the allure of an experienced, tender older man who knew how to treat a lady. You let him lay you down and said “I’m at your mercy now Mr. Reed.”

He lay next to you and resumed kissing you passionately. As he slipped his tongue into your mouth he began slipping his hand under your sweater. “What a good Catholic slut you are!” He mused, pinching one of your nipples. You rarely ever wore a bra, especially under your thick winter sweaters. You let out a soft moan in response. He massaged your breast further and you stifled another moan. “Darling it’s just us, you can do better than that. “O come, let us sing to the LORD; let us make a joyful noise”” He tweaked your nipple at the end of the quote and you moaned deeply, both at the stimulation and the persevere use of a psalm. He pulled your sweater off leaving your chest bare, the cold air hardening your nipples. He wasted no time taking one into his mouth, licking and sucking while he stimulated the other with his hand. It was all going straight to your core, you needed him to touch you where it mattered.

“Please” you huffed out. He brought his face close to yours and asked “Please what? You’re a big girl use your words.” Your face flushed, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment. You were never one to talk dirty or ask for specifics when you had sex, you always worried it would kill the mood. Deep down you knew this was part of the turn on for him though so you managed to sputter out “Please play with my pussy. I need it, I need it so bad it hurts.” He places a kiss on your forehead and replied “what a good girl using her words. How I could I ever deny you.” Despite the slight condescending tone, the use of “good girl” made you moan. He would remember this.

He brought his hand down to your jeans and rubbed through the thick material. It did practically nothing and you knew this was just another ploy for you to beg him using your words. “Mr. Reed please please touch me bare, please I need your fingers.” He smiled and began sliding your jeans off. He chuckled when he got to your underwear. “Listen I didn’t imagine I’d be getting lucky at the religious convention!” You squeaked out hiding your face. You’d absentmindedly thrown on a pair of boy short style underwear patterned with French fries. “Is it too forward to say suddenly I’m craving a McDonald’s?” You playfully kicked his leg and you both chuckled. “I would never allow a poor old man to starve.” You replied faux dramatically.

As he went to pull down your underwear he exclaimed “my god, am I this powerful? These are sopping wet.” It was true, he’d been turning you on for hours at this point and by the time you’d made it back to his little chapel your underwear was so wet it almost felt like you’d had an accident. “Then do something about it!” You huffed. He pulled the garment down your legs and you were finally laid bare before him. You had no clothes on and he had everything still on, down to the grandpa cardigan. Laid out in his office decorated like a church you felt like a sacrifice. That only turned you on more.

He pulled your legs apart as wide as they could go and gazed up your sex. Despite his academic cool guy demeanor, you were really beginning to see just how turned on he was. His face was flushed, his hands trembled slightly as they gripped your thighs. His erection was straining through his trousers, clearly large enough for you to have plenty of fun with later. He moved his hands from your thighs to your vulva and spread you open, sighing lustfully as he did. He took an index finger and rimmed it around your entrance, gathering your juices before bringing his finger in lazy circles around your clit. You moaned, a deep guttural moan. You were too caught up in the ecstasy of finally being touched to see just how much this affected him. He continued to slowly stroke you while he brought his lips back to your nipple, sucking and nibbling. The dual stimulation was heavenly. He brought his lips to your ear and whispered “Darling may I taste you?” You moaned at the thought and then, in a moment of theological clarity, caressed his cheek and replied “My beloved has gone down to his garden, to the beds of spices, to browse in the gardens and to gather lilies. I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine; he browses among the lilies.” He seemed just as turned on by religious quotation as you, his eyes widened before he slunk back down to your pussy, spreading it wide before feasting upon you.

He took an experimental lick from your entrance to your clit and you cried out. Clearly amused by your reaction, he focused on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a painfully slow fashion. You were moaning in a way you would’ve considered deeply embarrassing had you had the clarity to hear yourself: a high pitched whiny squeal that sounded like something out of a porno. This entire scenario, the dashing older man eating out the young bookish girl, was straight out of a porn so perhaps your wailing was fitting.

As you felt your climax build, he cruelly pulled away. “Noooo don’t stop please!” You whined, lightly kicking his arm. He looked up at you and you found that his gaze had shifted back to the confident, predatory one you’d seen at the actual church. He climbed up your body until you were face to face and he held your chin in a strong grasp. “Are you going to be a good girl? Because only good girls get to cum.” You nodded frantically. “You said earlier you were at my mercy, I’m going to put that to the test now. If you disobey me I’ll leave you crying on the floor with no release and no chance at getting my cock.” Your eyes widened, what on earth did he mean with his test? Your mind was too clouded with lust to question anything. You needed him. “Anything Mr. Reed I’ll do anything you want. I’m your good girl please let me show you.” He chuckled at your desperation. “Wait right here then my good girl, I need to grab some things. Something from me and something from you.”

He left you laying on the floor wondering what he could possibly mean by something from you. After what felt like ages he returned. In his hands he held an ornate candlestick with the Virgin Mary carved into the side. A deep red candle was affixed to the top. “This” he said setting the candle on the ground “is from me.” He rifled into his cardigan pocket for something. “And this is from you. I think most people would say good girls don’t carry this in their purse, but I would wager I’m not most people.” He produced a small black rubber ball with a small hole at the top. You stared at in, confused, and then realization set in. It was a vibrator. You had gone out to lunch with your roommate from undergrad a week ago and she had given it to you as a joke, calling it your date for Valentine’s Day. She’d been married with kids for 5 years at this point and constantly nagged at you to settle down so the vibrator was par for the course, a usual humiliation from her. At the time you’d rolled your eyes at her and thrown it in your bag forgetting about it. Your companion must have rifled through your belongings when you got up to use the bathroom at the restaurant. He sat down on the floor and motioned for you to come to him. “Lay against me pet.” He said patting his chest. You backed into him, your ass against his straining erection and your head leaning back onto his shoulder. It was almost too intimate a position for a one night stand. If that’s all this was.

“Here is what’s going to happen. I am going to take this candle, light it, and drip its wax down your delectable body. While I’m doing that I will be holding this vibrator firmly against your clit. Now I know I’m not some big muscle freak, but I am certainly strong enough to hold you down and I will do so. You will not cum until I give you permission. If you agree to this right now I will not listen to any pleas of stop or no, but I know that you won’t dare even utter those words.” Your heart was racing and you felt yourself grow even wetter, something you didn’t think was possible at this point. Earlier when you’d mentally imagined fucking your new friend you’d imagined he would kiss you and fondle your breast a little before fucking you in missionary. You’d never anticipated wax play and edging from an aging British amateur theologian.

“I told you Mr. Reed. I’m at your mercy.” You huffed out, snuggling your head into his neck as if to prove how serious you were about staying. “Atta girl” He said, placing a kiss on your forehead. He started by lighting the candle. Once the wax began dripping down to the candle holder he lifted it off the ground and hovered it above your naked body. “You, LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.” The psalm slipped past his lips as the hot wax hit your breasts. It felt incredible, especially as he held you flush against him. His right arm held you firm in place against him even as his hand, which held the vibrator, snaked closer and closer to your core. Finally you felt the cold silicone divot pressed firmly over your clit. You shuddered at the contact, already sensitive from his fingers and mouth. He hit the button on the side of the device and it whirred to life. Just as the vibration began he poured more wax down your torso. The stimulation was already mind numbing. He began whispering passages from revelation in your ear, the twisted words of angels unleashing chaos on mankind only sending me further into your hedonistic frenzy. The Catholic slut had been fully realized. The vibrator attacked your clit you felt yourself teetering just on the edge of release, somehow holding out simply to please him, to serve him.

Tears began rolling down your cheek, not from the pain of the hot wax, but from the pure ecstasy this man was inflicting upon you. There was nothing left in the world, just you and him. His soft cardigan against your skin, his wispy grey curls tickling your eyes as you hid your face in the crook of this neck, his gentle voice in your ear. Suddenly that voice switched from revelation back to a passage from a psalm: “Deep calls to deep at the noise of your waterfalls. All your waves and your billows have swept over me.” Your entire body erupted into white hot light, your climax racking through your very being. Mr. Reed set down the candle and turned off the vibrator and brought you even closer to him, bringing you fully into his lap with his arms around your waist. You sobbed into his neck, so overwhelmed and overstimulated by what you had just experienced. “Oh my beautiful girl you are more marvelous than I could’ve ever imagined.”

Once you had stopped crying and come down from your orgasm a little, he tapped your side and helped you stand up. He guided you out of his faux church and down the hall into what you assumed must be his bedroom. He laid you down on the bed and left for moment, not without kissing you first. While you waiting for him you took in your surroundings. The walls were covered in a deep red floral wallpaper. The bedding was soft, though a little worn. He had more religious artifacts adorning his walls and shelves. You even spied Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons amongst a stack of books. You would tease him for that later. He returned with a large glass of water and handed it to you. As you sipped the cool water he started undressing, stripping down to a white tshirt and plaid boxers. You set the glass down on his bedside table and held your arms out to him. He climbed in the bed next to you and began kissing you fervently. His hands explored your body and despite the previous orgasm you found yourself growing slick with want yet again.

Now that he was freed from his trousers you reached your hand down and stroked his length through his boxers. He let out a delicious moan in response, his cool demeanor fully melted away and replaced with need. As you kissed him through his moans and continued to palm at him you wondered how long it had been since he’d been this intimate with someone. That’s really what was happening here, this was far more than a one night stand. You wanted to make him feel good, to elicit an orgasm that brought him to tears just like he had done for you.

Breaking the kiss you slid your hand under his shirt and gently guided it over his head. Once you’d removed his shirt you kissed him deeply, leaving his lips and trailing kisses down his chest. When you reached just above his boxers you raised an eyebrow, surprised to see a happy trail leading to your main event. You kissed along the patch of hair and slowly slid his boxers down. His cock sprung forward and you couldn’t help but moan a little at the sight of him. He was a good 7inches and decently thick. Circumsized too, so god must be pleased.

You began stroking his bare length and he shuddered. Leaning forward, you took his entire length into your mouth in one quick motion and he yelled. As you went to work he gripped your hair holding you tight in place. “Oh my sweet girl my good girl you make me feel divine” he sputtered out between moans. You loved how vocal he was and you couldn’t wait to hear him when he was inside you.

Suddenly his grip on your scalp released and he pulled your head off of him. Fearing you’d done something wrong you looked up at him with big doe eyes, waiting for a response. He pulled you up so that you were straddling him and brought your head to rest against his. “And the two shall become one flesh.” He whispered before pulling you into a kiss you could only describe as romantic. Sure you were both naked and your wet cunt was planted firmly on his rock hard cock, but there was something innocent and pure about that kiss. He scooted up against the headboard and pulled you firmly onto his lap, your tits right at eye level. He lifted you onto him and you both groaned in ecstasy as he entered you. Unable to control yourself you began riding him, needing to feel him go deep inside you. The sounds coming from your soaking union were obscene, complimented by your once again pornographic high pitched squeals and his guttural moans. He held you flush against him, your breasts smothering his face. He nipped and sucked at your nipples again, feeling the rush of warm wet slick it caused. “Imagine what your old classmates would think of you now, piercing yourself on an old atheist’s cock.” The dirty talk was back and you knew his voice alone could guide you to a second climax. “If god was real then he designed you just for me, he made your sweet little cunt ripe for my taking. MY perfect little Catholic slut.” He growled out the word “my” emphasizing the feeling you already held near and dear to your heart, you were his. With those words ringing in your ear you came hard and fast around his cock and he followed shortly after. You could feel his warm seed filling you and mixing with your own cum, dripping out of your weeping hole.

You both just held each other, his cock softening inside you. He finally pulled out and the two of you hobbled to his bathroom. He guided you into the shower and you both just enjoyed each other’s silent company as you cleaned off the evidence of your lecherous evening. You stayed under the warm water awhile longer after he left, just soaking in the steam. When you climbed out and began drying yourself off he re-entered the bathroom holding a pair of plaid boxers and a faded old Radiohead t shirt. “I get to stay?” You asked grabbing the clothes from him and pulling him into a kiss. “Darling if I had it my way you’d never leave.” You pulled on his clothes and climbed into his bed with him, falling asleep in his arms as if it was the place you were destined to be.

***

Four months later when you crossed the stage to accept your doctoral diploma, you beamed with pride and relief that for the first time in your academic career they didn’t call out the last name that belonged to your family who had thrown you out so carelessly. No, they announced you as Dr. Reed.

After a whirlwind month of romance and hedonism, Mr. Reed had proposed to you. It was insane, your friends thought, marrying a man old enough to be your father that you’d just met, but when they saw the two of you together the couldn’t argue. It truly seemed that you were two halves of a whole.

You were hired by the university you’d graduated from as a theology professor and you and your husband lived a blissful life. You opened him up more and would bring your friends around for dinner parties and game nights. He would still linger at your side like a puppy dog even as he grew more comfortable around people. The house you shared was always ooh’d and ahh’d at by company. Occasionally you’d be asked “what’s behind those twin doors in the office?” and you’d smile and politely reply “oh it’s just old storage there, nothing fancy to show off. In fact it’s a mess, I’d be embarrassed for you to see!” and your husband would squeeze your arm and smile at you, proud that you’d converted to his one true religion.

#heretic #Mr. Reed x reader #mr reed x reader #Mr Reed #heretic 2024

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jordanrosenburg · 9 months ago

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After watching the “Quiet On Set” documentary, I can’t help but feel like there are literally no good people in the entertainment industry. Even the “good” ones aren’t good. It solidifies that we don’t actually know anything about them. We only know who they present as to the media.

I think like most people around my age, we grew up watching Nickelodeon during its golden age. I always looked forward to watching “All That” not only because it was funny, but because it was something I could watch with my older siblings. It was something the four of us could laugh together about. My sister and I still laugh over the bit from “Keenan and Kel” where Kel admits to dropping the screw in the tuna. So many iconic characters and television shows were created at the hands of Dan Schneider.

What else was created at the hands of Dan Schneider were countless acts of abuse, harassment, manipulation, and much more. His sets were homes to child sexual abusers. Adults who are around children each and every day, taking advantage of their trust and innocence, grooming them and harming them physically and mentally.

It’s not easy for victims of abuse to speak up. Many aren’t believed. Reliving trauma is a horrific experience, so I commend each and every person who shared their story for this docuseries. There were previous cast members who aren’t as well known who got to share their truths, there were crew members sharing stories about Dan’s harassment and sexism on set. There were many crew members that felt uncomfortable about the scenes they were shooting, but no one spoke up. Dan had so much power at Nickelodeon because he kept churning out hit after hit after hit. The parents weren’t much better, but I’ll come back to that.

The docuseries revealed three adult men who were caught for child pornography, and for sexually abusing children. One man’s name is Brian Peck. He groomed Drake Bell for years. Joe Bell, Drake’s father, did everything he could to keep Brian away from Drake because he knew something just wasn’t right with how Brian acted around his son. Brian eventually convinced Drake to fire his father as his manager, and let his mother take over. This gave Brian the room to drive Drake to and from auditions, take him to Disneyland with him and his friends, and more. Drake Bell revealed in the documentary that Brian Peck sexually assaulted and abused him for years. Since Drake was a minor when it started, his identity was kept secret.

During the trial, many people wrote letters for Brian Peck, attesting to his character: James Marden, Taran Killam, Alan Thicke, Thomas DeSano, Ron Melendez, Rider Strong, and Will Friedle. Some of these names are extremely surprising, and others aren't at all.

Joanna Kerns saying, "there must have been some extreme situation or temptation exerted on him to influence is actions" at the time, and is now saying "I have now learned that my letter of support was based on complete misinformation.

Knowing what I know now, I never would have written the letter". For me, it's not even about her writing the letter, it's about her blaming Drake Bell, the victim, and child in the situation, as if Brian Peck wasn't a grown man who should have known better.

Kimmy Robertson also wrote victim blaming language in her letter of support for Brian Peck.

Rich Correll wrote, "it would be my pleasure to work with him again". And then he did! Brian was allowed to work on The Suite Life! Correll later said, they had no input or involvement in the casting". He also went on to say that, "Mr. Peck simply replied that 'the problem had been solved'".

The series went on from there, explaining how Dan’s behaviors just got worse and worse, and he “flew too close to the sun”. The inappropriate sexual innuendo bits on his shows happened more and more frequently. This included constant closeups on actors’ feet, many of the young female actresses being forced to be squirted in the face with various liquids to represent “money shots”. Ariana Grande probably had it the worst in that she had to film videos that went directly to YouTube, many of which included her biting her own toenails, squeezing a potato until juice squirted out of it, etc. Just absolutely disgusting things that do not make sense for a CHILDREN’S television show. These weren’t jokes for kids. This was Dan Schneider abusing his power, and seeing how much he could get away with.

It wasn’t until Jeanette McCurdy’s mother died that Nickelodeon finally launched an investigation into Dan Schneider. Jeanette talks about this in her book, “I’m Glad My Mom Died”, which was a heart wrenching read, but well worth it. Jeanette returned to work a WEEK after her mother died from a long battle with cancer. Because of the backlash she got for that, Nickelodeon realized that it was the culture Dan created that probably made Jeanette feel like she had to come back, that she couldn’t take more time off.

All Nickelodeon did was remove Dan from his sets, and made it so he could only watch from his office and give notes from there. Even though he wasn’t physically on set, the toxic and hostile environment was still alive and well because he was still watching everyone’s every move.

Thanks to #MeToo, more and more women started speaking up about their experiences on set with Dan Schneider. And then in 2018 Nickelodeon finally kicked Dan Schneider to the curb after launching another investigation based off the new claims. The investigation didn't reveal proof of sexual abuse, but it revealed more cases of harassment of his actors and his crews.

Child stars are often made fun of and exploited by the media as they transition into adulthood. We watch their mental health decline until they’re caught having a breakdown. People point and laugh, and say it’s just another child star who couldn’t handle life as a grown up. But what I think a lot of people don’t understand is that many child stars are forced into the entertainment business. Parents put their financial burdens on their children, tell them they need to work to support the family. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a child. So, if something bad is happening on a set, a kid is going to be too afraid to speak up because they could be fired, and if they’re fired, then they’re not making money for their families. The parents are supposed to be on set and with the kids at all times. But so many turn the other cheek and don’t speak up because they don’t want to risk their kids getting fired.

It just feels like no adults, not even the ones you’re meant to trust, are safe to be around. In some way, shape, or form these kids get abused. Whether it’s sexual abuse, racism, inflicted eating disorders, or other types of mental abuse, they’re not safe. No one is looking out for them. Everyone is more concerned with making money.

The entertainment industry squeezes the youth dry and tosses them aside when they can’t legally control them anymore. And we wonder why so many of them have a tough time later on in life. The lucky ones are helped through therapy, and the not so lucky ones either turn up dead, broke, abused, or end up abusing others as they were abused.

I am feeling very sad and heartbroken. And I’m not sure where to go from here. So many of these shows have brought me comfort and laughs over the years. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to enjoy them again. Is it okay to sit and watch reruns or should we be boycotting everything? I want to help in the ways that I can, but I also know that the world will stop caring about this in a week or so when the next big truth bomb about something else is dropped.

People who have no moral conscious, people who are okay letting children be hurt for the sake of their own wallets shouldn’t have any power. And I hope everyone involved in hurting these kids, past and present, is forced to answer for what they did. I hope they’re shamed and cancelled and doxxed and everything else bad that can happen to people like them. I hope they go broke and become ruined. And at this point, I hope Nickelodeon just crashes and burns. They don’t deserve any salvation.

#dan schneider #quiet on set #drake bell #drake and josh #icarly #jeanette mccurdy #ariana grande #hbo max #all that #victorious #zoey 101 #nickelodeon #the dark side of kids tv #brian peck #opinion piece

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melon-kiss · 11 months ago

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I know some of you don't speak Polish and we can't afford to translate 40-min-long chaotic interviews for you and I'm a bit bored (meaning: my brain wants a break from writing but I'm stubborn and I want to finish it TODAY), so I thought I'd give you a bit of a trivia based on interviews with the actors and the crew of 1670:

throughout all the interviews, no one really asked if we're getting season 2. I mean, someone did and the response was: "Well, we know nothing" but nobody really asked if they had any IDEA about what would happen in the next season

I'm not sure about the actors but the creative and directive levels went to a series of lectures on how people lived in Poland in the XVII century

they received a substantial funding, especially considering the directors were complete "no-names"

filming took 3 months, December through February 2022 if I recall

they all lived in an open-air museum in Kolbuszowa; in fact, almost all of the building were already there, they only had to build the house, the barn and the forge

there was no delay in filming, which is apparently rare in the industry but that was because they had a very tight schedule and couldn't afford staying longer in the museum

the last episode was filmed on one day and that was the last day of filming and because of technical issues with cameras working in the inn (the short shot of Maciej serving the pig to the Adamczewskis' table had to be re-done 20 times!), they had to completely rearrange the wedding party scenes, turning them into long shots; the entire labor/dancing scenes were supposed to be shot from 13 (!) different perspectives and be arranged in a "music video fashion"

one of the first episodes (if not THE first episode) to be filmed was episode 7

the script was written with Bartłomiej Topa (Jan Paweł) in mind, however, the actor wasn't really convinced about participating in this project and took his sweet, sweet time to decide on it; same goes to Dobromir Dymecki (Bogdan). Topa says it wasn't because he didn't find it good - it was because he was afraid that the project would be underfunded and therefore fail as projects like that usually don't get the attention they need in Poland

Bartłomiej Topa said he portrayed Jan Paweł as evil and conniving for the first two weeks of being on the set and the first scene they recorded was the one with the "Adamczycha" sign falling down; only after that time, after one scene in particular (don't remember which one, sorry), he finally saw the true nature of his character and changed his approach to the portrayal

surprisingly, Michał Sikorski (father Jakub), unlike Topa, thought of his character as a silly, innocent man and he changed his mind only after seeing the Aniela-Maciej dance scene where he says Love is peaceful, love is kind, love is... unacceptable - he understood he got to play a villain

the actors were FORBIDDEN to improvise; their lines had to be memorised prior to filming

they shot the barrel-cleaning scene (the thing they do before blowing the magnate's son's head up) for 2h because Bartłomiej Topa and Andrzej Kłak (well, he plays Andrzej) couldn't stop laughing; Topa mentions he doesn't even remember how they managed to get it done

all the mud was brought there ON PURPOSE

Kirył Pietruczuk (Maciej) is a debutante when it comes to film, however, he is the only actor in the crew with an acting degree; not only that - he graduated with honors

when asked about this, Michał Sikorski said: "Well, but it doesn't matter, does it? Because, even thought I haven't graduated, I got to play a nobleman and he... well..." (obv that was A JOKE; he is like the sweetest person ever!)

he also said he wrote a "Maciej's journal" during filming and spent a lot of time creating a backstory for his character; he said it was helping with the a-chronical shooting; he read one of the entries out loud in his interview

he jokingly said his favourite episode is the last one because he got to kiss Martyna (Aniela) there

as mentioned before, casting Maciej's role took the longest. They interviewed about 300 candidates and none of them fit. Kirył recalls it was right after he signed a deal with an agency for the first time in his life and he immediately received a call after his first cinema audition and it was 1670, of course! However, he reports that the process was extremely long - he had to go through several stages, each one of them revealing more and more of the script and he wasn't informed it would take that long

The creators said they looked for someone who'd understand the character and his role in the film - as he is the eyes and ears for us, people from XXI century. "He's basically like a viewer of the events, one of us", Kordian Kądziela (director, episodes 5-8) says. It was important he had a good chemistry with Martyna (she was the first and only "Aniela" he had to do short scenes with and the chemistry was immediate) and was able to break the fourth wall properly - he had to have the talent to comment current events with just one look and I personally think he does it perfectly. The actor was also supposed to be "easily likeable by girls"

The first scene they shot together - meaning as Aniela and Maciej - was the dance scene and Kirył says it's his favourite scene in the entire show

Kirył said the scene with the magnate's son was initially very aggressive on his part, however, after speaking to the directors, he decided to tone it down as it was, indeed, not fit for the character to be this angry

they all said, once they got down to it, they had a feeling they were a part of something special

Feel free to add your trivia or correct me if I'm wrong.

#1670 #1670 netflix

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piedinthepiper · 9 months ago

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Disease ˖ ⊹

Doctor!Jimin x fem!reader

Summary: You’ve had a sore throat for months now, good thing Doctor Jimin has a cure.

Warnings: dark content, dubcon ish, corruption, smut, mention of bullying, yandere?

Wc: 2.3 k

A/n: wrote a little something based on this request! Reader is innocent in the beginning, but throughout you will discover that she’s not innocent at all, but not in a sexual way… This is a great concept, but this is just so unserious. But I had to! It was right in front of me and I had to!

Another A/n: This is also written based on my firm belief that all doctors were pretentious nerds in high school. Because no one gets grades like that from actually having a life.

This can be read as both a pt. 1 or a pt. 2 to before: disease. They can also be read separately, you decide!

Disclaimer: This is 100% fiction. I am in no way saying that this is how any member of bts would act. Nor do I condone the actions detailed in the story. This is purely for entertainment purposes only. If any of the warnings trigger you, or you’re under 18 ¡do not read! I’m not your mother, and I don’t take any accountability for what you decide to read online!

Another disclaimer: I’m not a doctor, everything is off Google! Some technical terms might me wrong, don’t sue me! Also it’s a really stupid story, it’s pure fiction! If any doctor or medical personnel ever does this to you it’s not ok! Ok?

“Y/n y/l/n.”

Your name was heard throughout the waiting room. You smiled at the woman in scrubs, getting up from your seat to follow her. You clutched your bag to your side. Anxiously walking down the hallway.

“Dr. Park will be with you in a minute.”

She smiled as she stopped, holding the door open for you. You walked into the empty doctor’s office. She closed the door behind you, leaving you alone. You sat down in the chair, placing your purse carefully in your lap. You let out a deep breath. Being in a doctor’s office was just scary. You knew it was safe and all that. It was just something about giving a random person information about yourself that made you nervous. The sterile room that so many people had received bad news in. You were dreading the thought of you also receiving such news in that room. The possibility of not knowing if you’re terminally ill or if you just have a flu. Well, that was why you were there in the first place. The door opened, and your face turned in its direction.

“Good morning, ms. y/l/n, right?”

A sweet calming voice erupted from the man. You nodded and stood up to shake his hand. He sat down opposite of you, starting to click and type on his computer. You nervously looked down at your hands, waiting for him to talk again.

“I see you’ve had a sore throat for quite some time now. Is that the reason you’re here today?”

You looked back up at him again. He was leaning forwards on the desk on his elbows. His hands neatly put together.

“Yes, it’s like I’ve had a cold for months now. It just won’t go away.”

He nodded and typed something on his computer.

“Have you noticed any swelling in your lymph nodes?”

He asked still focused on the computer screen. You thought for a second.

“I don’t know, I haven’t checked.”

He nodded at your answer.

“Any peculiar or ugly coughs? Like slime coughs or even blood?”

“There was this one time where there were a little blood.”

He looked back at you, clearly concerned about what you told him.

“How much?”

You shook your head.

“Very little, it was more the taste of blood. Nothing visible.”

He went back to typing.

“And it was only once.”

You added, trying to make the whole situation sound a little better. It wasn’t even that bad, it was probably just because you had been coughing so much that day, your throat was so sore that a little cut appeared. But it was the reason you decided to go to the doctor in the first place.

“Ok, are you ok with me examining you a little?”

He asked calmly, his full attention back to you. You sighed but nodded. He got up from his chair and pointed to the bed looking thing with a long sheet of paper on it. You got up as well and followed him, jumping slightly to get up on it. You wiped your clammy hands on your jeans, trying your best to calm down. He put on white latex gloves and came over to you, positioning himself between your legs. You straightened your back a little.

“Look up for me.”

You did as asked and looked up at the ceiling. His gloved hands immediately went to your neck. Slightly pushing on the sides of it.

“Does this hurt?”

He asked and you nodded slightly.

“Your lymph nodes are quite swollen actually. It’s weird that you haven’t noticed.”

He said as he quickly moved to your stomach. Your back quickly straightened even more at the sudden contact.

“Just relax for me, I don’t bite.”

He jokingly said. You let out a small laugh and tried your best to relax. He put pressure on your waist.

“Does this hurt?”

He asked and looked you directly in your eyes while his hands roamed your waist. You shook your head, not trusting your voice. He stopped.

“Do you mind taking your sweater off?”

He asked calmly, looking down at where his hands were seconds ago. You panicked for a second, not knowing what to answer.

“Your sweater is quite thick, it’s purely so I can examine you correctly, ms. y/l/n.”

You nodded and started taking off your sweater.

“Of course.”

You mumbled as you pulled it over your head, leaving you in just a black bra. Goosebumps littered your skin at the sudden contact with the cold air. For a second you saw him looking at you, mouth slightly open. It made you uncomfortable, the look was not a professional one.

“Amazing.”

He said and licked his lip slightly before finding your waist again. You tried your best not to freak out at how close he was now. You felt so much more vulnerable now that you were half naked.

“Does it hurt now?”

He asked and did the same motion he did earlier. You shook your head again.

“Can you turn to the side for me?”

He almost whispered. You turned to the side, placing one leg at the floor for stability. You felt his hands slide up your back, pushing at some spots and asking if they hurt. You suddenly felt the cold touch of a stethoscope on your back.

“Breathe slowly in for me.”

You took a deep breath.

“Keep going, keep going for me, y/n.”

You breathed out once those words escaped his mouth. He didn’t say it like a doctor would. There was something behind it you couldn’t put your finger on.

“Try again.”

He uttered and you did. You managed to hold your breath.

“Good girl.”

He said as you breathed out again, making you cough.

“That cough doesn’t sound very good.”

He said as he stepped back into your view. You positioned yourself fully back on the bed.

“I’ll examine your mouth now, ok? Tell me if anything feels too uncomfortable.”

You nodded.

“Open up.”

You did as he commanded. He put two of his gloved fingers flat on your tongue.

“Wider, please.”

You opened your mouth as far as you could. He pointed a flashlight down your throat. Tears started forming in your eyes as his fingers almost choked you.

“Looks like you got some tonsils down there.”

His fingers slowly slid out of your mouth and you closed it and swallowed whatever spit had occurred during the examination. He started removing his gloves, throwing them in the nearest bin. He came back to you and placed himself close to you again. So close that it would be awkward to reach for your sweater that had fell to the floor.

“They’re not big enough to remove just yet. They might shrink if you do the right things.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to get a little bit of modesty.

“What do you recommend?”

You asked him.

“Take cough syrup and cough drops, drink as much warm beverages as possible.”

You sighed.

“But I’ve been doing that for months now, and it hasn’t helped as far as I’m concerned.”

You said and looked down, finding it hard to maintain eye contact with him that close. He hummed in understanding, stepping slightly away. You took the chance to reach for your sweater again. But his arm stopped you. You sat back up, looking at him confused.

“There is another solution. It’s a bit- well. Unorthodox.”

“What?”

You asked, willing to do whatever he told you. You didn’t want to walk around with a constant sore throat for the rest of your life.

“Do you have a partner?”

He asked. You shook your head, still confused about where he was going with this.

“That’s a shame. You see, recent research has found out that fresh and warm semen can do wonders for a sore throat.”

You swallowed feeling the saliva sting your sore throat. You knew what he was aiming at, you weren’t dumb. Or at least you didn’t think so.

“Really?”

You asked, not convinced that he was actually asking you to blow him.

“Yeah, I’m a doctor, you can trust me.”

You nodded and stepped off the bed, hearing the thin sheet of paper slightly rip. You looked him in the eyes as you sunk down to the floor. Letting your hands drag down his body.

“Woah ok. Didn’t know you were that desperate.”

His hand went to your face as you positioned yourself on you knees.

“I’m just doing this to get better, alright?”

“It’s ok, baby. I’ll help you.”

He was quick to answer, almost eager. You started working on his belt, trying to get it done as quick as possible. Maybe you were dumb, maybe he tricked you to give him a blow job. The thought definitely crossed your mind. But like he said, he was a doctor, he knew this better than you. And after months of trying everything to cure your throat, you were willing to try just one more thing.

You pulled his half hard dick out, giving it a few pumps. It was a good size, even at its half hard stage. You were about to put your lips to it, but his hand reaches your forehead.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?”

He asked with a sly grin. You looked confused at him. He clicked his tongue, hissing slightly.

“Well, I don’t offer this to every patient that comes in with a sore throat. Maybe a thank you, a little begging for my help would work?”

You mentally cursed yourself, but you were too far in to back out now. You let one of your bra straps fall down your shoulder as you looked up at him with doe like eyes. Your hand started jerking him slowly.

“Please, Dr. Park. Please let me suck your cock. You’re the only one that can help my sore throat.”

His eyes changed from slyness to horniness at your words.

“Good girl, you deserve a cure for that throat.”

You kissed his tip.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Park.”

You said before your mouth covered his tip. You started sucking on it watching his face twist in pleasure.

“That’s it.”

He whispered as you swallowed his cock. His head turned to the ceiling, as a moan escaped his lips. You started bobbing your head up and down, not wasting any time and keeping a steady rhythm. His hands reached your hair, grabbing a fistful. He didn’t force you to go deeper, he just held your hair as some sort of stability for himself.

“I always knew you were a little slut. Sucking me dry in my office with other patients waiting outside.”

He started talking dirty once the initial pleasure wave was over. Swearing in between his words.

“I’ve waited for this for so long. Fuck- Ever since I first saw you I’ve wondered what those lips looked like around my cock.”

You choked at his sudden comment, his hand in your hair stopping you from removing yourself of said cock. You started going faster instead, wanting this to stop so you didn’t have to listen to his creepy speech.

“You remember me from high school right?”

You now realised you were very very dumb, as your mind raced through your memories from high school. Park Jimin, the nerdy weirdo in science class. You would always catch him stare at you, but you couldn’t remember ever speaking to him. Well, except for when you and your friends would call him names and break his glasses. He pushed his hips forward, making you choke again.

“Of course you don’t. You were too popular. But- shit. Look at me now.”

You looked up at him with teary eyes. His hand went from your hair to your cheek, and caressed it carefully.

“I made a shit load of money to have you sucking my dick today. Shit- I have the most gorgeous girl from high school blowing me right now. Finally.”

He started moving his hips, you knew he was close.

“Fuck- you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

He moaned as you felt the warmth of his seed fill your mouth. You waited for it all, not wanting to have any of it actually hit your skin. You swallowed, before you got up again. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, giving him a deadly look.

“I remember you, you little freak. You were disgusting back then and you still are to this day.”

You erupted adjusting your bra strap back over your shoulder.

“There you are, that’s the y/n I remember. Always something mean to say.”

He said as he tucked himself back, that sly look creeping back onto his face.

“Who’s the bully now, y/n?”

You snarled at him and turned around to get your sweater from the floor. You were ready to leave and change doctors immediately. But before you could get up again you felt his body crash into yours, pushing you up against that bed thing. He bent you over it, whispering in your ear.

“You were always the meanest. And I loved it. I loved you so much. I practically worshipped you.”

His groin was pushed up against your butt. You felt his bulge growing by the second as he took a deep sniff of your hair.

“Please, let me go. I’m sorry, I’m sorry ok?!”

You practically screamed, now afraid of the boy you never thought would be able to overpower you. But that was in high school. He was a man now.

“I will let you go, y/n. I’m not like you.”

But before he did as promised he got a good grip of your tits. Letting out a satisfied moan.

“Even better than I thought they would feel.”

He whispered before stepping away from you slowly. You immediately got away from him, quickly throwing the sweater back on your body.

“Remember that I had the power today, y/n.”

You rolled your eyes and walked towards the door. You stopped, and didn’t speak before your hand was placed firmly on the handle.

“Whatever you fucking weirdo.”

You said and opened the door, not looking back. You regretted being this fucking dumb. Falling for his trick, thinking that he had good intentions. The worst part was that it didn’t even get any better.

——————————————————————————

Thank you for reading! Do you want to read more?

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stories-and-chaos · 11 months ago

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Shrike pt 2

[Hazbin Hotel reader insert as Alastor’s “darling life and death partner” I did my best for an ace x ace relationship, based on personal experience. Both parties are moderately sex favorable since writing from my own experience is easiest, so I’m not sure if this counts as QPR. Written mostly in spite over all the Alastor smut. And overly innocent reader inserts. I don’t mind some smut but c’mon people.]

[Part 2/2 Word count 6520/12026]

[cw: blood, gore, violence, attempted sexual assault, fluff]

———————

You woke up. Had it been just a nightmare? You reached for Alastor next to you but your hand hit stone. Not even the sheets on your bed; stone. You bolted upright, eyes snapping open. You saw a vibrant red sky and a myriad of unfamiliar buildings. All the architecture had spikes or teeth or eyes incorporated. A sign nearby proclaimed Welcome to Hell! It’s terrible here!

Not a nightmare. You were dead, shot moments after Alastor. At least you took out the bastard that killed him. You hadn’t been a religious person but tracked you would end up here. If there was any mercy in the afterlife, you would find your husband nearby.

Of course he wouldn’t be. You were in Hell and it’s terrible here. You did see a number of…creatures around. Mostly humanoid but with additional features. Fur, feathers, tails, extra eyes, tentacles, scales, gears, wires, horns, flames. All that and more. Were these devils?

As you stood up you caught a glimpse of your own arm. Your taloned hands were red, before abruptly changing to a pale white on your upper arms. From what you could see of your shoulders they were covered in black feathers. Your legs were similar, red at the heeled feet that changed to white above the knee. You couldn’t tell what your torso looked like; you were wearing a silver dress with vermilion threads woven along the length. It looked like your favorite show outfit, just in a different color.

You steadied yourself, already missing Alastor’s presence. You felt a rustling sensation on your back; did you have something stuck there? Reaching back you found feathers. As you tried to brush them away, the odd sensation of something touching your hair made you jump.

Were those… your feathers? You walked along the street and got a look at yourself in a shop window. Sprouting from your back were wings, mostly black feathers with a white patch. Your face now had an avian look but was still recognizable as yours. It was mostly bright white with with a black mask over your eyes. Your hair was now a gleaming grey, with a red hat pinned on. To complete the look, you had a feathered tail sprouting above your buttocks.

You recognized the bird you resembled. The loggerhead shrike, the butcher-bird.

“Well lookie here, we got us a brand new little birdie.” A shark-like man slinked up to you. “A cute one too. Why don’t you come with us like a good birdie, we’ll treat you real nice.” He grinned, showing serrated teeth. Other creatures joined him with equally sadistic expressions.

Of course you had scum like this to deal with. You were in Hell and it’s terrible here. “Out of my way, lowlife. I don’t have time to deal with you.” You pushed him away with the back of your hand to walk past.

“It wasn’t a question bitch. You’re coming with us.” A clammy hand grabbed your wrist. Before you could even really think about it, you were swinging your other arm at him. You were suddenly holding a stiletto blade which you jabbed into his forearm. Black blood spurted out when you removed your blade.

You spun away as the shark shrieked. Now you had a stiletto in each hand. Your feathers were bristling, your wings spreading behind you. “Back OFF!” Your high pitched voice, louder than it ever was when you were alive, made all of them flinch. On instinct you hopped a bit and a flap of your wings slammed the hapless creatures into buildings from the downdraft.

It propelled you to the rooftops. Not ready to take full flight yet, you landed. The demons below were writhing in agony. You took another look at your hands, this time with almost delicate looking blades in your palms. “Ah, mais oui, a gal can get used to this.”

————

It took you five years to find Alastor. As it happened Hell, even just the Pride Ring where Sinners like yourself could be, was a very big place. But if you were here, able to survive, your husband had to be as well. You made a living (ha!) the same as before, singing for your supper. You had no interest in being an Overlord, but you did get a reputation for swift retribution to those that crossed you. Demons who tried to violate your boundaries quickly found out your stilettos were unending, razor sharp, and accurate. Whether they were alive to tell the tale depending on if they were smart enough to back away.

You got the nickname of “Singing Shrike” in Pentagram City. It suited you fine. Especially since you hoped Alastor would recognize it.

You survived the annual exterminations and steadily worked your way through the city. There were so many different districts and the population was ever changing. At least one area you didn’t have to explore was the Red Light District. You doubted death would change Alastor’s indifference to those activities.

When the radios started broadcasting tormented screams, you were surprised as any other demon. Not disturbed though, it was Hell and you’d heard similar ones in life. But the fact they went out over the radio made you wonder…

The broadcasts continued on as Overlords disappeared throughout the city. Then one day: “Salutations Sinners and welcome to the broadcast! I’m Alastor the Radio Demon, I’m so glad you’re all tuning in. I’d like to thank you all for listening to the previews of this broadcast’s main segment, ‘Overlords Overthrown.’ Without further ado, I’d like to present our newest participant!”

You almost couldn’t believe your ears. But there was no mistaking that voice or that demeanor. Of course your Alastor would be the “Radio Demon.” Now that you knew he was active in Hell, you just had to find him.

He would be at a broadcast tower right now. With a few strong flaps you launched into the red sky. There were multiple possibilities but if you had to guess, it would be the tallest one. It was near Cannibal Town, an area you hadn’t been to before. It was on the other side of the city and even with wings you took awhile to get there.

As you got close, you saw a tall lean demon exiting the station. He was a vibrant red from the tips of his ears to the hems of his well tailored suit. From above, you couldn’t see his face but his gait was all too familiar. It had to be him.

And to clinch it, another demon emerged from a nearby café. As blonde and as curvy as she had been in real life, Mimzy. You didn’t realize she was in Hell too. “Alastor, a fabulous show as usual, you never disappoint, doll face.”

He gave his theatrical laugh. “Ha ha! As you know, anything worth doing is worth doing well!” His voice sounded like it was still coming over a radio.

You landed a few yards in front of them, finally getting a good look at the male demon’s face. The features were sharper and his grin was filled with pointed teeth but that was your husband. His hairstyle was vastly different from life and he had tiny antlers peeking out from the red mop.

“Y/N? Cher?” The radio crackle on his voice disappeared for a moment.

“Alastor,” you breathed, but unable to get out more than that. In an instant he was sweeping you into his arms in a bridal carry, spinning joyfully.

“Ma cher, I never thought I’d see you again. The worst part of Hell has been knowing I left you alone.”

You couldn’t help but tear up. “Alastor, I’m so sorry about that night. If I hadn’t distracted you… maybe we’d still be alive.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I never blamed you Y/N. But this isn’t the proper place for a reunion between husband and wife.” To your surprise, green edged black energy enveloped you both. You could still feel Alastor’s arms around you but the rest of your senses disappeared. “Just a moment my dear, we’ll be home soon,” his voice echoed around you.

The darkness fell away, revealing a room inspired by your home in life. One jarring difference was a missing wall that instead led into a bayou. He kept you in his arms as he settled onto a couch. The familiar surroundings and relief at finding him proved to be too much. Face buried in his red jacket, you collapsed into tears.

Alastor held you as he had many times before. He knew the best thing was for you to let it all out and to be ready with a handkerchief when you needed it. Which he was, holding his out when you finally raised your head. You dabbed at your eyes carefully. He chuckled, “Well my dear, at least you don’t have to worry about ruining your makeup with your new look.”

You laughed despite yourself. “That is a relief. One less thing to worry about.” You leaned back into his embrace, unconsciously wrapping your wings around you both. His head whipped back and forth, taking in this new development.

“Sorry ma cher, should I put them down?”

“Hmm, I believe they’re fine. It was simply unexpected. It’s…actually pleasant for you to be wrapped around me for once.”

“It can’t be any more unexpected than being whisked away in shadows. Any other gal would have jumped out of her skin cher. Or feathers for that matter.”

That was enough to get the two of you talking about the last five years. You learned about how he started taking out Overlords for the pure challenge and entertainment of it. The result was he was becoming an Overlord, specifically of the area next to Cannibal Town. He demonstrated some of what his shadows could do for you.

For your part you told him the rest of what happened that final night. When he learned you killed the man who shot him within moments, his gleeful smile nearly split his face in two. “That’s my darling wife,” he praised you. Your exploration of the city and the reputation you had garnered seemed to pale in comparison to what Alastor had been up to. Nonetheless he listened in fascination. Evidently the perspective of the city you brought him was something he could use in his upcoming plans. You showed him what you had learned of the wind you controlled and the stilettos you produced from nothingness.

Soon the two of you were preparing dinner together. Jambalaya, it really was a favorite of his. He assured you the meat hadn’t come from Cannibal Town; while he indulged he wasn’t about to make you eat it as well.

You didn’t have any nightclothes with you, but this was your husband. He’d seen you in all states of dress and cleanliness. So you undressed, keeping just the dress slip on. Alastor stripped off his suit down to his drawers. The bed was a replica of what you had shared in life and you settled into it with him as naturally as before. The main differences were his claws brushing your feathers and your wing covering you both.

Sighing deeply, Alastor pressed his lips against against your hair. “Thank you for finding me, cher.” You couldn’t help but smile at how his words matched your wedding night. Relaxing into sleep, you murmured “I’ll always find you cher.”

Mimzy was the only demon you encountered that had known you both in life. Those familiar with Alastor or yourself in Hell were flabbergasted seeing you stroll together. Since you once again moved into his home most of the gawkers had experience with your husband.

Seeing a strange demon on his arm turned heads; first that the untouchable Radio Demon had a girl, second that she was happy holding her own with the Radio Demon. When you ventured to your old haunts the reaction were similar. The Singing Shrike was allowing anyone to touch her without ending up impaled and that the Shrike had a beau.

One of few that wasn’t terribly surprised was Rosie, the cheerful Overlord of Cannibal Town. Alastor brought you around to her Emporium, introducing you as his “darling life and death partner, Y/N.” Her blank black eyes widened in realization as her toothy smile grew.

You got along fabulously with Rosie, much better than your acquaintances when you were alive. Maybe because you felt freer in Hell, maybe because she never once questioned your relationship with Alastor. According to the residents in her district she was very perceptive about matters of the heart. Whatever the reason, you enjoyed relaxing and performing in Cannibal Town. It turned out you were fond of pinkie fingers; many times you’d be listening to Alastor’s broadcast while enjoying a cup of tea and your gruesome snack.

Power plays in the city came and went. You avoided the annual exterminations together. Not that they mattered much, there was always more Sinners dying. Some tried and succeeded in gaining a foothold and eventually a base of power in the city. Others…well they tried.

You still weren’t interested in being an Overlord yourself. Alastor wasn’t really either truth be told. It just sort of happened, with the deal making and killing various powerful demons. You both built alliances and rivalries over time, with the two states changing within moments on occasion.

One demon in particular became a pain in both your sides. Vox arrived in Hell a few decades after you and Alastor. The television headed demon was originally cordial with Alastor and charming to you. Alastor, despite not caring for technology developed after his death, recognized Vox’s ability and had a measure of respect for him. You found him amusing, so long as he understood your relationship with Alastor was non negotiable. As time passed, Alastor and Vox’s opinions of each other shifted. What started as friendly banter turned into hostile bickering and then outright violence. The first time they tussled, they both backed down when they realized how even the match was.

You of course helped your husband retreat. A newly dead creature, Valentino, assisted Vox. You hated him on sight; both of you were defending your counterparts when he started flirting with you, so blatantly that even you realized it. The scum blew a cloud of red smoke in your direction. A flicker of couple feathers summoned a harsh gust, destroying the smoke and tearing the hat and tinted glasses off his bug head. You followed up with a stiletto flying through the air, aimed to graze his coat directly over his groin. It tore a chunk of the fur lining off as it whizzed past, impaling the ground next to Vox’s head.

After that, hostilities between the four of you only increased. Valentino never approached you alone; maybe he found out what shrikes did to the bugs they killed. Vox, on the other hand, started making passes at you whenever he could. He knew very well how long lasting your relationship with Alastor was. He also knew how disinterested you were in anything approaching sex. It seemed he was trying to seduce you purely to make Alastor retaliate.

Your husband, although he seethed in private, never did. He didn’t have to after all. The day you had enough, you grabbed Vox’s tie with a smile. Thrilled that he finally wore you down, Vox didn’t notice you setting your feet. He towered over you and like so many others didn’t realize how strong you were. So when you spun and flipped him into the ground, he was surprised enough that his screen went blank. By the time his face returned, a dozen of your blades materialized to pin his clothes to the ground. You used the hilt of another to crack his screen.

“If you ever try that again, I’ll fill you with so many holes that every demon in the city will be able to use you as a power outlet.” You pressed a toe against his neck. “Do I make myself clear?” He couldn’t actually move his head but Vox made his face bob up and down on the screen. “Lovely.”

There was an uneasy stalemate for years. It wasn’t until after the turn of the century that Alastor and Vox clashed again. Maybe it was the influence of that aggressive new girl Velvette that prompted it, but Vox started going after your husband again. A fight as big as their first major match erupted one day. Predictably, the two were equally wounded. Unpredictably, you couldn’t locate Alastor after he retreated into his shadows.

You knew he wasn’t double dead. The two of you had created charms for each other that would let you know if the other died. With how uncertain the afterlife could be, it was one source of comfort. So the music note finial on your hat pin imbued with a bit of his shadows gave you that good news at least.

But you couldn’t find him. What could possibly have happened? Days stretched into months and years with no clue. The Vees (the trio called themselves now) were happy to flaunt Alastor’s absence, both to Hell and you in particular. You found yourself checking on that bit of shadow often, just as reassurance.

Seven years later, you had stepped up as Overlord in Alastor’s loose territory. The broadcast station became a recording studio under you, Songbird Studios. That was when you caught a glimpse of one of Vox’s shows. You were heading back after finishing a deal with a promising new voice when you heard “So the Radio Demon is back in town, why’s he hanging around, what does that mean for your family?” You glared at the screen. He was at Charlie Morningstar’s new venture, the Hazbin Hotel.

Furiously, leapt to the sky. Demons were knocked to the ground in your wake but you had more important things on your mind. The hotel itself was just outside the city proper. As you approached it, all the lights in Pentagram City blinked out. The hotel was unaffected and you could see a small broadcast tower with an ON AIR sign attached to the building. You could have burst into his studio. But the downside of being an Overlord is you had people to look after now. At least I know where you are cher, you thought, changing course for home.

It took a few weeks to get everything set up. You didn’t want everything to fall apart in what could be an extended absence. So you ensured both the studio and your territory would be fine with minimal input for at least a couple months.

Then you couldn’t wait any longer. But even as a demon you were a lady. Decorum then. So you entered through the front door. The slightly dilapidated building was contrasted by the sunny voice saying “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!”

From the opposite direction you heard a familiar world weary voice. “Y/N! The fuck are you doing here?” Husk yelled upon seeing you. “Oh, do you know each other?” The chipper young woman introduced herself as Charlie Morningstar, the hotel owner.

“Wonderful to meet you Charlie. My name is Y/N and yes, Husk and I have known each other for a long time.”

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet one of your friends, Husk!”

“Ah, actually Charlie-“ he started to say but you hopped up on a barstool and gave the former Overlord a broad smile. “Husk dear, I feel parched. I don’t suppose you have some good whiskey here?” The poor man took the hint and shut his mouth. He poured you a drink while Charlie bounced away, saying she’d let you two catch up.

“Soooo, listened to any good radio shows lately?” Husk’s ears twitched in agitation at your question.

“Just the one,” he replied while wiping down glasses. “Look, Y/N, you’re not gonna…” he trailed off, not even sure how to continue. Despite having made a deal with Alastor and interacting with you both regularly, he’d never seen you two fight.

“Alors pas! I’m not here to make any trouble bon ami. But after seven years I deserve a little fun, yes?” Any response he would have made was cut off by Alastor himself coming downstairs. He froze at the bottom as he saw who was at the bar.

One of the demons in the parlor popped up. “Something wrong smiles? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or some tits,” the white spidery demon said suggestively. You finished your drink before hopping down.

“Alastor, ma cher! I’ve been so worried!” Another demon, a black snake also perked up and the two men looked back and forth between you two.

“Actually, she’s Alastor’s wife,” Husk informed everyone present as you trotted up to him. Predictably, the unfamiliar demons in earshot all yelled, “His WIFE?”

The last few feet you used your breezes to give you a foothold off the ground. Alastor had been taller than you in life and his elongated demonic form towered over you. With practice you’d figured this technique out. It was useful not only in a fight but to put yourself at eye level with others.

His smile never faded but you could tell he was nervous. “Y/N, cher…I…” he fell silent as you hooked a talon under his chin. “Seven years you’ve been gone darling. And nothing when you got back? Ma cher, you are in trouble.”

His ears flicked nervously as you propelled yourself slightly higher than him. You kept your talon in place. “Shall we discuss this elsewhere Alastor?” His hand shook slightly as he took yours. “Of course my dear, let's go somewhere with less of an audience.”

You hand in his arm, he led you to his suite. In the foyer you could hear “awww, they’re so cute! how the fuck is tall dark and spooky married? well…likely one proposssed and the other sssaid yesss-, not what I meant buddy, hey don’t look at me I ain’t their chaperone.”

Once in his room (which had the same house/bayou motif as your home) you hugged him tightly around the waist. His arms were frozen in surprise above you; it wasn’t in your nature to be this forward and spontaneous with physical touch. “Cher, I-“

“Shut up Alastor.” You dug your talons in just enough to give a bite to your words. “I’m angry with you and I missed you and I’ve been so worried and the only reason I knew you were here was because of that pissing contest you got into the other day. So shut up until I’m ready cher.” One of his hands lowered to your shoulder and patted a silent yes.

It was a few moments before you spoke again. “Take me to the couch and start explaining darling.” You could feel the amusement and relief from his posture as he scooped you up.

“Where should I start cher?”

“That fight seven years ago. You and Vox got into a fight, you went into your shadow, then nothing. I knew you were alive but I couldn’t find you. I said I’d always find you.”

“You did find me my dear. As to what occurred…” he explained how a third party had interfered with the fight, injuring both him and Vox. How that third party had followed his weakened shadow, cornering him. How he’d been forced into a deal with that third party. Who that party was and what little of the deal he could tell you.

“Well shit. And your being here has something to do with the deal?” He nodded. “Why didn’t you come home though?! Even after the deal was struck, at least I could have been there for you!”

“Y/N, I’d just been trapped like I’d done to so many others. They played me and I danced right along. How could I bear to face you then?”

“Mais la, cher! I wouldn’t have cared.” You sighed and leaned back to look at him. “C’est la mort. We’re together again now and I’m not letting you go it alone again.” He blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting that. “I haven’t just been pining all this time you know. Someone had to take over your territory and I wasn’t about to let one of those bratty Vees have it.”

He brought your hand to his cheek and nuzzled it affectionately. “My dear shrike, you never disappoint.”

“I’m sure the young Miss Morningstar would welcome some more protection for the hotel. And it seems the place is lacking in entertainment.”

“Right you are on both counts my dear!” He sounded back to his old chipper self. “Shall we introduce you to this delightful collection of misfits and reassure them you haven’t flayed me alive?”

“One more thing.” He cocked an eyebrow in question. “May I kiss you first?” His smile softened as he nodded. You kissed him deeper than usual, stroking his hair as you did so. Alastor’s long arms wrapped around your back as he accepted the kiss. “Much better,” you said as you pulled back.

“I’d rather not go seven years between kisses my dear, but that was a nice reintroduction.” With that he escorted you back downstairs. You hadn’t been gone long and even if you had, Alastor’s unknown wife showing up to berate him was too good to miss.

Once again he introduced you as “darling life and death partner, Y/N.” Charlie, ever the bubbly hostess immediately shook your hand before introducing the residents. To no surprise Alastor had brought Niffty here to do the housekeeping. “Y/N!” She shrieked in a pure moment of Niffty mania and dashing around you. “I’ve missed you too ma petite!”

“So uhhhhh, how long you two been together?” The lanky spider called Angel Dust asked as Alastor helped you to a seat.

“Hmmm… how long has it been cher?” Alastor mused aloud.

“We did stop counting after the first fifty years or so but I believe it’s been nearly a century since the wedding.” Jaws dropped at your statement. Alastor kissed your knuckles gently. “And my dear husband is just as charming and gallant as ever.”

“Wow, that’s incredible! It’s so sweet you’ve been a couple for this long! How did the two of you meet anyway?” Charlie, in all her sweetness, asked innocently.

“It’s a tad embarrassing, but we killed a man together.” You could almost hear something pop in Charlie’s brain. Her girlfriend, Vaggie, looked thrilled.

“Yes indeedy! Some ne’er-do-well attacked her on her walk home. When I arrived to assist, the lout was distracted enough that Y/N was able to stab him in the eye. Why, I’d never seen anything quite so beautiful as such a lovely little thing jamming her hat pin into her assailant! I quickly finished dispatching the man before escorting her the rest of the way home.”

You looked at him with affection. “That led to him walking with me in the evening and one thing led to another until here we are!” Vaggie’s eye was shining, Charlie was frozen, the rest of the group could only blink in shock. “Husk, why are you so surprised, I thought we’d told you before!”

“About the attack, yeah, not that you killed him.”

“I would have thought that was implied, my good man,” your husband said dryly.

“Okay okay, murder as a date night activity aside,” Angel said, gesturing with his top set of arms. “Back to the important things. Ain’t Al…do ya…have ya ever…” not quite able to find the words he formed a circle with one hand. He inserted the pointer finger of another into it, making a back and forth motion. Both you and Alastor tilted your heads in confusion, not recognizing the gesture. “Aw geez there’s two a’ him and they’re married. D’you two fuck?”

“Ooooh! Is that what that means?” You experimented making the same gesture. “Now I get it! This finger is the penis and this is the vagina!”

“Hmm,” Alastor inspected your hands. “Shouldn’t this hand make more of an oval shape then?” He squished your hand slightly to elongate the shape. “I think it’s easier to just make a circle darling. And I suppose it could be other orifices.”

“But do you two have sssex?” Sir Pentious interjected, bringing things back to the original question.

“Of course we do!” Alastor chirped. Angel looked equally horrified and amused, Charlie was still frozen, the rest just looked stunned. “How?!” Angel finally asked, fighting back laughter.

“Infrequently and with great vigor,” you replied in a cheerful, succinct manner. Husk pulled his ears down groaning, “I don’t need to hear this, this is like hearing my parents behind the door.”

“Okay, I think that’s enough about Alastor and Y/N’s sex life!” Vaggie halted anything else you and your husband might have said. “Are you going to move in too Y/N?”

“That was the idea if you’ll have me. It seems like this place could use some entertainment and more security.”

“And my dear Y/N is a dab hand at both! She isn’t called the Singing Shrike for nothing.”

“Of course we’ll have you!” Charlie finally snapped out of her daze at the thought of a new resident. “Everyone’s welcome at the Hazbin Hotel!”

Moving into Alastor’s hotel suite was fairly simple. You grabbed a few items from home and made sure your subordinates knew how to reach you in an emergency. It would have felt like a bit of a vacation with the lack of Overlord responsibilities. But the updated extermination schedule did cast a pall over things.

After Charlie’s disastrous audience with Heaven, you and Alastor decided on your plans. He would work with Charlie to get support in exchange for a deal with him. Meanwhile you would head to your territory.

Fortunately everything looked in order when you arrived. Proper delegation had its perks. You requested everyone’s presence at one of the theaters. Most of the Sinners that followed you were some sort of forest creature; birds, rabbits, foxes, lizards, and the occasional deer. The majority were musicians or actors, performers of a multitude of genres. They were fiercely defensive, hurt one and the rest would destroy the offender.

Explaining the situation, you asked for volunteers. This wasn’t a turf war over home ground and you weren’t about to order anyone. Surprisingly, almost all you followers were ready to go. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising, almost everyone in Hell had beef with angels.

You appointed two of the strongest to stay back, along with half of the volunteers. If something happened to you or Alastor, you wouldn’t put it past those brats from the Vees to attempt a takeover. All of the demons you brought had flight abilities, which meant your songbirds could handle the aerial combat. Your contingent arrived just after the cannibals and Carmine’s weapon delivery.

“Ah there’s my darling and her flock!” You landed next to Alastor and Rosie, giving your friend a hug as you did. “Y/N! I was surprised you weren’t with your hubby but I see you’ve been busy too!”

“We have a lot to do and less time to do it, we can be attached at the hip after the fight,” you said as Alastor took your hand.

“Well I’m glad to see my favorite pair of aces back together. Let’s get all these fine demons settled, hm?” With your territories being neighbors, there was familiarity and even a few friends between the cannibals and your songbirds.

—————

Extermination Day. It didn’t matter how ready the defenders of Hell were, it was time. Almost everyone was in battle gear. You had traded in your sparkly flapper dress for a more practical A-line that reached your knees. You’d attempted a suit but the trousers just felt wrong. So a silvery grey dress with vibrant red pinstripes. The hem had long black points all along it, evocative of your blades. Since your summoned weaponry wouldn’t hurt an angel you had a rapier and half a dozen stilettos that would.

Alastor had requested a custom piece from Carmilla, a hat pin made of angelic steel. The finial had a spray of red feathers and he’d imbued it with a fragment of shadow. In return, you’d given him cufflinks shaped like vibrant red eyes. Of course they had a touch of your winds, not only to let him know you were okay but for you to track him if need be.

All too soon, the sky opened up and the exorcists spewed into Hell. At Vaggie’s war cry you and your followers took to the air. You looked for Alastor and saw him atop the hotel. No changes to his outfit, he looked impeccable as ever. His maniacal laugh echoed in the air as his shield formed an orb around the battle.

You and your flock were tasked with knocking angels out of the sky. Some did this by stooping like hawks, others used the angels own weapons to injure their wings. Your wind magick sent them tumbling into each other. Any that got too close to you were impaled or found you making the most of your momentum to fling them to the ground, mimicking how shrikes gave their prey whiplash.

A loud crack, golden light spreading through the black orb, and Alastor’s shield fell. He’d suspected that might happen and was ready to take Adam on. You didn’t concern yourself about their fight, even when your husband’s form grew. What did concern you was the slice of angelic power that dispersed it. Another swipe from Adam had Alastor flying across the rooftop.

“ALASTOR!” If all of Hell didn’t hear you then clearly they weren’t listening. No no no no not again I won’t lose him again. You stabbed the angel you were fighting in the throat and propelled yourself to his side. You landed protectively over his curled body. For the first time in decades you let your true form show.

Your wings turned metallic, silver and gold, and grew twice their size. They gained an art deco appearance but were as functional as ever. Your face became more avian. You had a hooked beak and your red limbs glowed as your talons sharpened. Dozens of your blades danced in the air around you and your husband.

“Back OFF!” You screeched at the angel’s leader. Wind kicked up by your voice tore at his clothes and wings.

“The fuck are you supposed to be crazy bitch?!” He launched a bolt of light at you; you parried it with stilettos but it was a near thing and it took out a third of what you had summoned.

“Y/N. His wife, you limp dicked bastard.” You launched the rest of your blades at him; they formed a rope like column that battered at him. You knew they wouldn’t be able to hurt him but you were looking for an opening with your rapier.

He fired wildly, yelling “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking bitch!” You moved to strike when three stray bolts peppered you. Two hit a wing, one your shoulder. With a screech you missed the opportunity and fell next to Alastor.

Suddenly your husband grabbed your arm. “Have to disagree with you there!” He said in a singsong. He made sure his grip on you was secure. “Radio’s not dead, but it is ending this broadcast.” His shadows wrapped around you both. As you were swept away you heard Adam say “Bye bitches!”

A tiny part of you felt bad, leaving everyone like that. The majority was grateful you and Alastor were alive. You were used to traveling in his shadow by now, so the sensory deprivation didn’t bother you like it once had.

But the loss of direction was unusual. “Alastor…?”

A moment passed. “I’m here cher.” He sounded in pain.

“Where are we going?” you managed to ask. You weren’t in great shape either honestly.

Another long moment. “I don’t know.” A shudder from the darkness around you. “I just had to get us away.” As much as you wanted to know what was happening beyond the shadow, you didn’t try to get out. You weren’t sure you’d be able to right now. Even if you did, you might just damage Alastor more.

Then a gold light showed even through the magick shadow. Immediately you were falling, still wrapped in darkness. You could feel Alastor’s desperation as the shadows stretched, trying to find…something! Some purchase or anchor to stop the fall. He managed to latch on a couple of times but couldn’t get a good enough grip. The last desperate grasp broke you both out of the darkness.

You found yourself falling down a chasm, pieces of the hotel falling with you. Alastor’s arms wrapped around you, his eyes shut tight as he braced for impact. Fuck! You struggled to flap your wings. The injured one didn’t work right. The other strained to support you both, unable to manage more than slowing the fall.

Wind! Come on come on! You focused, creating a cushion of swirling air around you. Just in time, it dampened the impact, turning a fatal fall into a bruising one.

The two of you landed in a parody of your sleeping positions. “Ow,” you said once you had enough air in your lungs.

Alastor couldn’t respond for a moment. “Ow indeed cher.” He winced as he sat up. “You saved us though my dear.” He helped you sit up slowly.

“Third time’s the charm.” At his quizzical look you clarified, “I couldn’t save you when you were shot or in that fight with Vox. But I managed it finally.”

“Saving it for when it counts cher.” The two of you could hear echoes from the battle above. A voice roaring “GO HOME” was followed by the specks of retreating angels and the portal to heaven closing.

“That sounded like Lucifer,” you mused.

“Ugh, the pipsqueak couldn’t be on time to defend his own realm?” He struggled up to his feet and held a hand out to help you. You used his support to steady yourself but mostly got up on your own power.

It took some effort but he located his broadcast tower crumpled in the bottom of the chasm. One emotional crisis later, while you examined the wreckage, he was a bit more composed. You found the last aid box and the pair of you patched each other up.

“We’ll get you out of the deal ma cher. And the one who holds your strings will find out what happens to those who come between us.”

Alastor’s smile turned vicious. “I’m not dying for anyone but you darling.” He grasped your chin to keep your gazes locked. “And don’t you dare think of doing otherwise.”

Your own lips stretched into a crazed grin. “That’s the spirit cher.” Laughing, he kissed your knuckles before pulling you both into his shadows to inform the rest of your survival.

A/N: This is all the main story for this fic I have until Season 2. I have a few one shots in mind, since there’s a century of potential content along with inserts into some episodes. I really hope this was validating for my fellow acespec Alastor fans. It definitely was for me. I know people are welcome to ship and be thirsty for characters as they like. But we seldomly get an asexual character, much less one that isn’t an emotionless robot.

In any case, thanks for reading! I’ve got a Helluva Boss AU that’s 27k words and counting if anyone needs more of my rambling stories. Smut content is clearly labeled and will be in contained portions as much as possible to limit the squick.

@edgyboi10000 @clearly-awkward @badatpunz @deafsignifcantother @whitewolfsoldat @ch3sire-blu3

Part 1

#hazbin fanfic #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #fanfic #asexual alastor #asexual #acespec #ace representation #fluff #asexual reader #reader insert

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kismetlotts · 6 months ago

Text

-`♡´- Simon Rileys cigarettes x afab femreader

cw: Simon’s death, smoking, grief, moving on, blood, sad stuff, heavily rushed writing but I'm keeping it up so hopefully I can see an improvement

It must be a theme with military boys always having a cigarette drooping out the right side of their mouths. It was strange. You didn’t get the reason behind smoking however you didn’t hate on smokers either. People are free to do what they want and just because you chose against it doesn’t mean others shall.

Simon Riley definitely didn’t.

The strong tobacco scent was pungent on his skin, his breath and clothes every time he lit one. You’d hug him and have to push him away due to the stench, wide smiles casted on his face a mix of sorrow but also happiness.

Over time you began to fall for it, for him. You looked for him whenever you smelt tobacco or saw people smoking. Every smoke sign on the street now meant Simon could be around, lurking from the shadows.

The smell of every date, The smell of every argument, The smell of anxiety and the smell of love was associated with his tobacco, it was everywhere. The two of you could sit for hours out in the cold, in the warm-the rain as he smoked; you by his side watching.

The company wasn’t bad as Simon initially thought it would be, he didn’t really like people but you were different to him. Something about you made him want to do best, to be the perfect man. Instead of thoughts of war, battle and pain, it was thoughts of comfort. The idea of slow dancing in the moonlight, sharing a meal beside the warm candlelight, holding you carefully in his arms like a flower. His darling gardenia.

He accompanied you with advice, he listened when you needed a rant and talked when you needed to hear words. He wrote down advice or quotes -things for you to conquer- on the back of his cigarette boxes before passing them over to you. Leaving it to you to bin them whenever you felt you’d accomplished the thing written. It was therapeutic and you told him personal things you would never dream to share with others.

“I’ve always been big on photography, capturing the moments so they never vanish.” His eyes would flicker to yours with an unreadable expression before flicking back to the scenery in front the two of you.

“Yeah?” His gruff voice questioned quietly.

“Yeah.” You responded.

And it didn’t take long until you were around the base, taking photos of everyone on a camera Simon had gifted you, some bad, some good, some funny and some meaningful. The crew found it hysterical and even joined in sometimes, Simon especially by taking candidly awful selfies of the two of you and some without your knowledge. Showing you them next time you sat beside while he smoked.

You loved cigarettes like your heart loved him because that smell was him, that smell was your home- your centre. You couldn’t live without him or the scent of the smoke until you were forced to.

Shot, over and over by a bastard whose fate was far more tame than deserved. A thief who stole and broke the most valuable jewel to you- and butcher and a knife dripping with innocence. He was gone, your Simon was gone. Right in front of your eyes.

And grieving was worse than you’d imagined, the jokes you and Simon had shared about not missing one and other a tragic hyperbole forever fallen flat. You’d lived in your own dirt and grime, not wanting to wash the small traces his finger prints had left on you. You’d kicked everyone out, left the military and most importantly picked up a bad habit. Smoking.

First it was just lighting a pack of cigarettes you’d brought, inhaling the fumes it let off, tasting the gentle stream of grey on the tip of your tongue. Until finally your lips met in a soft kiss, tears pouring as coughs erupted from your throat. The smoke filling your lungs and leaving you like he did, the way you put it out, the butt falling lifeless in your hands: the ash staining your finger tips like Simons blood.

They reminded you of Simon and were something so special to you. Unlike a picture or a note of his, it was something replaceable if lost because he’d always be there. Unlike a tattoo it’s not permanent, if you ever felt mad at him you could leave the cigarettes at home. The nicotine wasn’t just what had you hooked it was more than that, it was the feeling of him between your fingers, the feeling of him reaching down into your lungs and seeping back into your heart again, the sensation as your eyes watched the residue fly away up and into the sky.

And as you progressed in life, you kept him with you. Lighting a few before you had your first date in years, almost asking him for advice, asking if it’s okay to move on. Letting droplets of ash burn you whenever you lit one during your pregnancy, unsure if it was accidental, subconsciously your own guilt or Simon flicking you to tell you to “Watch it.”

Your new partner, the dad to your lovely daughters was amazing. Smart, caring and overall a gentleman. Confident in what he wants and what he needs but also understanding. He knew just as well as you knew that he was the farther of your kids and not the love of your life and he seemed okay with it. You had a similar look to one and other and although the conversation had never came between you, you just knew he understood.

He never questioned your cigarettes even after you’d told him you don’t do it due to addiction or any other reason. And you never questioned the small jewellery box he keeps hidden in his night stand. You were just two grieving souls who’d lost their lovers but didn’t want to give up on life just yet. You loved him, you really did. But not like you’d loved Simon, you’d love no one like you’d loved Simon.

Your kids were wonderful bundles of joy and chaos, you’d never trade them for the world. You worked your ass of day by day to brings them the best and happiest life they’d ever live. Family holidays, movie nights you name it, there was always something you were doing together. You hated when they cried and especially when you couldn’t do anything about it. Watching them arrive home after school, tears staining their cheeks.

“Oh no! What’s wrong my darlings? Talk to me, let me know what’s up.” You’d assure them, wrapping your arms around the two of them and crouching to get to their level, their noses sniffling and eyes full of worry and fear.

“Smoking is bad, mama.” They’d tell you, your heart shattering like glass.

“We learnt about it at school, you could die mama! Please don’t die!” They’d beg and squeeze you firmly in a tight hug unaware you’re feeling lost. Their pain and worry over death and the grief and suffering they’d have to deal with if that happened. But if you quit smoking, you’d lose Simon. The small steps of their dad approaching, over hearing the conversation, changing the subject and reassuring you after.

You weren’t a bad mother, you were just struggling and that’s normal. You were only human and unfortunately your life had pan out that way. You didn’t need to be some perfect superhuman role model for your daughter because life isn’t perfect and no one’s lives are. It was easy to look at their adorable faces and breakdown on the spot, their innocence and their big eyes new to life, easy to forget that you were still new to life too, this wasn’t your fifth play through, it wasn’t a game you could skip levels on, this was your life as well as theirs. And Simon was a part of it, through smoke and cigarettes.

Years flew by and slowly you found yourself sinking in and divulging into this new chapter of your life. Cigarettes still being smoken and thoughts still being thought however Simon was slowly being forgotten. Somewhat healthy arguments between your now husband becoming more and more frequent and your life was getting into the swing a bit more, you felt happy and loved and purposeful, until a knock at the door one day left you speechless.

“Price? Oh my god I haven’t seen you in years.” You smile and awe lost behind the shock in your face. You’d welcomed him in your home, your husband greeting him and children eager to find out who he is.

“This is mamas old work friend, say ‘Hi John’!” You told them watching as their eyes would widen and smile, renovating to the other side of the room, busy playing with their toys. You’d sat and talked, drank a bit of tea you made until he finally revealed why he’d visit.

“Was cleaning through the old drawers and dressers at the barracks and found this old thin’. ” His rough hands gripped hold of a brown, ripped and scruffy photo album which belonged to me and the team. You’d started to make of your time in task force 141 but due to Simons death, you’d never really gone back to rescue your old items. Your camera, the old cigarette boxes, clothes.

“Wow..thanks.” You’d mumble, hand wiping some dust particles off of the cover and broken spine as you opened it showing the photos. Your kids walked over laughing slightly as you skimmed over some of them, your own face forming a smile at some of the awful captured.

“Johnny eating a sandwich, Your ear, Gaz upside down- Oh god is that Laswell?” You’d mumble, laughing pointing them out as John chuckled back, nodding and shaking his head with a sigh, but then you’d flip the page everything changing inside you.

“Haha, mama who’s that? Why do you two look so silly?” Your daughter pointed at, the photo consisting of you sticking your tongue out as a man with a ghost mask takes a selfie of you two. His name falls dead on your lips and you shut your mouth not able to get the word out. Simon. Simon. Oh Simon.

A small exchange of glances from John to your husband had him rushing over smiling and taking the girls to the back garden, and nod from his head in your direction but your hands remained on that page, fingers curled over the edge of the book. Prices hand laid on yours as he unhooked your fingers and dragged them over the photo and to his other hand, your eyes tearing as you looked at him, face bland and emotionless but your eyes telling him exactly how your heart feels.

A box of old cigarettes hit your palm and you saw a familiar squiggly writing on the box eyes scanning one of Simons old cigarette packet.

“Move on from the hardships, look for me in the smoke, i’ll be there.” Price mumbled reading out the words, and you smiled laughing at the cringey message, a few chuckles leavkng his mouth too. Your hand wrapped around the box slowly, rubbing your thumb over the shiny plastic stained with ink.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x you #ghost cod x reader #angst ig #sad ig #ghost call of duty

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