#i have so much brain rot over this fucking wolf

[inkiblues]

honestly, same

wolf boy (derogatory)

[meatonfork]

Comfort in Company

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pairing: logan “wolverine” howlett x reader

warnings: nightmares, reader has longish hair, no pronouns used (i think) pls let me know. poc friendly! also, let me know if there are mistakes, im tired. and i think that’s it!

word count: roughly 3.7k

a/n: i have wolverine brain rot 😔 lord help me. i may be a lesbian, but he is a very pretty man

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It took three excruciatingly long months for Logan to stop looking at you with disdain in his eyes. The man in question was a lone wolf. He valued his alone time, often communicating in grunts and a roll of his eyes, or he’d simply just walk away. But, he never failed to do what you so kindly asked him to do. If you happened to lock eyes from across the room, his eyes would always hold a certain edge that basically screamed “I don’t like you; I don’t want you here.” But, you never took it to heart. 

Much to Logan's discontent, you were persistent. You saw him as a challenge. Someone to crack. The reward was far too enticing for you to back down. Any excuse to talk to him was ready at the tip of your tongue. To him, you were a never ending ray of sunshine. And, fuck. It annoyed him to no end. You constantly bounced around the mansion, never seeming to slow down. A seemingly permanent smile was etched onto your face. The kids adored you. Shortly after arriving, you became a fan favorite. Your maternal nature made the kids feel at home. A common theme amongst the young mutants being a lack of familial love and support, and you were more than happy to provide. 

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Three months passed before you had a normal conversation with the man, one that wasn’t him just grunting or a small comment that was nearly too quiet for you to hear. It was a late Tuesday night, and you happened to be in the kitchen preparing a new recipe for your class. Teaching kids to cook their own meals rather than relying on ramen or something that could be nuked in the microwave made you feel important. A purple, well loved apron adorned your frame. Green leaves, and pretty pink flowers were embroidered on the front pockets. Flour covered your front in small hand prints from where you had wiped your hands to flip through the pages in front of you. Your hair was pushed out of your face, the warm lighting forming a halo over the crown of your head.

Logan waltzed into the kitchen looking for a glass of water. Another sleepless night had taken over, and he couldn’t sit in bed restless any longer. His figure paused upon seeing you working. A tune poured past your lips as you hummed, a melody he wasn’t quite familiar with. He couldn’t quite get his feet to move any further. Yeah, the man could be brash (a dick, if you will), but he wasn’t blind. Anybody would have to be if they couldn’t see your beauty. Your nose sloped perfectly, and when you concentrated your brows furrowed just right. The apple of your cheeks were smooth, and in this lighting Logan couldn’t find a single flaw. The way your sweats fit just right, or the way your long sleeves were pushed up your forearms. Logan couldn’t deny you looked most at peace when you worked in the kitchen, almost like you were destined to cook and care for others. And, maybe you were. You were certainly good at it. 

He had been the subject of many of your affections. Coffee brewed and his favorite mug laid out for him when he gets up in the morning, even though you’re not there anymore. Leftovers often being set aside for him late at night, his name written on the foil with a little heart. Even his laundry would be folded in a basket and set outside his door on occasion. And every single time, he knew it was you. Your sweet smell often lingered, letting him know he had just barely missed you nearly every time. 

“Oh! Hi, Logan,” you turned your head to peek over your shoulder. A small patch of flour rested on your cheek, “Are you looking for something?” Your voice was soft, just like everything else about you.

Breaking out of his thoughts, he shuffled closer, reaching around you to grab a glass from the cupboard. A grunt escaped his lips, “Jus’ water.” 

The rumble of his gravely sleep voice traveled from his chest to your back where his slightly unzipped hoodie clad chest brushed your backside, causing your eyes to widen just slightly. His pajama pants were slightly too long, the shuffle of them on the floor being the only thing that indicated he stepped away from you aside from the warmth that left you. 

You hummed in reply, not pushing your luck with a forced conversation. Your hands went back to kneading the dough in front of you before you put it back in the bowl. 

“What.. what are you making? Smells good,” he leaned back against the counter, just to your right. Fatigue weighed heavy on his face, and his hair was sticking up in random tufts from what you assumed to be tossing and turning. He looked soft.

“Just prepping some dough for the tarts I’m having the kids make tomorrow. I figured it’d be easier to make the dough to avoid the inevitable flour fights,” a small chuckle escaped your lips, a fond smile taking over your features. 

Logan tilted his head, “Probably the smartest move.”

“I like to think so. Hey, I can save some for you, if you’d like of course. You don’t have to if you d-” Your voice became timid. The idea of having an actual conversation with Logan was starting to hit you, and your nervousness moved to the forefront of your mind.

Logan cut you off with a chuckle, “That’d be nice, sweetheart. Thanks.”

Your face heated up at his words, and that fucker definitely noticed. And, boy oh boy, did he find it amusing.

“Okay, yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure the kids don’t eat them all.” You gave a little nod, and a comfortable silence fell over the two of you. The only sounds were coming from you moving about, putting ingredients away and putting the dough in bowls. 

Your voice broke the silence, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did.” His voice held amusement, a small quirk of his eyebrow.

“You know what I mean, smartass.” You quipped back, a small smile tugging on your lips. He grunted with a nod, his hands moving to rest on either side of his hips upon the counter. His eyes followed your movements back and forth from the counter to the fridge.

“I think I’m a little confused. And, please, don’t take this the wrong way. But, why are you sitting with me? I got the impression you were never particularly fond of me.” You pursed your lips, eyes drifting up to his. Your voice was soft, almost as if you were trying to avoid scaring him off. 

A sigh left his lips, “Thought it was time to stop bein’ a dick and talk to ya. I notice, you know?” 

Your head tilted, “What do you mean?” A curious glint flashed over your eyes. Your hands slowly wiped the rest of the flour off onto your apron. Logan couldn’t help but think you looked so small. So pretty. 

“The things you do f’me. I notice them.. Thank you.” His eyes cast downward, suddenly finding the kitchen floor interesting. 

A small flicker of recognition passed over your face. You smiled and reached for the small kitchen towel that rested on your shoulder, hands ringing the small material, “Well, you’re welcome. Honestly, I thought it would be a while longer before I got any thanks out of you.” 

Logan scoffed, “Fuck off. The smell of the dough helped more than anything.” 

“Sure, buddy.” You teased. You turned back to the counter, wiping it down.

He moved to put his cup in the sink, “You should head to bed soon. You could definitely use some beauty sleep, sweetheart.” No you couldn’t. If Logan was forced at gunpoint to tell the truth, he’d say he’d never seen anything so beautiful. But, Logan doesn’t say those things. He barely let himself think them.

“Pot? Kettle? Black? You’re one to talk, do you see your hair?” A loud laugh echoed in the kitchen. Logan’s heart skipped a beat. How had he never noticed how lovely your laugh was? 

“Whatever. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t forget to save me some, yeah?” He moved towards the hall, a small smile cast your way. 

“Goodnight, Logan. I’ll see you in the morning.” Your sweet voice trailed behind him.

Logan made his way back upstairs and to his room, three doors down from yours. As he passed your room, he could smell your sweet perfume leaking from under the door. Just like every other time he passed by. Sleep seemed to come much easier for him that night. 

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Since that small interaction, Logan had slowly warmed up to you. After discovering your laugh was his new favorite sound, he’d find any and all ways to make you produce the sound. He didn’t care if you were laughing at or with him. Although, it was more often the former. He started paying more attention to when you’d do small favors for him, finding you later and being sure to thank you. Small touches to your lower back, your shoulder, your elbow. Tying your apron on late nights when your hands were covered in goo from dough, or sauce for some other dish. He became the person you’d have taste test whatever new recipe you wanted to try out. 

“Needs more salt, bub.” He put the spoon back in the saucepan, taking a step back to let you work your magic. 

“Okay, thanks. Do you think it needs anything else?” You moved to the side just a bit to grab the salt, your arm brushing his as you stretched. 

He gave a small shake of his head, “Nah.” He moved to the cupboards to grab plates for the table. Small, casual conversation flowed easily between you two.

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When you weren’t in the kitchen, or your classroom, you could be found in the greenhouse. Your mutation helped largely with producing thriving fruits and vegetables. Beautiful flowers and vines practically overtaking the outside of the building. You made your way through the courtyard, a basket of freshly picked fruits and vegetables sat on your hip. The sounds of the children’s laughter echoing in the air. You raised your free hand to wave at Storm and Rogue, a beaming smile taking over your face when they yelled a hello your way. Dirt covered your hands, your boots not much better off. Your gloves stuck out the front pockets of your gardening apron, cheeks speckled with dirt from when you tugged on the small leaves of the precious foods and they gave way easier than expected. 

“Good bunch today?” Logan asked as he pushed off the brick wall near the entrance of the large school, cigar between his lips. 

“No smoking in the courtyard, Lo.” You slapped his hand away from the strawberries he set his sight on, “And don’t touch the fruit, it’s for the kids.” 

He tsked a little before bringing his hand up to the cigar, “Ah, c’mon, bub. They look so good. You really know what you’re doin’ in there.”

“Okay, fine. Just one. I mean it, Logan.” You give him a pointed look, letting it be known you mean business. But, Logan catches the amusement in your eyes, letting him know he could probably get away with having two. So he does. Popping one in his mouth as you both go up the steps, he holds one in front of your mouth, letting you take it between your teeth. 

“Mmm. You’re right, I do know what I’m doing.” You hum, savoring the sweet taste. Logan watches as your tongue darts from your mouth, licking the sweet juice that stained your lips a light shade of red. 

“Yeah you do,” he mumbles out, eyes captivated by the swift movement. 

“What?” Your eyes move to his.

“Nothin’. Come on, let’s get these washed up.” He opens the door, allowing you to duck under his arm as he follows you into the kitchen. 

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A storm raged outside. Loud booms of thunder echoed through the school, and lightning flashed and illuminated the dimly lit common room you were sat in. A small fire was lit in the fireplace as a large blanket covered your pajama clad legs. Logan found you curled up on the couch, windows slightly open letting a small breeze in, and nose deep in a book. 

“Hey,” you jumped at the sound of his voice, swiftly turning your head to see him leaning against the doorframe, “Sorry, bub, didn’t mean to scare ya. Mind if I join you?” You took in his attire. The usual white tank covered with a slightly unzipped hoodie, and a pair of grey sweats resting deliciously on his hips.

“Yeah, of course you can, Lo.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the soft atmosphere blanketing you both. Your hand patted the space right beside you as you shifted your legs so your feet rested on the ground. The larger man pushed off the doorframe and made his way to you. He lowered himself to sit next to you, and grabbed your legs to shift them over his lap. You settled yourself against him, splaying the blanket to cover the both of you while your back leaned on the armrest of the couch. 

He ran his hands up and down your calves through the blanket, “What’re you readin’?”

“What the River Knows. It’s really good,” You blinked up at him. 

“Tell me about it, bub.” Hands pulling you closer as you shiver at the slight breeze. As you explained the plot up to the point you’ve read, talking animatedly with your hands, Logan can’t help but to soften his eyes. You get so excited when you talk about things you love. Teaching, cooking and baking, working in the greenhouse or gardening, and now reading. Your voice was still hushed to keep the peace, but the enthusiasm was there all the same. He finds his eyes drifting over your face, lingering on your lips. Soft and plump, still etched in that permanent smile despite him knowing how tired you truly were. He nodded along as you spew, your love for the book coming out like a waterfall. He feigned shock when you revealed plot twists, or anger when you explained how pissed one of the main characters made you. 

Logan’s fingers slightly dug into your flesh as you sat against him. He provided input where he saw fit, fingers dancing along your legs before holding you closer. His features totally relaxed as you rambled, “Sounds like a good book, sweetheart.” 

You finally notice how close you two are, and your heartbeat slightly picks up while your breath hitches. He notices, of course he does. He can hear it thanks to his mutation. He quickly quirks his lips into a small smile seeing your flustered state. His fingers reach up to push some hair behind your ear, and your eyes move straight to his lips. 

You don’t know who moved first, you or him. But the moment your lips touched, you find it didn’t matter. It was slow and languid, eyes falling closed. His hands slowly moved from your calves to your hips, encouraging you to straddle his lap. Your own hands slowly slid up his abdomen, one settling on his chest while the other traveled to the nape of his neck, tugging lightly on the hair at the base. Logan lets out a low groan at the tug, allowing you to slip your tongue into his mouth. You fought for dominance, but in the end he won. Heavy breathing filled the air as you pulled back, his hands ran up and down your back as he pulled you a little closer. You gained the courage to look him in the eyes, finding him already looking at you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gorgeous.” He whispered, eyes filled with warmth as he ducked his head to kiss the skin where your shoulder meets your neck, his hair tickled your cheek. 

“I really like you, Lo.” Your whisper met his ear as you leaned your head forward to rest on his chest, cheeks warm.  

Logan squeezed you softly in response, “Me too, hon.”

You slowly sat up, fingers toying with the hair on his cheeks, making his face nuzzle into your palm, “Can you read to me?”

He let out a soft chuckle, “‘Course I can.”

You settled back into his lap, arms wrapped around one of his as he picked up where you left off. The rumble of his voice vibrated through his chest into your ear as your head rested on him. Your eyes flitted up to look at him every so often, and he’d look back at you, ready to press a soft, chaste kiss to your forehead. 

Twenty minutes more of listening to his hushed reading, and you were out cold.

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When it came to Logan, most everyone knew he had burdens he kept under a tight lock. You saw the scars that ran over his skin. Sheets and mattresses with puncture wounds, and small tears in them. You’d seen them first hand folding his laundry when he forgot it in the dryer. You never pried, it wasn’t your business and if he wanted to talk to you about the horrors that kept him awake into the ungodly hours of the night, he would. In your mind (and pretty much everyone else's), his gruff exterior was a way of deflecting just how broken he really was. You admired his strong will and the way he was able to keep it under wraps in front of people. Most times. 

For you it was a little harder. Logan could hear you on the nights where nighterrors plagued your dreams. The sniffles echoing down the hall and the way you'd shuffle about. Lamps being turned on, and books being moved until you found the one that would keep you company until dawn. In the morning, he’d ask you how you slept. You’d always reply with some sort of answer most people expect to hear, but the small bags under your eyes and the tired smile you’d give him were always a dead giveaway. But, just like you, he wouldn’t pry until you were ready. Luckily for the both of you, those nights happened to be far and few between. 

Things were going good for you and Logan. Not much had changed in routine aside from a few more lingering stares, shared kisses, and naps thrown in here and there. You were in tune to each other, more communication when it came to feelings. That was exciting; hearing Logan express his love for you was something you thought you’d never get tired of and Logan felt the exact same. And, you didn’t get tired of hearing it. But, damn were you tired in general. 

It was late. Classes long over, and kids in bed hours ago. Too scared to go to bed, you sat in your warm classroom, forcing yourself to find something to do. Your eyes were hazy as they reread the lesson plans for the next two weeks. Nightmares had been taking over the last few nights. Forcing you to find something to do rather than sleep comfortably. You rubbed at your eyes, debating on getting up and making yourself a cup of coffee, late hour be damned. Your limbs ached and your head felt as if it was damn near ready to explode. With your elbows propped on your desk, you let your head plop into your hands with a heavy sigh. 

A soft knock lightly echoed through the room, causing you to slowly lift your head up. Logan stood by the door, a concerned frown and drawn eyebrows looked back at you. A sigh left his lips upon seeing the dark circles under your bloodshot eyes. 

He promptly made his way to you with hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, “You’re exhausted, honey.” Logan wasn’t dumb, he knew you weren’t sleeping well. But, he was tired of waiting for you to come to him. 

“I’m too scared to sleep,” Your voice barely a whisper. Tears welled in your eyes at the thought of sleeping only to awake alone. Logan lowered himself onto the edge of your desk, letting your head rest on his thigh. He put a hand on your head, and brushed your hair back. “Why didn’t you come to me, bub?” He all but cooed at you, voice soft yet firm.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You have your own problems too, Lo.” Your voice was muffled by the flesh of his thigh. 

“A burden?” He tsked, “No, no, no, honey. I want you to come find me. No matter the time, or if I’m asleep. Wake me, okay?” His hand continued to work its way through your hair, a content sigh left your lips. 

You whispered out, “Okay, but only if you find me too. Okay?”

“Okay,” he patted your head, “Time for bed, sleepyhead. Come on, I’ve got you.” He gently moved his hand from your head to your arm, giving a light tug to help you to your feet. The moment you stood, his hands found your cheeks forcing you to look up at him. A small pout was on your lips, tears still in your eyes. He cooed and moved his face closer to yours to give you a light kiss. His thumbs worked the tears off the apple of your cheeks, and he pulled back, “I love you, you know?”

“I know,” you nod. “I love you too.”

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a/n: thank you so much for reading <3

[sashiavi]

I'm really curious about the wolf Kent and sheep reader concept

Ah~ there's so many possibilities, truly!

My brain has so many ideas : Little drabble ahead~ I wanna write a longer fic for him eventually ♡♡

CW: dubcon | hybrids | abo themes | predator/prey | cheating | Sdv Kent x Reader |

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I like to think that Wolf!Kent married to Jodi, another canine Hybrid, a Puppy maybe, another 'predator' species.

He has his little family, his Puppy Son Sam and Wolf cub Vincent, darling doting Wife who understood the intricacies of his secondary species' tendencies.

Jodi knew to when to leave him be, she knew when to stop nagging at him, knew his rut was right around the corner.

Ohhh but You? The little Sheep Hybrid Farmer munching away on veggies, trying to keep him company because he looked "grumpy"?

Were you dumb? Did you lack the basic instinct to fear and avoid him? Having the audacity to follow him into the woods, sitting by his side in that secret little cove, way out from town, surrounded by stumps and the occasional mushroom.

Its your fault really. He can't help the way his mouth salivates, thick saliva pooling under his tongue. Little squeaky prey; He wants to hear you 'baa', listen to the sweet little whimpers he knew you were capable of, turn those soft satisfied hums from eating your yummy veggies into cries - of pain or pleasure he didn't care.

It's your fault for being so doting, those little doe eyes, the warbling chitter in your throat when he let's out a needy growl, soft voice asking if he was okay-

Not his fault you look so pretty with your mouth stuffed full of Wolf Cock, pinned to the grassy forest floor, practically riding your dumb face, wolf tail wagging happily.

Oh how your spit froths at his base, teary eyes looking up at him as he gives you your first real taste of meat. You can't hate it that much, not when your little fingers cling to his hips, blunt nails barely leaving those little crescent moons in his skin. Not when you cling to his droopy pants hanging off of his sides, pulling the fabric again and again, as if you had control over the pace of his humps.

Oh little lamb, lovely little thing, how he could eat you right up. He knows you love it, love his fat canines threatening to sink into your cunt while his long tongue fucks into you. Little 'baas' and warbley 'maas' sounding sweeter than sweet, unlike any whiny whimper he'd ever heard. He's even so kind to let your fingers card through his hair, twisting his dirty blonde locks for whatever measly comfort it brought you. He's far too distracted, with the sweet, yummy taste of your little prey pussy.

He knows you love it when you bend over a thick stump, little lamb tail wagging eagerly, cute enough for him to pull- ohhh how your pretty drippy holes stretch for him, looking so lovely he has to fight the urge to dive his tongue back in. Another little 'baa', nubby, curled little things you call horns scraping into to worn and rotting wood below you, hips wiggling desperately, slick, pudgy cunt drippy just for Him.

Who was he to refuse? Not when you begged for his big Wolf Knot oh so sweetly?

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Lmk if you enjoyed! I adore hearing your thoughts ♡♡

[robilover]

silver wolf who loves fem reader so so so much? silver wolf brain rot era has not left me since 26/04/2023 😭😭 basically hcs of her love for reader? and she’s basically willing to do everything in the universe for her (maybe some nsfw of silver wolf being a bit possessive bcos she’s jealous [i personally think she’s a possessive lover 👀😵‍💫]) how do you personally think silver wolf wld be (nsfw headcanons)? HELP my request is so vague 😭 but i hope you’ll do it either way 😭😵‍💫

did you know that silver wolf is my very first limited 5-star? I also got her light cone because I was so in love with her😭 had to skip seele just for her hshaja

Lovestruck!Silver Wolf SFW and NSFW Headcanons !

pairing(s): silver wolf x fem!reader

cw: silver wolf is a streamer, smitten and possessive silver wolf, strap-on use, implied fingering, marking, dom!silver wolf, men and homophobes dni.

SFW

silver wolf strikes me as someone who just loves to spoil her girlfriend with game credits. she definitely did not hack someone’s bank accounts—

to me, her main love language is gift giving. she always shows her love to you by giving you little trinkets that are either from games, or anything that makes her think of you.. especially when it comes to games.

if she hears you saying that you want this character, or that weapon of theirs, battle pass, or anything at all, you suddenly get them.

she’s a very skilled hacker, so why not put them to good use? even if you’re against them, she wouldn’t care at all.

aside from giving you stuff you like, she doesn’t mind holding you close in her arms. she loves your warmth.

whenever she plays, she always calls for you to sit beside her.. or even her lap. why, you ask? well, she thinks that you bring her luck to her games and gacha pulls. she thinks of you as her lucky charm!

she occasionally gives you kisses whenever she feels like it. when she somehow gets her hands off of her keyboard or phone, she puts one of her hands (or both) on your body. may it be your cheeks, your waist, your hips, your thighs — anywhere. she just can’t help but want to touch you as a way to take a break from her games.

there are times that she just cups your face and tells you how cute you look, even poking your cheek with a chuckle. that little gesture would make your face heat up.

most of the time, you would catch her staring at you. what you don’t know was that she’s already gushing about you (she does that 24/7). you’d already see her faintly blushing and you would ask her why her face is red. she brushes it off by saying that it was hot in the room before turning away to get snacks from her food stash.

nsfw under the cut, read at your own risk!

—

NSFW

silver wolf may not show it much, but she is possessive towards you. she absolutely hates it when people hit on you, may it be in games, in her streams, or in real life.

if she sees someone hitting on you in game while you’re both playing, you could see her gripping her mouse/game console/phone so tightly, almost like she could break it if she continued to apply force on them. she would mutter under her breath on how she’d hack their accounts if they don’t stop.

if she’s on stream and you could be seen by the camera, her chat goes crazy over you—basically thirsting over you. it would make her grit her teeth as she tries oh-so politely to tell her chat to calm down, it’s just her beautiful girlfriend and you’re all hers.

if she couldn’t handle it anymore, she abruptly ends her stream and turns to you, as you were just laying on her bed. she would look at you with hunger and immediately removes her headphones and pounces on you, which resulted in you squealing.

when she’s possessive and jealous, she tends to be rough.

you would have bite marks all over your body—your neck, collarbones, shoulders, stomach, thighs—basically anywhere that she has access to. after all, she loves to show everyone who you belong to.

silver wolf loves it when you moan her name. it encourages her to fuck you so hard until you could barely even form a single word other than her name. for her, it’s an ego booster.

she would make you cum countless of times using her fingers. and if you’re overstimulated enough, she decides to use a strap-on. a big one.

she’d pound into your cunt so harshly that the room would be filled with your loud, whiny moans and skin slapping against skin. she’d grunt and groan at your moans, her face buried into your neck as she places kisses on your skin to make you whine under her.

she would grumble how you’re hers and no one else’s between thrusts and grunts, her hands grasping tightly onto your hips.

silver wolf surprisingly has quite the stamina, that the both of you would last for hours on her bed.

once she’s satisfied, she becomes awfully and surprisingly? gentle.

her aftercare would be gentle kisses on the marks she left on your skin, whispering praises into your ear at how well you took her and that she loves you so much. she also loves how fucked out you look that she sensed that you could barely register anything that she says.

in the end, she cuddles you close to her heart while whispering sweet nothings into your ear until you fall asleep in her arms (probably passed out) <33

[pfhwrittes]

oh god here we go. alright read the fucking warnings. 

TW: noncon, somnophilia, male masturbation, spit, facial, alcohol mention.

pairing: john “soap” mactavish x female reader

word count: 966 words of smut.

AN: this is @kaadaaan's fault. also i wrote this all in one go with minimal editing because my brain was being rotted and i needed to get it out. poor grammar and typos are likely, for that i apologise.

johnny is your friend, he’s been your friend for a long long time and as such he has a key to the door to your house to use and your blessing that he can just drop in whatever time he likes when he’s on leave. it’s not uncommon for you to come downstairs in the morning to find him sprawled out on your sofa wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, one foot planted on the rug under the sofa and the other hanging off the armrest. 

he’s larger than life, your johnny. the other half to your brain sometimes. jokingly referred to as your brother from another mother. you love him, but only as a friend. despite that, he’s got a key to your house and a piece of your heart because you know he’ll never do anything to hurt you.

johnny on the other hand doesn’t love you like a sister. he loves you with a capital L and something feral behind his eyes. his smile always goes a little too sharp whenever you crack that “joke” that you love him like a brother because he knows if you knew the way he’d been thinking about you for years you’d have locked up your heart and house tight instead of inviting the wolf to stay. 

-

that obsession is how he ends up in this position, just like he has countless times before, standing like a sentinel at your bedside. the only light to see your gorgeous face is the streetlight that curls probing fingers through the thin curtains of your bedroom window. you’re beautiful like this. he honestly doesn’t know how his gaze hasn’t woken you yet, surely you can feel the way he traces every shadow and highlight on your face. surely you can feel the way he stares at your open mouth, driven to madness by the slight spit at the corners of your mouth. fuck it’s almost too much for him. but still he stands frozen, just watching. never touching. not until tonight.

you’d both been drinking. johnny had switched to water part way through the night, you hadn’t and so with johnny’s help you’d stumbled up the stairs to your room and passed out flat on your back. not terribly unusual, he’s seen you do it before when you’ve been drinking. he’s heard your snoring through the walls before. but tonight is different. 

later, when he creeps down the stairs to slump onto the sofa, he’ll blame the lingering buzz of alcohol in his blood for daring to do what he’s thought about for so long. but right now, he’s staring at your open mouth watching a faint glimmer of light hit your wet pink tongue and fisting his cock over your sleeping face. grateful for the fact that you always sleep like the dead when you’re drunk and nothing except the world ending could possibly wake you. 

despite the reassurance that you won’t wake - can’t wake - the sound of his hand moving over his cock is loud in his ears. he’s sure the slick noises are drowning out even the gentle open mouth snores you offer into the air. he positive that in mere moments your eyelids will flicker open and you’ll look up at him, your corrupted sentinel, to see the way he’s gripping his cock desperately. his hips jerking in aborted thrusts as he thrusts into the tight fist he’s made around himself.

a groan slips through johnny’s gritted teeth as his thumb swipes another bead of precum over the flushed head of his cock. 

fuck. 

if he doesn’t slow down he knows without a shadow of a doubt he’ll end up coming on your sleeping face. a spurt of precum dribbles from his cock at the thought. oh fuck. he wants that. he wants to come on your face. he wants to let the thick white ropes coat your cheeks and chin. maybe even cover your open mouth with some of his come so you wake up with the taste of him on your tongue. 

johnny’s hips jerk forward as his orgasm blindsides him completely. his eyes roll back into his head and he whines desperately through his nose, teeth sinking into his lower lip to trap the moan that's burning his throat. 

moments or maybe aeons later, his vision clears and he looks down at you. 

“fuckin’ hell” it’s whispered, part reverence for the sight that greets him, part fear of waking you prematurely. 

your face is covered. johnny’s come drips from your cheeks. it slides down the curve of your jaw onto your neck where it pools, glimmering in the low light, before dribbling onto your pillow. a pearlescent string clings to your top lip and then - and johnny swears he feels his cock twitch out another dribble at the sight - you lick it off.

johnny takes a step backwards from you on shaky legs. he needs to leave, now. if he doesn’t, christ he doesn’t know what he’d do to you. he doesn’t want to find out how far the depths of his depravity go. he doesn’t want to know if he could get away with scooping some of his come off your chin and pushing it into your mouth. he doesn’t want to know if that would be enough for the taste to linger in the morning when you wake up.

with one last lingering look at your face he tucks himself back into his boxers and leaves you. covered, marked, his. 

-

in the morning you wake with blurry eyes and a thick head. god you’d really had too much to drink last night. you smack your lips together and frown at the taste in your mouth. it’s sour and slightly musky. 

oh well, you must’ve fallen asleep with your mouth open again.

[alexging]

sean diaz + daniel diaz modern hcs

i kind of forgot this was exclusively modern at the end just ignore that LMFAO

- sean has no social media presence whatsoever

- a lot of people from school follow him but he only follows lyla and his track team back 😭 popular loner energy 🥀🐺

- i feel like if sean went to hs now hed be sm more popular esp w girls but hes rlly humble so he doesnt see it at all

- hes stupid and just thinks theyre being nice

- it gets on lylas nerves bc he refuses to believe anybody wants him 😭

- all his stories are like fireworks he posted when he was thirteen that he never bothered to delete

- its titled Highlights bc he doesnt know how to make an aesthetic instagram

- if anything, if he posts now its skate videos, drawings, or funny pics of daniel

- sean def takes 0.5x photos of daniel where his eyes go two diff directions and threatens to send them to lyla whenever he starts acting up

- daniel always throws a tantrum and esteban gets mad and tells sean to delete the pics (he doesnt)

- speaking of daniel he def got wayyy into skibidi toilet

- daniel tries to explain skibidi toilet n sean just tunes him out and says “uh huh” every so often

- hes those impressionable kids that gets into literally anything on the internet. among us, squid games, ROBLOX FOR SURE. sticky ipad baby energy overall!

- sean plays roblox with daniel on very rare occasions. i can imagine daniels avatar is decked out with limited items and sean is a bacon haired woman 😭

- daniel has definitely swiped estebans card a couple times under his nose for his robux…

- daniel purposely chooses games hes good at to watch sean struggle and die over and over again

- daniel watches weird kid youtube videos like… among us 24 hour challenge with spiderman and elsa giving birth kind of videos. sean gets really pissed off partly bc theyre rotting daniels brain and partly bc daniel always put it at max volume in the living room

- once sean gets paid he always goes thrifting. he fs goes to the bins and finds dirty dookie drawls every weekend 😭 but its worth it bc he finds cool shit

- as a skater boy i feel its obligatory for him to wear those afflication types of clothing as well as ironic graphic tees

- sean def wears baggy jeans in 2023 🙅‍♀️ none of that straight leg jeans from the game!!

- he also probably loves those ironic wolf shirts w the galaxy print n thinks theyre so funny

- sean also buys clothes in his style for daniel from the thrift n records 360s of daniel in his skater outfits

- “can i go play roblox now?” “no u have to cover ur nose when u turn around”

- got a buzzcut and surprisingly it looked really good

- esteban, daniel, lyla, and practically everyone else in his life kept making fun of him for being bald and would rub his head like a genie bottle tho

- daniels go-to is “well- well at least i don’t look like… look like caillou!” bc i imagine he tries to make funny comebacks but always stutters in the middle 😭😭

- eventually grew it back out bc he got annoyed at everyone making fun of him. they dont see his blond album cover early 2000s vision 💔

- daniel has no room to talk bc sooner or later he goes to the barber and gets a fucked edgar bowlcut

- sean laughs until he can barely breathe 😭 when lyla sees she TRIES to cheer him up about it but its too late

- even esteban laughs a little but only when daniel cant see bc he knows how much itd hurt him

- back to the blond album cover… sean LOVES music. his playlists are hours long

- i feel like he indulges in a super LARGE range of music likeee from bad bunny to deftones to pinkpantheress

- everybody hates it when he has aux and boos him off

- when esteban orders mexican food, sean and daniel both get horchata. sean dgaf if hes grown he still loves it!!

- i imagine esteban slowly stopped enforcing mexican food and culture overtime. bc of this, daniel knows barely any spanish and has 0 spice tolerance. sean always makes fun of him bc he goes gets water after a couple hot cheetos

- daniel tries to recreate those videos of people eating carolina reapers in hot sauce to prove a point and almost dies

- sean absolutely LOVES halloween. horror movies, costumes, the weather, everything abt it

- a part of him always gets jealous of daniel bc hes no longer considered trick or treating age anymore

- lowkey hed be willing to pull up in a full body costume just so he can trick or treat again

- when watching horror movies, sean will get way too immersed and start judging the people in the movies 😭

- daniels not allowed to watch but he peaks around the corner when estebans not watching

- “why the fuck is she just standing there? RUN! WHAT THE FUCK DUDE?!”

- “language mijo”

- he acts like he cld fight off the killer and explains his mastermind plan during the movie

- he doesnt admit it but he gets jumpy after a horror movie 😭 esteban and daniel take advantage of this every single time

- sean daniel and esteban are a tight knit family REGARDLESS of sean’s moodiness and daniel’s annoying gen alpha brainrot theyre so 😢

yes im aware that 2016 wasnt tjat long ago but i dont want to imagine sean diaz enjoying dank memes and saying boi 💔

[j2h5b5]

Testing the Limits

Summary: JJ Maybank’s little sister is doing some experimenting.

***

Oh. Oh shit.

That was Milly Maybank’s first thought upon waking.

And it wasn’t just because her head felt like a balloon filled with blood, stretched fit to burst and throbbing along with the beat of her heart.

Or because her mouth seemed to be filled with cotton, and tasted like something had rotted inside there.

Or because her stomach was roiling like the HMS Pogue in a high wind and she was pretty sure she was about to vomit all over these clean white sheets.

These clean white sheets on her hospital bed.

Yep, that’s why she woke up mentally cussing.

Because she didn’t have much memory of last night, but what flashed through her mind wasn’t good at all, and whatever had happened to land her here had to have been literally catastrophic. They couldn’t fucking afford a hospital.

There was a needle in her arm with a clear tube leading up to a bag on a pole like you see on TV, and a beeping monitor that was presumably alerting everyone in the room to the fact that she was alive?

Everyone. That would be … Without moving her head (both because to do so would risk popping the balloon that was keeping her liquefied brain in place and also because she was afraid to draw attention), Milly took mental stock. Pope, Kiara, Sarah, John B. And, of course, JJ.

Her brother was perched in a very uncomfortable-looking plastic chair at her bedside, his blond head resting on his arms, which were resting on the edge of the mattress. His eyes were closed and she bit her lip as a flashback of the night before fluttered vaguely at the back of her mind.

What did you take? Milly, answer me, what did you take?

JJ, she’s not hearing you, she needs a hospital.

I know, FUCK, I KNOW, let’s go. Move, just fucking move, I’ve got her. Come here, baby sister. Come on, Jay’s got you.

The world tilting on its axis as strong arms lifted her like she weighed nothing at all.

A bumpy ride, tires spinning gravel and mud, panicked fussing and bickering that made no sense, then bright lights, violent and harsh.

Then nothing.

Then this.

That was it for the details of the AFTER. From the BEFORE, she remembered more than she wanted to. The fight with her brother, hurling sharp words at all his soft spots. Blind anger making her cruel. Running off into the night. Running toward the very thing JJ was trying to keep her from in the first place. Triumphant at winning the battle.

She’d stayed gone for two days. Ignoring texts and calls from all of them and successfully staying off the radar until she got too brave and went to grab a late lunch at The Wreck. Sitting at a deck table off in the far corner with her back to the late-afternoon stragglers. She had almost finished wolfing down her burger when an open palm smacked the back of her head hard and a much-loved voice with an icy sharp edge commanded: “Hey brat. Call your damn brother.”

Looking up at Kie, Milly saw the older girl’s annoyance and responded with an admittedly childish “No.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“He’s a dick.”

“Yeah? He’s JJ. That’s not the point. You owe him better than this.”

And Milly knew she was right, which was why she doubled down. “I don’t want to talk to him yet. I’ll call him when I’m ready, and when he’s done treating me like a stupid kid.”

“Stop acting like one.”

Milly pushed her chair back and stood up from the table, making to leave. Kiara set down the tray she was carrying and reached for Milly. “Wait, wait. Where are you staying? At least tell me that. Are you being careful?”

Dodging Kie’s grasping hand, Milly shot her a look of honest apology—really, this whole thing had gotten out of hand but she didn’t know how to fix it now. “I’m fine. Tell him I’m fine.”

And she left fast, because Kiara was a good runner and Milly wasn’t positive she wouldn’t be chased all the way back to where her new friends were waiting.

And now.

When she finally tore her eyes away from the head of floppy blond hair next to her, she realized the others—all of them—were watching her.

Time to face the music.

***

TBC?

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 55 - Love Shack

Y'all get caught in the rain. Oh look! A barn!

On AO3.

You sleep like the dead. Don’t even remember conking out. Just the part where you wake up to the scent of woodsmoke, tea, and sausages.

Whatever high you were on yesterday is faded. You feel wrecked. Physically, mentally, like you got hit by a bus, dragged along for a mile, and then run through a meat grinder and repackaged into a human shape again.

The sausages don’t look all that appealing.

You sip tea as the others finish eating and packing. Thick clouds fly overhead, edging silver in the sunlight. Must be some strong winds up there. Hopefully, it don’t start to rain.

There ain’t much critters around. Occasional squirrel. The caw of a crow. But the rest is weirdly silent. Or maybe not so weird as the wind shifts and the rot and piss stink of the town washes over y’all.

The goblin camp is about an hour north, Mr. Eloquent said. You’ll have to track back through that village to get to the road.

“I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Gale says.

And if he don’t turn out to be right. Y’all’ve crossed about halfway through the rest of the village when the wind gusts moisture onto your face. Then the first drops fall. You get to hope for about thirty seconds that’s all it’s gonna do.

Then the sky opens and it dumps.

“Ah shit” you say.

“We need to find shelter,” Wyll says. “Storms like this will pass swiftly, but it’ll soak us through in moments.”

Karlach, sizzling as the rain hits her and immediately bursts into steam, lifts her arms and spins in a circle. “Rain! I haven’t seen proper rain in ages! Look! It’s not even blood!”

…huh.

The houses here are all half-collapsed, with no clear way inside. The lot of you jog up the hill, and spot some low building. A shack or a barn. It looks structurally sound.

“That one?” you say.

“That should do,” Wyll says.

Y’all boot-scoot over. The torrent gets worse. Turns the air silver. Water already streams down your face and you sputter to clear your mouth and nose.

The rush of it is so loud, you don’t even notice the sounds until you’re reaching for the doors. A low moaning, like some kinda cow or buffalo lowing for food.

“Did somebody leave their animals—”

Then there’s rhythmic grunting. Too low and…and too snarly to be human, but there’s some kinda words in there and the other…animal? It moans again. Cause that is a moan and your brain finally puts two and two together and sticks the solution into the square hole.

You step back.

“What’s wrong?” Gale says. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the storm.

“Um,” you say.

Something thumps and bangs.

“Go on then,” Astarion’s voice right beside you. You do not jump. He stands a foot away, peering intently at that door. Fucker knows what’s going on in there. “We’re all getting soaked, dear. What are you waiting for?”

Bastard. He makes no move, offers no guidance; just stands there, arms crossed, looking bored.

The rain is cold.

“Fuck,” you say. Brace yourself. Push on them doors.

The scene will haunt you.

An ogre (ogress?) kneels on all floors, flopping tits bare, grass skirt hiked up over her hips. Behind her, some kinda man-wolf thrusts away. They both spot you and Man-Wolf pulls out, covering himself. But not before you get an accidental eyeful.

“Ah!” Gale all but yelps in horror.

“No,” Karlach says.

Shadowheart looks like she just accidentally swallowed a bug.

But Astarion, the fucking shithead, grins like the douchebag he is.

“What…what the hells are you doing here?!” Man-Wolf says, still overing himself. You don’t see no pants anywhere.

It’s not the floppy tits or the sex that gets you. Logically, ogres don’t just sprout out of the ground like cabbages, and sex always looks weird and super undignified to you. But the glimpse you saw of Man-Wolf showed what you assume is an average-sized, humanoid cock. Nothing like, abnormal about it. But that ogress is the height of the barn. And your brain, always the asshole, shoves its way to the front of the line to cut off common sense.

“How does that even work?” you say.

“What the fuck?” Man-Wolf says.

“The, you know, size discrepancy? How’re you even…does she even notice?” You really should stop talking. Ogress scowls and Man-Wolf has real big fangs. But the horror twines around with your scientific curiosity, and all you can think about is how a vet has to shove their whole arm up a cow to do like, bovine ultrasound. Man-Wolf wasn’t arm-sized.

“Ain’t you too small?” you say.

Astarion sputters and spins away.

“I think I’ll wait out in the rain,” Shadowheart says.

“I—you!” Man-Wolf sputters.

“Gragh!” the ogress bellows, and yeah, that’s why you shoulda kept your mouth shut. She glares down at you as she hauls herself up. “Moment over! Passion ruined!”

There’s something underneath her. A splash of color. That’s clothes. That’s a fresh corpse.

“Uh,” Karlach says as the ogress looms over y’all.

Only the big girl don’t lift a foot to squash your guts outta your mouth like a tube of toothpaste. She turns to Man-Wolf. “We go.”

“But, my sweet—” he says. Still don’t got his pants nowhere.

“We go.”

And ogress lumbers right off into the rain, tits swaying, just as the downpour eases up.

Man-Wolf’s ears pin back. He throws you a nasty glare and scurries out after his paramour.

Leaving all you in the barn, which smells weirdly musty.

“That…really happened,” Wyll say. “I’m not hallucinating?”

Astarion, curled into a ball, wheezes.

“I very much wish it were,” Gale says and rubs his eyes.

You stare out after the couple. Ruin a hand down your face. “How does that even work?” Notice the others staring at you. “What?”

“That’s what you’re focused on?” Shadowheart says.

“They’re two entirely different species! They shouldn’t even be compatible! It’d be like…like a dog trying to mount a heifer!”

Karlach actually grimaces. “There’s a visual I didn’t need. Thanks, soldier.”

“But it don’t make sense. You can breed a donkey and a horse because they’re similar enough, but…I mean…that? Is that a thing here?”

Lae’zel ignores the whole conversation to go search the corpse the two were literally fucking over (gross).

“Like,” you say. Your gaze lands on Astarion as he stands and wipes his eyes. “Elves exist, and so do humans, so do y’all have half-and-halves?”

“I’m a half-elf,” Shadowheart says. And oh. Her ears are shorter than Astarion’s. You never really made that connection, huh?

“But that means both species are genetically compatible. And, you know, physically. Is everything here like that? Because that’s fucking weird, y’all. That’d indicate a common ancestor way, way far back, which’d actually make them two closer to a pig mounting a bear—”

Gale claps your shoulder with one hand. And with a pain-filled grimace, says, “While I always appreciate the pursuit of knowledge, even I believe there are limits.”

And…they all look a bit green around the gills.

And you realize it ain’t about the evolutionary or sociological implications of inter-species fucking. You squint. “Are y’all seriously having a collective tizzy cause you saw them fucking?”

Wyll looks like he bit into a lemon.

“You’re not?” Karlach says.

You ain’t never had sex with someone else. You was raised to think that the literal worst thing somebody could do, the filthiest thing somebody could be. It made you disgusting, made you worthless. Then you got to the secular world and learned that not having sex made you a cringey weirdo.

So to spite the both of them, you learned about it. You learned all about it, because fuck the shame, fuck the farmstead, and fuck everybody (but not literally).

They got no idea how funny this conversation is for you. So it’s with a little bit of bravado, a lot a bit of truth, and a dash of gremlin in you that says, “No? It’s just sex?”

“I…think I’ll check the outer perimeter,” Wyll says. And leaves.

You survey the field—Shadowheart and Gale all uneasy, Lae’zel snooping through barrels, and Karlach wincing.

Ha.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Astarion clears his throat and tugs his poofy shirt vest down.

You made the man outright wheeze. Your mouth opens, so ready to fall back into the banter of days before. God, it would be so easy to riff off him. He ain’t bothered by the whole display y’all walked in on, and he’d absolutely join you in horrifying the others.

But y’all are keeping distance, ain’t you? You got the keep the walls up. You can’t go around encouraging him. You got to suffocate that ember before it flames, for his sake and yours.

So you only give him a nod, and turn to the others. “Let’s get outta the fuck barn, huh?”

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[hottestcockontheblock]

bullet train gave me fucking brain rot, okay, just bear with me and sorry if anyone has done this before but fuck it.

ladybug is actually so fucking proficient

he says it's bad luck, because of his newfound desire to not kill people or try not to (and I truly think it all, therapy, choosing to try not to kill people, just snatch and grab jobs, all came to a head when Lemon shot him, for several reason that were briefly touched on in the movie but, whatever, that's another post) but he is SCARILY proficient.

Here's my headcanon and explanation why he ends up killing people EVEN WHEN trying not to, EVEN WHEN he pauses to talk them out of it, which is really just asking them if they REALLY wanna fight cause he KNOWS how it'll end, and if he doesn't win....he's sorta resigned to it. Anyway.

My entire family consists of skilled fighters that have been fighting their entire life.

So I KNOW after years - and ladybug has been in this business for a LONG time - a fight, and navigating a fight, just becomes another one of your senses, it is so natural your body and mind just DO

Every instance he gets the high ground because he's so practiced, even being out for a little while for normal jobs, even while being clumsy, even with his so called bad luck.

If he hadnt been trying to ACTIVELY not kill them, based just on intuition from years of practice, he would have killed them before they even had a chance to kill him.

If he hadnt disliked guns, they wouldn't have even gotten close to him.

He's vigilant, and quick, and innovative--when he closed the door on tangerines arm, when he baited hornet, talking her into grabbing the antidote, then QUICKLY grabbed it from her and used it on himself, even before when he injected her with the poison.

When Lemon shot him in the flashback, he just reacted with exasperation because he had been shot before, probably multiple times from his reaction to it.

He's made out to be a lot less formidable than he actually is, and the reason he comes across that way is because of his nonchalance and resignation to the situation at hand and the resignation leads to him being goofy and clumsy and careless in the moment.

And he has so much resignation because of his years of experience, and the shit he's been through, much like The Elder.

He couldve killed Hornet when he had the briefcase above her, and chose to give her a chance by talking to her, he couldve killed lemon in the beginning when he was sitting in front of him, and gave another chance by talking to him.

He killed the Wolf, accident and instinct, he killedtangerine mortally wounded tangerine.

And all of these are highly skilled killers.

The skill it took to throw a knife that clean, that precisely, from over 6 feet away on a fast moving train, while crouching, and hit the target in the heart with enough depth he sunk immediately, and not hurt lemon at all in the process? Even lemon was surprised.

Bad luck, or is it just a resignation to kill, instinct, and extreme proficiency.

Bad luck or just not caring because he's been in this business for so long, left it, just to return and realize, fuck, he really didn't miss this chaos.

Bad luck or muscle memory?

No, Ladybug is one of the most proficient hitmen on that train and I wonder how ruthless he used to be before he decided to become a new man.

And he also just has really good luck, who the fuck survives a train splitting and crashing like that? The fuck.

[theoneandonlysemla]

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

Tagged by the lovely @rakaiawriter ❤️

How many works do you have on A03? 5 (only been there since 2023, soo... we can add my German works on fanfiktion.de, those are 9 more plus 2 that are also on AO3)

What's your total word count? 293 727 on AO3 400.329 on fanfiktion.de

What fandoms do you write for? Currently Elder Scrolls, especially Skyrim. Planning on some general Elder Scrolls too. Earlier I've written for Hannibal, Supernatural, Mötley Crüe, Marvel's Thor (Loki), Marilyn Manson and once a terrible, terrible Rammstein fic that is now deleted.

Top 5 fics by kudos? Okay, so I only have 5 fics on AO3, so here we go: 1) Daedric Drabbles (25) 2) Doe and Wolf (21) 3) Whisky by the Sea (21) 4) Dealings with Daedra (16) 5) Siblicide (2) Fanfiktion.de has a recommendation system that's similiar to kudos, so here we go: 1) I think I'll eat your heart (27) 2) Only Human (13) 3) Whisky by the Sea (6) 4) Hey Mister Superhate, I just want to love you (5) 5) The Devilish Games That I Taught You (4)

Do you respond to comments? Yes, I always try to. I love to share my brain rot with others and loe to chat about my little stories!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I moslty write sad and devastating endings now, but angsty was the ending of The Devilish Games That I Taught You. Someone loosing their tongue by Crowley cutting it out? Much angst. But the whole last part of Dealings with Daedra too had much angst.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I do not write happy endings. Most of my endings are bittersweet and as I already said sad in nature.

Do you get hate on fics? Never gotten any, luckily. Only constructive criticism so far.

Do you write smut? Yes and I love it.

Craziest crossover? I don't do crossovers, never appealed to me and I tend to avoid reading them.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I knew of.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Ha, I'm doing that myself. Whisky by the Sea and Siblicide were originally written in German and I am currently translating Dealings with Daedra to German.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Nope. I'm a lone wolf *aaawuuu* (Ok, I'll stop)

All-time favorite ship? Ooof, Hannigram maybe? The chemistry between Mads and Hugh is just so gooood.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Honestly, my Hannibal-Fic and my Loki-Fic. Only Human (Loki) needs a total rewrite because I did write a Mary-Sue there. And for I think I'll eat your heart I just don't have the hyperfocus anymore. Maybe it will come back some day.

What are your writing strengths? I think writing emotions? Also word choices and world descriptions.

What are your writing weaknesses? Living on the hyperfocus, definitely. Procrastinating. And I love to find a word and use it all over my writing. Certainly is a good example or adorned and accompanied.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? Has to be done right. Like, it really needs a purpose and not just for using the language. I'm a big fan of scattering words for the feeling. For example when writing Lori's parents in WbtS, they mostly cursed in italian. Giving Teldryn Dunmeri words is also fitting I think and I'm doing that while writing DwD II. But generally speaking, it should not disturb the flow and as I said, have purpose. Then I'm ok with it.

First fandom you ever wrote in? Marilyn Manson, I think. There is awful writing on my hard drive, you can't imagine.

Favorite fic you've written? Oof, changes. I mostly love the one I'm currently writing the most and that's also the case now. I have almost written 50k words for DwD II by now and I fucking love it.

Uhm, who to tag here? @vanilleeistee, @ladytanithia are you in for this? 😄

[morningstargirl666]

20 Questions For Fic Writers

thank you @garglyswoof and @stars-and-darkness for tagging me!

How many works do you have on ao3?

12, though 2 of those are moodboards so don't really count.

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

553,036. Huh. Lower than I expected. No doubt that will shoot up when the tbbw rewrite is done [fake laughter, hiding real pain]

3. What fandoms do you write for?

TVD, TO a.k.a Klaroline

4. Top five fics by kudos:

The Big Bad Wolf, Into Eternity, The Little Wolf, The Red Wedding and Falling For You.

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I try to respond to every one as I love talking with readers. I figure if someone spends time to write a comment, I'll return the favour and reply. In fact when I'm updating fics regularly, if my reply to your comment turns up in your inbox it's often a pre-warning that a new chapter is about to drop, as I read over comments I've missed before updating.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Does Damon murder count? [I don't really do angsty endings, I need my happily ever after]

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Probably Into Eternity. It's really sappy and makes me feel all warm and gooey inside. What can I say - I'm a romantic at heart.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yes, kinda. Is it hate if it's just wild interpretations of the characters or plot? Some people leave comments that just make you blink repeatedly and think...are they reading the same fic I'm writing? I remember one time someone left a comment calling Caroline a pushover (honestly had some kind of vendetta against her showing ANY kind of emotion like okaaaaay mate) even though in that very same chapter...she literally kicked Klaus is the balls. Man, that was a weird day.

9. Do you write smut?

No. Not yet. In the future? There may or may not be scenes planned. 😏 I'm picky with smut, I need feelings and the eMoTiOnS, I need to be INVESTED. Porn with plot, rather than just smut for smut's sake.

10. Craziest crossover:

Haven't written a crossover - unless intending to drop Dracula into tbbw at some point coints. There's some great ones in the fandom though, just not really my thing.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of [narrows eyes]

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No! But I'd be flattered if one ever was, as long as its translated on ao3 and given credit to me.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, I haven't. I might be open to it though, if it was a round-robin kind of thing where the writers take in turns to write the scenes.

14. All time favorite ship?

KLAROLINE!!! NOW LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK!!!

15. What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I really want to finish Divided We Fall, Falling For You and Songs of the Sea. I wouldn't say I doubt I'll ever finish them, just that I doubt I'll finish them while I'm still writing the tbbw series. Too much of the klaroline brain rot is invested in that fic alone.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I've been told it's shifting between moods? So I can give readers whiplash in the emotions department - one minute you're crying, the next you're laughing. I like to think my strength is dialogue though. Even the way I write is focused around it.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Historical accuracy. I'll fall down a rabbit hole researching stuff like any writer, but the researching is more out of obligation and crippling writer guilt rather than actual enjoyment. Which is why I often take creative licence and go fuck it, history has its own au now bitches (sorry ella).

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

If its little words here and there - even a sentence or two - yes. Full conversations though unless you're fluent yourself are not fun to sift through.

19. First fandom you wrote in?

Star Wars? I want to say Star Wars. Idk those fanfics are over on my ffnet account which I will not be going back to anytime soon. I dare not go where the light doesn't touch, Mufasa speaks wisely.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

It used to be The Red Wedding but I actually love The Little Wolf more now. That one's a true labour of love, fueled on rage and spite, curtesy of Julie Plec.

I will tag @galvanizedfriend @kirythestitchwitch @marxandangels @bellemorte180 @impossiblekryptonitecolor @the-road-betwixt @purplesigebert @that-sarcastic-optimist

[ena-113]

"Heads up!" a voice yelled, causing all eight of them to look up towards the cloaked figure in a tree. An arrow embedded itself between a bokoblin's eyes, effectively killing it. The mysterious hylian then jumped down, landing on another bokoblin, crushing it, and immediately moved to engulf a moblin in flames. In less than a minute, the remaining monsters were all dead. 

This was the first hylian they'd seen since arriving in this desolate Hyrule.

"Y’all good? No injuries?" Closer up they could see a freckled nose and a small grin, but the shadow of the cloak’s hood covered the strangers eyes. 

"Other than a few bruises and scrapes, nope." Time answered for the group.

"Neat. Have some chunks- just in case." the stranger said, tossing a bag over to him. "Crush them in your hand and sprinkle it over injuries. Or just eat 'em. Whichever is easier." Having said that, he turned and left to pluck his arrow from the bokoblin.

"Hey wait, what's your name? Where's the nearest town? We haven't seen anyone for ages!" Wind rushed to get it all out before the stranger could leave. He turned around, putting the arrow back in his quiver. 

"The name's Fay. And I think the nearest town is about two days to the south."

~

Link, who goes by Fay nowadays, would very much like to go home, re-bandage his leg, and go to sleep. Alas, sleep is unavailable, as he needs to stop the deaths of some odd travelers who somehow have no clue where they are. Isn't it common sense to only go on these types of roads if you’re well prepared and know what you're doing? Apparently not. 

He finally shook them off after giving directions to the nearest town and heading in the opposite direction. Or so he thought…

Three days later, he came across another monster camp. That wasn’t unusual. The monsters were a bit tougher and had black blood. That was unusual. Fay defeated them all the same with a sword, fire, and some lightning. 

Which was when the odd group showed up. Again. 

"Hello again! I thought you went a different direction than us." the white-caped one spoke up. 

"You weren't following us, were you?" the blue-scarved one asked with narrowed eyes. 

Fay flicked the black blood off his sword before sheathing it. It seemed to catch the attention of quite a few. "I was, but now I'm here. I’m a traveler.”

The one with a wolf’s pelt blinked, processing that, then glanced at the one with one eye. “We went to the village, but they wouldn't let us in. Something about eyes?”

Fay shrugged, “It happens. People are often spread thin on resources and wary of newcomers. The eyes of Ganon are everywhere after all.”

Before any of them could reply he tilted his head, starting to feel a strange tug on his magic. A dark purple and black portal opened beneath their feet, slurping them all up.

♤♡♧◇

Chunks/ කෑලි (kǣli): crystalized fairy dust. It has a similar Mohs to chalk. The fairies don't have to leave their fountains spending days in a bottle, and hylians don't have to spare precious resources. "Why can't you just eat the chunks? Isn't that the obviously easier option?" you may ask. Well, if you eat the chunk, the effect will be equally spread about. The chunk doesn't know what the fuck you want it to do. if you crush and sprinkle it over an injury, the effects will be stronger and targeted to that one area.

♤♡♧◇

The brain rot wouldn't leave, so I wrote somethin. Credit to my sister who beta read. <3 I write once in a green moon. Today was a green moon.

[teddybeartoji]

⺡THE LITTLE LAMB AND THE BIG BAD WOLF

on a hunt for supplies, you stumble across someone's belongings. a little bit of theft is fine, right? the cold barrel of a gun at your temple says otherwise.

☆. contains: toji fushiguro x gn!reader; apocalypse au; horror, detailed descriptions of blood and death, slow burn, crack, reader is simultaneously a scaredy-cat and a baddie, toji looks scary oh nooo

☆. word count: 6k

☆. note: the world is based on tlou!!! i am soooo into this fucking concept like i'm officially sucking my own dick here. tagging my beloveds @staryukis & @awearywritersworld bc omfg apocalypse ideas!!!!!! and also @dollsuguru @venusiansilk @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat @mossmurdock i love you guys so so much thank you for all your support<3333333

+ here's the masterlist

in a world so fucked up – it's easy to get lost in the darkness.

when the infection took over, everything changed. everything. people aren't people anymore – they've become hosts for a type of fungus known as the cordyceps. it grows all over the brain and takes control of the body, turning the person into something they're not.

if anyone were to ask you how many have you killed, infected or not, you'd be devoid of an answer.

it's hard to find your way when just about everything is out to get you. infected or not – there's always something ready to tear you into pieces, to sink their teeth into your soft flesh – that's just the way things are now.

but you're used to it. used to the feeling of adrenaline pumping in your veins as you run from a horde, used to the feeling of a blade at your throat, used to the feeling of a punch, of a slap. used to the constant grumble in your stomach, used to the sore legs and shoulders, used to cleaning off blood from yourself and your clothes, from your weapons. you're used to the gurgling and clicking, the crying and sobbing, the begging and pleading.

but no matter how much you tell yourself that you've grown used to the horrors of the new world, you cannot escape the anxiety that hides under every inch of your skin. it's always with you – holding your clammy hand as it drags you into the depths, into the shadows. you try to fight it but it's hard.

it's hard forcing away the only thing that holds you so tight, the only thing that truly cares for you. it's is a suffocating blanket that hides you from the cruelty of the world, trying its best to shelter you from it all. it's better to stay inside. it's better to stay away. they're going to hurt you. something is here. just stay here with me, under the warm blanket. they're coming. it's going to hurt. let's stay here forever.

don't you want it to stop?

being torn apart by the cold crippling fear and the warm rotting hands – it's getting harder and harder to breathe. but you've learned how to keep them at bay over the years; always in the line of sight, always on your mind. there's no rest for the wicked.

moonlight leads the way as you make your way to a shopping mall. the wind howls in your ears and sends a shiver down your spine. moss and ivy cover the walls of the massive building, swallowing it bit by bit, making it a part of the nature as the time passes.

the axe in your hand feels heavy, but right nonetheless. the handle is stained with blood; it has seeped deep into the wood and now acts as an extra weight to the blade. a small 9mm handgun sits pretty in the holster around your thigh, a knife hides in its leather sheath on your belt, a bow rests on your shoulder and a few arrows peek from your bag.

despite the armory, your bag hasn't been this empty in a while. the blame falls on a group of men you ran into a week or so back. precious ammo and resources were spent on the bastards, and while the blood reward was good - the lack of food and meds is now becoming concerning. your shoulder still hurts from the fall, a big dark bruise transforming your skin into a painting of the midnight sky.

you shake the flashlight on the strap of your backpack and listen to the batteries bounce around inside it. you give it a stronger shake and it turns on. the broken glass shines as you carefully step inside the big atrium and take a look around. your little light forces back the creeping shadows, now showcasing you the infected bodies that lay dead on the ground before you.

pools of blood conflux together and paint the tiles a dark shade of maroon; the ichor flows in between the cracks and disappears under the soles of your boots when you step further inside. they're fresh. light reflects off the liquid as you squat down to take a closer look. none of the three bodies seem to have bullet wounds – one of the runner has a slit throat while the other leaks from a hole in the side of the head and the clicker... it's head has been completely bashed in, making it hard to even recognize it as one.

beating up a clicker is not easy by any means; though the fungus growing on their face and head blinds them, it also acts almost like armor. they can take a bullet to the head and still keep coming – the call of death rippling through their body as they run at you, hands reaching out to grab, to pull, to hold.

the fact that they did this, either with their bare hands or some other blunt object, just means that they're good. it also begs the question whether they didn't have the bullets to spare or they simply decided not to use them. you just hope you won't bump into them.

standing up, you take another look around. a trail of bloody footsteps leads right up the escalators and you decide that you won't be going there yet. there are a few more bodies, two runners, sitting limp against the crumbling walls as you step down one of the hallways. the broken tiles and the glass cracks below your feet and you cringe at the noise.

never letting go of the axe in your hand, you stroll past the first stores seeing as they're completely ran through. with a sigh, you make your way over to one of the clothing stores. it's almost pitch black in there and you almost jump out of your skin when a mannequin suddenly falls at your feet. muttering out a row of whispered curses, you lower your axe with a shaky breath and adjust your flashlight. the shelves are pretty empty but that was expected; still, when you open up a cupboard door under one of the mannequin stands, you find a stack of perfectly fine sweatshirts. you check the other side of the piece of furniture and find... nothing. scoffing to yourself, you just bag the a sweatshirt and a pair of pants from another shelf before moving to the next store.

glass breaks and you hear shuffling – head whipping towards the sounds, fingers tightly gripping the axe, you take a step back and bump right into the shelf behind you. pieces of clothing fall onto the floor and a cloud of dust rises from the impact; you pay it no mind as your eyes are still glued to the counter, to where the noise came from, but when after a few second absolutely nothing jumps at you, you let your shoulders relax a little.

a stalker, maybe? but they don't tend to live in open spaces like malls, or so you think at least. the majority of them you've ran into in places like office floors and a fucked up basements – meaning they like to lurk everywhere where it's extra dark and where there are places to hide behind. yeah, they do that. little shits, taking cover behind desks and walls, playing a game of hide and seek that you never agreed to. you're never forgiving yourself for taking that wretched route.

you peek over the counter and look all around it but find jack shit. it's the darkness – it's what it does to you, to everybody. the shadows start to speak and move, the floors creak and crumble, and the growths on the wall whisper your name, no matter, how much you tell yourself that they aren't actually doing any of that that.

it's just the old building crying out from loneliness, the haunted ghosts simply looking for company as people pass by, as the infected pass by. you have to keep your head straight. faint blood marks stain the floor but it's too hard to tell whether those've been there for years or less.

you hastily knock on your flashlight when it begins to flicker, leaving you in the dark for just a blink but it's enough to have your heart thumping loudly in your ribcage.

making your way out of the store, you scour for your next location and ah-ha!

a pharmacy.

two bottles of antibiotics rattle in your bag but those aren't enough. you'll always need more of those, you'll always need more of gauze, painkillers, of everything – going in there is a must.

a metal roll-up door closed mid way is going to make this harder, but as if that isn't ominous enough – the quiet cries coming from behind it only makes the situation worse. a runner. but luckily, it isn't making too much noise and you make an educated guess of it not moving around. they do that when there's nothing to catch and tear apart, when nothing has caught their attention. they stay in random spots and whimper and cry to themselves. it makes them an easy prey.

the thought of the metal door sliding shut just as you're trying to pass under it, is making your stomach churn. and so is the thought of you making too much noise by accident and attracting the runner when you're still down on the ground. stop being a pussy. there could be emergency kits in there, pills, there could be a feast of medications in there and you're holding back. it's unacceptable.

you slowly kneel down to the cold floor and inhale sharply before lowering yourself further down. the only light in the room is yours and it immediately finds the twitching runner.

it is cowering in the corner.

you're just fucking glad they don't react to light as much as they do to noise, otherwise you'd be fucked already.

you crawl in the dust as quietly as you can, careful to not touch any of the furniture beside you that seems to be holding up the door. the last thing you'd want is to get locked in here. or get cut in half. you clench your teeth and push yourself up and to your knees the second you can do so and take a second, as you wait for him to turn around and lunge at you. but he doesn't. his back is still turned to you as he waits for you, sobs for you; his body trembling, hands folded in front of his chest – almost like he's hugging himself.

quietly holstering the axe, you pull out your knife instead. it's quieter. you grip the handle, fingers molding into the dents that have formed over time. another step and the light goes out. it's complete darkness. you hear your own heartbeat in your ears and the miserable cries of the infected just a few feet away. your eyes widen as you try to focus on your surroundings. your hands grow clammy in a matter of a few seconds and panic seeps into your body.

you shake the flashlight a few times and it turns back on. your breath is still stuck in your throat as you try to compose yourself. stupid old thing. the light paints the runner's shadow onto the wall in front of him, making it look like he's a part of some shadow play.

one more step and you're with him, a breath away. your hand goes around his chest, holding his hands and body in place as you sink your blade into his neck. it sinks into skin and flesh like butter, soaking you in the dark red ichor that hides underneath as he gurgles something at you (a thank you perhaps).

yanking the knife back out, the splattering ichor coats your skin and you immediately wipe it off against your shirt. his body falls with a thud! and another big dust cloud rises from the contact and your nose itches— it's— it itches— achoo!

your eyes are an inch away from escaping your head as you spin around, making sure that nothing is jumping at you for making a noise that loud. but surely enough, nothing seems to be interested. exhaling deeply, you rub your nose and force down the embarrassment that's crawling on your skin before starting your hunt for supplies.

it doesn't go as well as you'd hoped – only bagging a few stitching kits and a bottle of painkillers. better than nothing.

ecstatic to get the fuck out of a closed, pitch black room, you crawl back out from under the metal door and dust off your clothes.

strolling through some more stores, you're met with more dead infected. two clickers and two runners, no bullet holes. ignoring the corpses, you manage to find yourself a few nice t-shirts, a pack of boxers and a box of 9mm handgun ammo from under the cash register.

when you've gone through most of the wrecked stores on the first floor, you finally decide to take a look upstairs. the bloody footprints haven't left your mind but the fact that it's been so quiet, makes you think that maybe they did really just pass through here.

the moon light your way as you drag yourself up the escalator. the stars in the sky are barely visible because of the dirt on the ceiling window and you frown.

in front of you there are two hallways with stores on the sides and in the middle. the prints lead to the left side and towards the a lonely door at the end of the coridor; the signs on the walls don't indicate what room it might be – a security one, maybe? shaking your head, you focus on the stores ahead of you. the shop in the center is a big sports one; most of the mannequins have fallen over and their limbs are scattered all over the floor, pairless sneakers rest on top of each other and the shelves are a push away from collapsing into tiny little pieces.

stepping over the bloody clothes, you view the baseball caps on the rack when your light goes out again. you feed on the faint moonlight that's coming from the hallways as you scramble to shake the thing again. steps, you swear you heard steps. the last standing mannequins stare at you from the shadows, laughing at your misfortune. a hand touches your hip and you can't hold back the yelp that slips from your lips. you turn and bump into another statue. the light flickers three times before it actually turns on and you find yourself inches from an eerie smile. intinctively, you give it a firm push as you take a step back, hands shaking as the panic settles down once more.

no one else is here. you can't see whoever could've made the noise and by now you're sure that if something or someone is really hiding in the dark – it would've already made a move if it wanted to. stalkers don't play for that long and neither do humans.

a row of protein bars hide in a drawer in the staff room of the store and you happily throw them in your bag, along with some weird looking granola bars.

the right side of the second floor only offers you a new lighter, three pairs of socks, a can of soda, a simple necklace and a broken watch. what's the point of it if you can't tell time? it looks cool. no other reason.

heading over to the left side of the building, you keep a keen eye on the door. the remaining shops are forgotten the closer you get to where the prints lead and you officially commit to checking out the place.

the blade of your axe shines in the moonlight, your steps extra light as you creep up on the door. readying your weapon, you press down on the handle and quietly push it open. it swings all the way and thumps against the wall. the room is lit up, the windows letting in the natural light. you're greeted with rows of computer and tv screens on the tables, three black duffel bags and some lockers and cabinets next to the walls.

you check the corners of the room and let out a relieved sigh when you don't find anything hiding. closing the door, you carefully step around the broken glass on the floor. it seems to be originating from what used to be a glass case showcasing various medals. awards for the best security guards. how silly that sounds now.

the lockers have been cleared out, the only things left behind being two lovely couple's phots with hand-drawn hearts above their heads. you leave them there. the cabinets don't have anything good either. you glance back at the door for good measure before kneeling down in front of one of the bags on the ground. you pull the zipper and are met with treasure – multiple bars of chocolate, the same sweatshirt you found from the floor below, various cans of canned food, two water bottles and a small knife.

your eyes glint and the corners of your lips twitch upward, your body has a mind of its own as it immediately reaches for the chocolate. glass breaks and your eyes flick to the now ajar door as you reach for the gun on your thigh but when you feel the cold metal of a gun barrel resting against your temple... you freeze.

"don't."

...

your stomach drops, eyes glued to the bag in front of you. the voice is deep and it's rasp, confident and sure of himself; the metal against you doesn't move, it doesn't shake.

you hold your trembling hands out, fingers spread to show that you don't have any intention of grabbing your weapons. a deep breath in and a deep one out. you try to turn your head towards him but he just presses the gun deeper into your skin, forcing your gaze right back down.

his big stature looms over your smaller one and you feel like an ant that's about to be stepped on. he lets you soak in the threatening silence, the only sound being your own racing heartbeat.

"s'rude to steal, y'know."

the man doesn't sound angry, he doesn't sound mad or upset. he sounds... annoyed, if anything.

"i asked you a question."

shit.

"i– i wasn't stealing." you stammer out.

he scoffs. "wasn't stealing? just fondling my shit for fun then?"

the teasing tone makes your eyebrows furrow and you try to turn to look at him again, your body slightly raising from your knees but the gun on your head keeps you down. funny, how heavy a piece of metal can suddenly feel.

"it was empty in here! i didn't know these belonged to anyone! i–i'm sorry! i'll leave, i'll leave!" it's a pathetic slur of words accompanied by a pleading tone and you hope that it'll do the trick.

there are strategies for dealing with people and this is simply one of them.

and it does work because the next thing you know, he's lowering the weapon. you let out a shaky breath before turning to him and fuck.

he's... terrifying.

towering over your kneeling body, he's massive. big chest and broad shoulders, he looks like he could snap your neck with his bare hands. the moonlight is only making him more menacing – his dark hair falls in front of his eyes as he stares down at you; there's a scar on his lips and streaks of blood cover his skin, from his cheek to his jaw and down his neck.

dark clothes and a dark jacket – he looks like he belongs in the shadows. the fact that you didn't hear him until it was already too late is making your skin crawl. he probably only let you hear him. for the fun of it.

the terrified look on other's faces can be addicting. the big eyes and the wobbling lips; how they shake and beg – you're no stranger to it, you've had your moments, too.

other than the gun in his hand, there's a second one holstered around his big thigh just like you do. a serrated knife sits his belt and it keeps winking at you, the flashlight reflecting from it as you pull in big breaths of air.

"you're saying i oughta just let you go?" he scoffs, yanking you from your thoughts.

"please..." your stomach grumbles on cue, helping you look meeker than you really are.

you're sure you just saw him wince as he squats down beside you but the thought is brushed away immediately when the man cocks his head to the side and scratches his temple with the barrel of the gun. his scarred lips stretch into a big wolfish grin, showing off his sharp canines and his eyes glint from behind the black strands of hair, making him even scarier now. the big bad wolf.

he's taking you apart with his eyes, dissecting you and your thoughts with a smug expression while you're fending off the waves of fear and try to look as composed as you can. though you feel like it isn't working at all.

"d'ya find anything good from the pharmacy?"

"why were you stalking me?" your bark comes out sharper than you intended and his eyebrows raise an inch, eyes shining with something teasing.

"kind of hard to miss ya when you're making so much noise, sweetheart. and yer in my spot, anyway." he sigh with an eye-roll.

your lips part in a small gasp. "i was not making that much noise! and– and what do you mean 'your spot'? it's a fucking mall, i need things, too!"

"clearly." he motions to the duffel bag resting at your feet and you swallow your next snarky comment.

"sorry."

"what was that?"

just glaring at him, you hate how amused he seems. the fear in you dissipating fast and something akin to annoyance is starting to grow in it's stead.

"i didn't even fucking take anything!"

body leaning forward, fists balled up and eyes on fire – he's thoroughly entertained by your barking and you immediately purse your lips.

"relax, little lamb, will ya? tell me... what'd you find in there?"

you scrunch your nose at the stupid nickname. despite how non-threatening he's being right now - you're still planning on running. you'll give him whatever he wants and you're getting the fuck out of here.

"nothing much. stitching kits and painkillers."

he's hums disappointedly and you can't help but wonder why. is he looking for something in particular? is he hurt? "what do you need?"

"forget it."

"i have antibiotics, if that's what you need."

at that, his ears perk up. "is that so?"

you nod at him.

"well, c'mon then, show me what ya got."

you stare at him for a moment before peeling off one backpack strap. you pull the bag onto your lap and feel his heavy gaze on you as you dig around the thing. it doesn't take you long to find the right bottle, pulling it out and handing it to him.

the floor creaks and it has you both turning towards the sound in an instant. he has the door in his sights but nothing is there. your heart is hammering in your chest again and you can taste the bitter anxiety in the back of your throat again.

you've never seen anyone hold their gun so steady as he does. no shake, no tremble; he's not even really squeezing the thing, he's just holding it. there's no pressure, no anxiety – it's simply an extension to his body. he's comfortable with it, and he looks good with it. a bead of sweat rolls from his temple and mixes with the drying blood on his skin before disappearing under his clothes.

his breathing is normal, he's calm as he lowers the gun back down and starts observing the bottle in his other hand. your eyes are still on the door, still wary of the ghosts that lurk around.

the man squints his eyes at the miniature text on the bottle in the dark and you hold back a laugh.

"need me to read it for you, old man?"

"watch your mouth." it's playful at best, no real sternness behind it whatsoever and it makes you roll your eyes. you're about to ask what he actually needs the pills for but something in the corner of your eye draws your attention.

a pair of dull, grey eyes. staring right back at you. dark veins run all over her face and neck, her shoulders and her hands and she peeks from behind the doorframe.

one second. no more, no less. your sharp intake of air gets his attention just as the stalker lunges from the dark hallway, but she is met with a hole in her forehead before she can even take a proper step inside.

small pieces of brain splatter onto the wall behind her and she falls limp to the ground just a few feet from you. he's waiting for another one to pop up, his eyes still glued to the door and you know that this is your moment. he has the meds, so he shouldn't chase you down anyway. you have to go now.

scrambling up from your knees, you try to speed past him but immediately choke when the collar of your own sweatshirt sharply cuts into your airways. his grip on the material is strong and he pulls you right back into him, back into his arms. he's mere inches from your face but before he can do anything else – he feels a blade against his throat.

you really aren't the little lamb he thought you were.

he's comparing you to a feral cub in his head – big wild eyes, snarling and showing your teeth, trying to act tougher than you are, but when the sharp edge of your blade sinks deeper into his skin, he realizes that maybe you're not actually in over your head.

he already expected you to run, he was waiting for that but he thought it'd end up with you you crying and begging or something. he didn't see this coming – you're definitely craftier than he thought, faster too.

"now... why would you do that-"

you don't let him finish. "are you gonna hurt me?"

"you're the one with the knife at my throat. i should be asking you that." he rolls his eyes as your knife grazes the soft skin below his adam's apple and you're thinking about actually cutting him just out of annoyance.

"you have the pills, why not let me go?" you bark back.

"you're hungry, aren't ya?" he questions calmly. his gun hand is lowered, he's not pointing it at you but his other hand stays on your back, fingers still digging into your sweatshirt. it's warm, his body is warm.

"so what? you gonna feed me like some stray cat?"

"y'don't want to eat?" he deadpans.

...

you bite into the soft flesh of your inner cheek. of fucking course, you want to eat.

"y'can take two cans from the bag. i mean, y'were eyeing them anyway."

"why?"

"for being my entertainment tonight."

the blade on his throat finally draws blood and a drop of it runs down his skin, disappearing under his shirt.

"i oughta kill you for putting a gun at my head."

"yeah?" he cocks his head closer to you, the blade moving with him, making a few more droplets dribble from the tiny wound. "go for it, sweetheart."

his eyes are green. they're green like the leaves that sprout from between the cracks in the asphalt on a sunny day, green like the moss that flourishes on the trees in the forest, green like the ivy that is trying to swallow the world. you feel his heart beat a; calm and steady while yours is amped from the sudden proximity. he sounds so arrogant, like he knows you're not going to hurt him.

(you aren't.)

when you lower the knife to push at his broad chest with a scoff instead, he lets you. his hand falls from you as you take a step back, your face now illuminated by the moonlight. scars litter your skin, bumps and cuts – just like him.

"are you done?"

you hum with a pouty lip and put away your knife, eyes following his figure as he holsters his gun before picking up the fallen pill bottle. when he steps by you, he plucks your flashlight from its place on the backpack strap with way too much ease and proceeds to head over to one of the duffel bags that sits on the table behind you, carefully stepping over the broken glass on the floor.

"hey!"

he shushes you and your fists tighten beside your body. you look at the dead body that lays next to the door with a perfectly centered hole in her forehead. the blood pools around it, soaking her clothes and the ground below her.

you used to think about the infected more, used to ponder about how long they've been like that and whether the person they used to be is still... in there.

it doesn't matter.

you've come across people, who talk about not wanting to kill them – what if they really are still in there? but isn't that exactly why one should kill them? you can't even begin to think about how it'd feel to be stuck inside your own body as the infection takes over, making you into something you're not. how it'd force you to tear your loved ones apart just for the sake of it, how you'd turn into a bigger monster with every passing day, every passing second. you just hope that if you were to get infected, you'd still have the mind to end it. or have somebody do it for you.

you don't want to end up like her.

"i didn't realize there were stalkers here." you mumble to yourself as you tear your eyes from her. "other than you, of course. fucking creep."

he starts digging around in one of the bags and you take the moment to really observe him. his back is almost twice your size and you're sure his one bicep is bigger than your whole head.

the man scoffs. "thought i got them all but... oh, well. should've let ya handle it – was your fault anyway."

"how the fuck was that my fault?" your voice raises at his claim and you regret it, knowing exactly what his response will be.

"you are fucking loud, sweetheart."

"fuck you."

he just hums out a mhmmm. he pulls a piece of paper out of his bag and uses your flashlight to examine the text on it. his eyes. he waves at you over his shoulder. "you know where the cans are."

simply scoffing as a reply, you kneel back down to the bag but his voice cuts in again.

"and don't you dare take that chocolate." he doesn't even turn around, completely focused on comparing the information on the paper to the info on the bottle of pills. you roll your eyes again and curse him under your breath. "i wasn't gonna take your stupid fucking chocolate..."

when you've bagged your goodies, you push yourself up again. the trees dancing in the wind outside catch your eye, they look so carefree. just living from the sun and the moon and the rain, they have nothing to fear. nobody will harm them, no infected, no people. you can't wait for nature to take back everything it deserves. the cities and the buildings; it'll swallow the corpses and the living alike and you're happy for her.

he rustles with the paper, twisting it around a few times and you're about to ask what he's looking for but he cuts you off.

"why not make a run for it earlier?"

you stare at his back with a confused look. "what do you mean?"

"you gave me the pills and then tried to run. antibiotics are hard to find, y'know." he sounds curious. or patronizing.

"i know that... i had to wait for the right moment." you admit, fiddling with your fingers. "i was going to give them to you anyway, old man."

"not a lot going on in that little head of yours, huh?"

...

you let his audacity waft over you before biting back. "oh, i'm sorry... for... being a... good person?"

he turns around and leans his ass against the table, folding his arms over his big chest as he mocks you with his annoying smug grin. "i pointed a gun at you and you still wanna share your little precious belongs with me? that's cute, i guess."

"yeah. you just look like you fucking need them, alright...."

"so, you agree that you're a fucking idiot?"

your lips part in shock. "hey! look– do you want anything else or can i go now?"

"can i have my flashlight back?"

"no."

"wha— " you take a step toward the man and he raises his brows. "but it's mine! how do you expect me to go outside without it?"

"no manners whatsoever."

huh?

your jaw drops again. "excuse me? wha– what's that supposed to mean?"

"first, i catch you stealing— "

"i already apologized for that— "

"—then you try to kill poor old little me, and now you're asking for things without the magic word... tsk-tsk-tsk." he closes his eyes and shakes his head in disappointment.

"i'm not gonna fucking beg for my own flashlight back, bitch."

...

he barks out a laugh.

a loud one, from deep within his stomach. his head falls back and a pout forms on your lips, heat crawls up your neck involuntarily and you avert your gaze. "you're terrible, just terrible, sweetheart."

he takes your prized light and tosses it to you before pulling out his own from behind his back. you flip him off. "funny though, i'll give ya that..."

you grumble a yeah, thanks under your breath as he blinks the light at you twice. "may i go now?"

he stares at you before answering. "yes, you're dismissed."

at that, you knock your heels together and sharply bring your right hand to your temple – imitating a military salutation. "yes, sir!"

something sweet.

he tastes something sweet on his tongue. he wipes the drying blood from his neck and his cheeks hurt.

you're some random feral cub and yet, you've peaked his interest like nothing else. no cries and no wails, no begging and no tears – scared but alive. ready to part with valuable meds just because he apparently looks like he needs them. tch! growling at him even though he's caught you red handed, cutting him even though you weren't in danger anymore.

he hasn't felt this alive in a long time, either.

"don't let me see you again, old man."

playful, at best. you're matching his tone and the corners of his lips are reaching back behind his ears. you bite your inner cheek; despite everything – he's the most normal person you've met since the end of the world. he's not mean nor is he aggressive; everybody points a gun at a stranger these days. he made jokes and he gave you supplies – it's more than anyone has done for you in a while.

you look at the wolf in the shadow and he looks at the lamb in the moonlight. the wolf that offers food and protection and the lamb that cuts and steals.

the wolf that bleeds and the lamb that holds the blade.

[sadgaychamelion]

My Roman empire is the way Murphy’s Law always has and always will apply to me.

Every year since I was at least 10, something goes horribly and unexplainably wrong. While it doesn’t have a set time frame, it’s usually from June onwards. And every year, without fail, that years thing happens just after I’ve picked up the previous years pieces and shakily put them back together enough to find joy or meaning in my life. As soon as I finally finally fix things, anything that can go wrong, goes wrong. And every year I get my hopes up like a little kid that I’ve done a good enough job at sewing the pieces back together that nothing will happen.

Every year, I think this is the year. And then, as any logical person may expect, yet another thing goes wrong. The fates fuck me over once more, uncaring if I’ll survive it this time or not.

This year it started early. In fact, it happened so soon after last years that one could say it’s not a new thing, just last years carried over. And I’ll curse every gods name for letting this happen to me once more. I’ll swear on everything there is that this year, I won’t pick up the pieces, and I’ll just let things happen until I rot. But, like every other year, I won’t stay true to my oath.

I’ll upturn every rock and every leaf, trying to find the shattered pieces of my life. I’ll wash them and straighten them out as much as one can. I’ll lay them gently on my table and spend hours ensuring every stitch is perfection incarnate. I’ll scrutinise every fold until the fabric of my life resembles a whole again. I’ll carry it tenderly in an enchanted silk pouch everywhere I go, protecting it with my life at the costs of others.

And next year, despite me believing there’s absolutely nothing that could possibly tarnish my treasure, yet another thing will go wrong. And the process will repeat every year until I’m holding death’s hand.

In my next life, it’s likely this process will repeat just as it has in all the lives before this one. Cursed am I to personify Murphy’s Law.

It will consume my thoughts like a hungry wolf. Savage, and uncaring who or what gets hurt in the quest to satisfy its appetite. It will leech onto my brain, slowly spreading around my head and seeping into each passing thought. Hypnos himself could not stop the dreams it will control. It will devour my soul like a hungry man attacks the pomegranate.

And when one of my future lives believes they’ve found the cure; when they are so confident that no higher being could possibly halt their brilliant plan to make it all stop; Murphy’s Law will once again strike.

And they too will unwillingly pick up the pieces, sew them fearfully together and protect it with their lives. And the fates will once again fuck them over, despite the risk to their morality.

And because Murphy’s Law always has and always will apply to me, their and their legacies efforts will be futile and the cycle will repeat once more.

[rush-the-stars]

ex boyfriend megumi fushiguro brain rot

***

18+ minors dni, aged up characters into their twenties

cw: afab!reader, smut, dub-con (reader says “no” quite a few times but does seem to want it to continue), pussyjob

“you’re such a—!”

your mouth gets smothered in a brutal kiss. teeth click together like a key coming up against a lock. it’s like coming home.

still, you return the kiss, find the way you usually move against each other and let him lick into your mouth in a way that’s all too familiar.

you can feel all the hard lines of his body, the way he nudges into you, pushes you up against the brick wall like he’s trying to dig down into you right then and there. he’s always been the desperate sort; a wolf gone hungry. the thing that you let in once and kept coming back again and again and again—howling outside your door.

megumi fushiguro is your ex boyfriend.

well, supposed to be. if you let him in again, this’ll be the third time he’s somehow managed to sink his teeth into you.

you yelp a little when he bites your bottom lip too hard.

heat zips through you like a bolt of lightning.

this is so wrong—you’re at a mutual friend’s wedding. you’re supposed to be acting civil and “playing nice” with megumi not—

not arguing and then making out against a wall in one of the side parlor rooms in this venue. it’s just a little nook, all hazy, gold light and tall bookshelves lining three of the four old brick walls. the last of which, you’re currently occupying. there’s a sleek, black piano to your right. an emerald green couch in the center of the space, proudly on display with the light fur rug beneath it.

its too nice of a place—you’re in too nice of a dress to let him do this to you.

his knee is between your legs before you realize it. you fight the urge to squirm.

you have to push at him a little, “megumi—megumi—im not getting back together with you again.”

“—always say that.” he huffs.

“i mean it this time.” you try to firm up your voice but he’s scattering wet kisses all over your neck, digging his nose into your hair. nipping. licking. you’re high and breathy, anyways. he’s got you—he’s always got you.

“you told kugisaki you missed me.”

your turn to huff. she’s a blabbermouth. and so is itadori.

besides, it’s not really what you said. you said you missed the se—

“so you stalked me?” you berate and this time there’s a little heat behind it, fingers sinking into the nape of his neck to pull. he hisses a little but you know he’s always loved it. he likes the quick flash of pain from you, your nails denting half moons into his skin, your teeth in his neck.

“i wasn’t stalking,” he tries to defend but even to your own ears, there isn’t much protest in it.

“im not fucking you.” you tell him.

“—always say that, too.”

his hand is up your dress already, anyways, pushing little panties aside so he can sink a finger in without warning at all.

you seize up in his arms.

“‘m not doing this with you, megumi.” you whimper.

your mouth falls open as he curls them, god—god his fingers are so long.

“keep telling yourself that while you ride my fingers,” he bites out. “‘sides you were already so wet—“

“was not—“

“was too—“ he kisses you, brief but hard, “arguing always turns you on.”

you let your head tip back against the brick wall. “you’re one to talk. you like when i yell.”

he adds a second finger just to get you to shut up, just to watch, half mimic in faux empathy with his own mouth falling open, as your face twists up in pleasure.

“you’re so annoying—“ your voice tips until it breaks into this high little whine that makes him have to bite back a groan, “—why can’t you just leave me alone?”

he doesn’t answer. but he knows the answer. you know the answer. instead, he just sets the pad of his thumb against your slippery clit and rubs slow and easy with it. juxtaposes how deep his fingers are, how mean he’s being with his teeth in your neck right now.

he must be able to feel you fluttering around his fingers already. he scoffs. “you close?”

“fuck you.”

he takes his fingers away from you abruptly and the noise you let out is so shameful and desperate that you can feel your mortification like a sun on the back of your neck. too hot. so harrowing and big and terrible. you squirm.

“i’m not begging for it.” you bite out, face indignantly smarted with embarrassment.

he snorts this time. “you practically already were—“

but now he suddenly lifts you from beneath your thighs, makes you yelp, makes you scramble to get your arms around his neck, to get your legs around his narrow waist.

he deposits you atop the grand fucking piano.

“oh no—no, no—we are not having sex on this piano.” you hiss at him, fingers ruining his previously pristine button-up shirt. emerald really does look nicer on him than he knows.

but your hips are already half off and in his big hands, core notched tight against the hardness pressing taut in his dress slacks. and like he hasn’t heard a damn thing you said (typical—stubborn, infuriating—), he’s hiking your dress up higher and pulling your panties to the side.

“megumi!” you snap.

his eyes flick up to you briefly. storm dark. his hair is a mess from all your pulling and playing. lips all rosy and kiss stung. he’s so annoyingly beautiful.

still he unbuttons his pants, unzips them, frees himself so when you try to curse out his name again, it tapers off into a hitched little breath when you feel the bare head of him slip through your folds.

you watch, enamored, breathless, as he slides forward, then back. you tilt your hips a little.

“what were you saying?” he asks, like the son of a bitch he is.

“you’re not fucking me.” you repeat, still staring, still moving your hips in little aborted rocks.

“look how bad you want it, though,” he murmurs and he leans forward to kiss you slow and deep and kinda sweet this time. like he’s trying to coax you, make it up to you. he groans a little, letting the head of him catch and then slip up again, against where you’re sensitive, where—

“i said no.” you breathe against his lips. but you’re starting to really find a rhythm with him now, something that makes you whimper a little, makes you fall away from his hold to really roll your hips.

“c’mon—“ he gets out and he’s fully rutting against you now. you can hear the slippery sounds, somehow almost worse than if he just fucked you hard and quick—

“no,” you almost moan, feel him shudder a little, feel your own pleasure rush beneath your skin, climbing, towering over you.

“just the tip?”

your turn to scoff. “what are you? sixteen? my step-brother?”

he groans into your throat, thrusts a little harder. “you’re so—“

you tug at his hair, arch your hips up for him more, more because you’re getting—your breath is getting all tight and quick and you can feel the swell beneath your skin.

“megumi—“

your gasp is swallowed by him, kisses you hard as your peak crashes into you the way a wave builds and crests and then crashes down onto shore. your eyes are slammed shut, hips jerking, moaning, feeling megumi’s own noise—

half a whine, half a growl, and then suddenly some pressure where you’re aching and sensitive and—

bastard.

you whimper with just the head of him in you, kicking hard, filling you with warmth.

still, you cling to him, kiss him until it turns into something less frantic, less demanding. soothing, almost. he’s still half in you. you’re still all tender and twitching. he hums through each of your little aftershocks, rocks his hips to press just a little deeper, force you to stretch around him just a little more.

but when it’s over and your head is clearing, your glare slams right back onto your face.

“i fucking told you—!”

“i had no where else!” he bickers back, “it was either on your dress or the piano and you would’ve killed me for either of those, too!”

you groan, this time in frustration, “we’re not getting back together. just know that.”

megumi nudges his nose against your cheek. follows it with a kiss.

“stop.” you snap, “you’re trying to butter me up.”

“you miss me.”

his voice takes on this softer, raspy tone. he can be such a fucking sap—

“kugisaki’s a big mouth. second of all, that’s not what i said.”

“then what’d you say?” he asks, still mouthing along your neck, no doubt going over all the new marks he’d left in his wake.

“that i missed the sex. not you.” you snip.

he picks his head up to look at you, a little deadpanned, a little annoyed.

this time you kiss him.

maybe part apology with the way you lock into it this time, slow and deep, a little longing.

he nudges his nose along yours when he pulls away.

“yours or mine?”

you groan again, pushing his face away from yours, but you can see the sliver of a half moon smile shadow across his handsome face.

“mine. you creep. since you’ve been circling there like a vulture since we broke up.” you say, nudging at him more to finally let you up. to try and (probably fail to) rearrange yourself in a way that doesn’t look like you just had some weird, messy hook up with your ex at a wedding.

“i haven’t.” he grunts. and he helps you up. slips your panties into place. kisses you again when you steady yourself against him, wobbling like a fawn on new legs after you stand.

and when you look up at him for a moment you wonder (not for the first) why you even broke up in the fist (third?) place.

“you have to.” you say, patting his cheek.

he levels you with an infamous glare.

“have not—“

[wri0thesley]

thank you for infecting me with total naoya brain rot, nat. can i request a breeding kink scenario with him and curvy, thick reader that he thinks looks perfect for bearing him an heir 👀 feel free to make him as nasty as you want, i love to read about this absolute trash fire of a man

Covet - Naoya x Fem!Reader (3.6k)

Naoya wants something from you - you see a chance to get something you want too.

warnings: afab reader, fem pronouns. breeding. power imbalance (reader is a maid at the zen’in estate). talk of pregnancy, knives, misogyny, fingering, coming inside/creampies. the mandatory warning that this fic is about naoya.

You are fairly certain that Naoya Zenin does not know whether you exist. If he has ever noticed you attending to your duties, so much lower and less important than he, he probably doesn’t like you.

At least, you did not think he liked you before this moment. Even now, with his hands on your hips and your body pressed flush against the wall outside his chambers, you’re not certain – there’s a weight to the way he’s holding you, a twist to his lips that you can see from where your cheek has met cool wallpaper. He looks like he’s considering you; sizing you up.

Your cheeks burn as he sizes up your lower half, eyes tracing your hips and ass and thighs without even a hint of remorse, as if it’s his god-given right to look upon you like this even though you’ve barely ever spoken more than a cursory polite; ‘I brought you this, Sir’. That’s what you’ve been taught to do.

Be respectful, stick to the shadows, do what you’re told. It’s an honour to serve the Zenin clan, it’s an honour to be here in the estate – it’s an honour to get a brief moment of any of their time, even if they’re just making demands on you. You sometimes hate yourself, for not being born one of them - you want, you want, you want, like a physical ache. The luxury. The nice treatment. People to think that you merely blessing them with a look is an honour--

It’s an especial honour to be worth Naoya’s time – everybody knows that he’s going to be the next leader. There are always rumours buzzing around the grounds about him; about his power, about his temper, about his personality . . . about which pretty young woman he’ll make his wife and have beside him to rule the clan.

You’re brought back to what’s currently happening by his hands sliding down from where he is clinging onto your hips, generously tracing the curve, admiring just how broad they are.

“Pity you have to hide beneath that,” he says, smirking. Your cheeks are hot. “You’re pretty, you know. At least. . .” One hand moves from your hip, thumb and forefinger squeezing your cheeks to turn them more thoroughly towards him. He looks entirely unruffled by the situation, every inch of him at ease that you will bend to what he wants. “Your body is pretty.” Eyes scan over your face, and you’re suddenly aware of every imperfection, every feature you’ve ever scrutinised. “Hm. Not bad either.”

“I . . . I don’t understand,” You find yourself breathing. He raises one elegant eyebrow. The hand that’s on your hip moves, tracing the plush of your ass through fabric, his lip curling into a smirk. He presses a little bit forward and you feel something stiff press against your other cheek (the one not occupied by his hand) – and your throat goes dry as you realise precisely what he means.

Oh.

Oh.

You should run. Good girls do not do what Naoya wants you to do. You have duties to attend to! You have things that must be done, lest your seniors sigh and tut at you and punish you for neglecting your work. But your throat is very dry and your heart is pounding and there is suddenly a strange twist of heat low in your gut, as Naoya Zenin looks down at you with the air of a man who will devour you if you let him.

You can’t deny it’s thrilling to be wanted – more thrilling to be wanted by someone like him.

“I’ll give you ten seconds,” he says, and his tone is patronising. “If you don’t want me to take you to bed and fuck you, I suggest you make yourself scarce.”

He says it so openly, so brazenly – you suppose that’s what comes of being born into this family. He has nothing to fear in these walls. Not like you.

You imagine yourself underneath him for a second, his hair in disarray, hakama abandoned, his perfectly composed face twisted in pleasure. You should not go to his bed. But . . . you want to. And don’t you deserve something you want, when you’ve spent your entire life watching other people enjoy it?

“You don’t need to,” you breathe, swallowing. Naoya pulls back in amusement, his eyes darkening. He seems so much taller and stronger than you. Even swathed in fabric, it’s clear that there is muscle and strength beneath the clothes. He has been trained to within an inch of his life since the day he was born. He makes a considering noise in the back of his throat. A thumb trails over your cheek.

“Are you sure about that?” The smirk in his voice says that he knows you are. “I won’t be gentle with you, you know. I don’t have all day to romance you. I just want to get you on your back . . .” His thumb slides over your jawline, past your earlobe, until he’s taken a hank of your hair and yanks it back roughly, exposing your throat and making you gasp. “And fuck a son into you.”

He must see the look on your face, because he laughs, the sound cruel even to your ears. He’s still pressed so close to you. Nobody who walked down this hallway would mistake the embrace the two of you were currently in for anything clandestine. You suppose he has nothing to worry about – but your reputation? He’d ruin you for marriage.

“Come on,” he murmurs, chuckling. “Have you seen yourself? You’re made for bearing a child, sweetheart.” The pet name is almost mocking, but your heart skips a beat anyway. “Don’t worry too much. You don’t think I could take care of you, if you carried my heir? You’re a servant, right? You already know how to behave.” His smile is like a wolf. “So, I give you my word that if it takes, I’ll take care of you. Sounds fair, huh?” He jerks on your hair again. “Ten seconds,” he reminds you. “If you want to get out of it. You don’t think there are girls lining up around the block to have me?”

(Judging by the whispers about him, you actually don’t think there are – but judging from Naoya’s eyes, he certainly thinks so.)

He lets go. He steps back. His eyes are still on you, but he raises his arms either side of him as if to show you that you’re free to go. And you do consider it – you let the possibility of running flicker through your head. It’s quickly replaced by the thought of Naoya on top of you, an end to the aching between your legs, and the knowledge of just how you might be treated if Naoya did succeed in his mission.

It’s fine to want nice things, every once in a while.

“Five,” he says, warningly, but his eyes are dark with hunger. “Four. Three.”

You turn towards his bedroom door and grasp the handle, and he laughs, the sound very loud.

“Oh,” he says, “so you’re going to be fun.”

The minute his bedroom door clicks behind him, Naoya wastes no time on being on you. He’s full throttle, immediately – hands pulling at your clothes, rough, his mouth on your neck. He avoids your mouth, like he doesn’t quite want to kiss you – but as you bite back a moan as he nips at your throat and he groans in response at the noise, you realise that he wants to hear you.

Figures a man like that wants the reassurance that you’re enjoying yourself. Figures he wants to crow over every whimper that drops from your lips. Hands pull at your kimono, almost ripping it in his hurry to have the fabric out of his way and on the floor. You barely even notice he’s been pushing you across the room until you’re pushed hard down, and your back meets pillows and sheets instead of the floor.

The way you fall makes a perfect tableaux; the material of your outfit pooling around you, your body in the middle of it, clad in only your underwear. His light eyes rake over you hungrily.

“Fuck,” he says. His hands immediately go to your hips, thumbs pressing hard into the soft flesh. You barely fit in his hands, the curve of you dramatic. “You’re going to be perfect for this, huh? Look at you. It’s a fucking shame you’re not knocked up right now--”

Your body reacts to his touch and his look, though you can’t help but be embarrassed by it – it’s one thing to be entranced by someone pretty, you think, but it’s another thing to be entranced by the idea of how pretty someone will look when their stomach is swollen and their breasts have swelled and their hips have filled out because they’re bearing your child.

He doesn’t bother with unclipping your bra. He reaches into his hakama and panic flashes before your eyes when he pulls out a knife, but he uses it merely to slice the gore between your bra cups, right between the cute bow adorning them.

“I—I liked that,” you say, but your voice sounds very wobbly in the room, under Naoya’s gaze, under his hands. He snorts.

“I like you better without it,” he says shortly, as if your likes and dislikes are not a consideration to be taken into account. For him, you suppose they’re not. “Besides.” Hands travel from your hips to cup your breasts, squeezing the meat of the mounds so that you groan and arch your back, desire pooling between your legs. “I wanted to see these. I wanted to touch them.” He grins. “I wanted to imagine how nice they’re going to look when they get bigger.”

He squeezes the point of each of your nipples, so hard that the pleasure almost becomes pain.

“I think I’ll leave marks on you,” he says, conversationally. He pulls an arm back and suddenly has slapped you, your breast stinging, a brief imprint of his hand showing on your skin. He admires how your breast moves with the force – you’re too surprised to even make a noise of pain. “Good girl. I want you to remember how I feel when we’re done.”

You don’t think you could forget. You definitely can’t forget the sting of the second slap, this one making you moan – it hurts, but part of it feels good to be marked by him. You definitely can’t forget his thumbs hooking into your underwear, dragging it past your thighs – the way that he drinks in the wet patch on the fabric. You definitely don’t think you’ll be able to forget the chuckle that leaves his mouth as he spreads your thighs and sees your sex for the first time, already slick.

“You like being treated rough, huh?” He asks you. There’s that grin again; a predator, a man who has never been told no, a man who doesn’t know what it’s like to not have everything he has ever wanted at his fingertips. “Good. I like playing rough.”

He still doesn’t kiss you. He dives his head down, though, his teeth once more nipping at your neck, at your breast, tongue lathing across your nipples. One of his hand delves between your legs, spreading the plump labia, fingers briefly stroking your clit and sending a hot bolt of lightning all through you.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, as he pushes a finger inside of you. You’re slick and tight around his digits, hot and silky – one of his fingers alone is like a vice. You’re going to feel so good. He doesn’t much care whether his cock hurts you or not – but he wants you to be so fucked out by the time he’s come inside you that you don’t care about him leaving your legs propped up so not a single trickle of come leaks out of you. He doesn’t want a whimpering little bitch in his bed – he wants someone who’ll lie there, patiently, prettily, and let him make sure it takes.

You’re going to be good for that, he knows it. With a body like that, and eyes like that, and a clear longing for something better than the shitty hand you’ve been dealt? Oh, yes. You might not know it, but Naoya likes you immensely.

That you’re a servant, who’s been taught your place - that you’ll look at the ground respectfully and walk behind him and agree to whatever he says, like women should? Even better. Perfect. Fuck any of those snooty young women of a clan who think that just because they were born with a name, they were somehow more than a cunt for breeding--

Two fingers. This one gets a cry from you, almost too full – Naoya clicks his tongue against his teeth. He’s not patient, but he slows down, scissoring you open. One of your hands seems to flex out as if going to grab his bicep – but thinks better of it, clutching for purchase on the bed instead. Cute.

He can’t help but watch his fingers dive in and out of you, already coated in your liberal slick. They already look so good – he can’t even imagine how good his cock will look, hilted so deep in you he’s all you can feel.

Three fingers. You’re making soft little noises, circling your hips – there’s a coil in your belly that Naoya’s fingers are stoking in a way you didn’t expect, one that you feel like you’re so close to getting to spring forth – he slides his fingers out of you as he feels you tightening and tensing around him. If you’re close enough to come on his fingers, he reasons, you’re close enough to take his cock.

He didn’t expect to be so entranced by how pretty you looked, all curves and soft on his bed – but there’s time for that later. Right now, his cock is driving a hole through his own underwear. The thought of fucking his seed into you, of having you coming around his cock . . . you moan in frustration at the lack of stimulation as his hands busy themselves peeling off his own clothes.

“What’s the matter?” He asks you, a little breathless. You don’t notice that – good. He hates people witnessing weakness. “You need to be filled up?”

“I—” your teeth dig into your bottom lip, and Naoya has the urge to kiss you that he pushes back.

Not now. Not yet. Not while you’re still scum. He can transform you, and maybe you’ll be worthy of that – but right now, you’re an empty shell, and Naoya needs to mould you into something fuller and better before he’ll lower himself to brush his lips over your own. That’s too intimate. That’s too much.

“You don’t need to use your words,” he purrs. “You’re soaking wet.”

You urge your thighs further apart as Naoya’s clothes slip off of him and you see his cock jutting proud against his stomach. You haven’t had much experience to know whether it’s a nice cock, whether he’s big – but Naoya grins when he sees you looking, ferocity sparking in his expression.

“You may as well look at it,” he tells you, “because it’s going to be buried inside you in just a moment--”

He’s on the bed, his body on top of yours. His hands are clinging to the hips he’s admired so much, his grip tight enough to mark. His face is close enough that you can see the sculpt of his lips and the fan of his eyelashes, the dark pupils. The wet head of his cock smears precome on your thigh as he positions himself at your entrance – and as he sinks inside, your body welcomes him.

He hisses in fluid pleasure as his cock descends inside of you inch by slow, inexorable inch – the stretch, the burn, the slick fluid pleasure. This time, one of your hands does find purchase on his shoulder – but Naoya is enjoying the feeling of your walls kissing his cock, embracing him tight and deep, too much to snap at you for being such an insolent thing. Your nails leave little crescent moon marks in his shoulder that he decides to forgive. After all – you’ll have bruises in the shape of his handprints tomorrow, he knows it. He doesn’t have a single crumb of shame about it.

If he gets his way, you’ll have more than just those as a mark of tonight. He hilts inside you, his skin pressing hot against yours. You’re so full – he feels so very deep, buried as far as he can go. All of your breath has been knocked out of you.

Your eyes meet his for just a moment.

“Better hold on,” he tells you. “I told you I wouldn’t be gentle.”

The first pull out is swift, immediately thrusting back inside you with such force that your body rocks on the bed. He wasn’t lying about not being gentle; his hips quickly establish a punishing rhythm, helped along by the slick glide of your channel, the wetness leaking around his cock. He pulls you a little with every thrust, the hands on his hips assisting him being able to watch his cock drive in and out of your sex. It’s a mark of the strength he has that the only sign that you weigh anything at all is a huff of breath in between his thrusts – you’ve never exactly felt delicate  in your life, but something about Naoya’s way of handling you makes you think that he could break you in half if he tried.

That is, if his rough thrusts in and out of you don’t split you in two first. You give up trying to do anything other than hold onto him, your mouth dropping open in a series of wordless wails and moans.

(Naoya prefers quiet women, he has to admit – but there’s something endearing about you giving up in bed, giving yourself to him in voice as well as body. Perhaps he doesn’t mind a loud woman, as long as the reason she’s loud is because he’s fucking her silly).

His skin slaps against your skin. The sound mixes with your own whimpers and gasps, Naoya’s quieter breathing, the embarrassingly wet sounds of his cock plunging in and out of you. The release that was denied to you earlier with his fingers is creeping back up on you again, all hot pleasure and tight tension. With every thrust, Naoya is hitting a spot amongst your plush walls that has your eyes rolling back in your head and your body all hot and needy. He doesn’t care if you come, really – this isn’t about you – but . . . just another of those things he supposes he could get used to, as the ball of pleasure inside of you finally unravels and you feel yourself come.

And oh, he could get used to that feeling too – how your walls pulsate around him, pulling his cock tighter inside of you, practically milking him. His hips just get faster, snapping against you like a man possessed – heh. Isn’t that funny?

Your chest is heaving, but he’s enjoying the feel of your hips too much to play with your tits again. When they’re all swollen with milk and bigger and rounder, he’ll probably fuck you again, slower . . . and then, he’ll get his feel of touching them. Just like he’ll get his feel of your thighs even plusher, your stomach rounder, your hips even better in his grip--

It’s those thoughts that push him over the edge. Your body softened and rounded with his child – his son, his heir. You’re fucking perfect for it. He groans, his hips snapping and driving so deep inside you that you think he’ll break – and then, he’s groaning, and his cock is pulsing inside you as the sensation of his come painting your walls hot and thick overtakes your senses.

He pumps his cock a few more times inside of you after the initial release, as if he’s trying to push his seed even further within you. You’re shuddering, exhausted, your body aching – and so, you don’t argue beyond a soft noise of pain at the unpleasant prickle as he pulls his cock out of you. You don’t argue when he slides a pillow beneath your hips and says;

“Keep your legs bent like that.”

Naoya takes a moment to admire you. Your pretty cunt is darkened from his aggressive fucking, clit swollen, slick with your own desire-- he frowns as he notices a drop of something whiter and thicker. That won’t do. Two fingers roughly push his come back into you, pressing it deeply, making you groan and your hips weakly thrust against them.

It’s cute that you’re still welcoming to his fingers; that your sex still sucks them in as if it’s greedy to be fucked again. Your eyes are half-lidded, glassy – your lips bitten dark. He thinks he could fuck you again and you wouldn’t even complain.

Yes. He grins at you. Give it a little while, to make sure his come takes – and then, he thinks, he will fuck you again. There’s no harm in being thorough, right?