#i know same face syndrome hates to see me coming

[bluerazberrysoda]

just watched a playthru of mouthwashing so i naturally scuttle over to make fanart and while im drawing daisuke im like hmmmm this feels familiar!! and then i realized

[a-b-riddle]

Runaway Love (kidnapper Price x captive reader)

cw: established kidnapping, violence, intimidation, unplanned pregnancy, miscommunicated threat of forced abortion, eventual Stockholm syndrome, housewife kink. Reader just accepts her situation at this point. Dub-con, non-con.

You couldn't think of anything except the pain that radiated with each step toward your room. You were lucky your work and home were the same place. It was incomprehensible, downright unbelievable how some of the other maids worked their shift and then either walked home or walked to the bus stop.

Granted, most of them weren't pregnant and had shoes that actually fit, but you didn't like to complain. You were lucky to have the job, even if it was back breaking. You had a roof over your head and although the pay was minimal, you were able to buy essentials and save up and with a baby on the way every penny saved counted.

Most importantly, you were free. You were safe and so was the baby. It had been the only reason that after almost a year, you had finally been brave enough to escape. Knowing that it would be hard to rebuild a life from scratch. Knowing that the consequences meant a punishment so severe you could only hope for death.

You had tracked your period religiously. Even with the stress of being held captive by a psycho military Captain, your cycles were fairly normal. So when you were five days off, you knew. In a moment in which you wanted nothing more than to be happy to finally be starting the family you dreamed about having as a little girl, fear enveloped you.

John had never mentioned kids. Only a wife. Someone to be at home waiting for him. Keeping the house in order and his bed warm while he was away.

All I need is you and the boys, Birdie. What more could a man want?

You considered telling him. Hoping that he would be as happy as you wanted to be. Yet anytime you came close to telling him over the next two weeks, horrible thoughts raced through your mind. What if he was angry? What if he blamed you even though he practically took you whenever he pleased? How would he terminate the pregnancy or would he be content in letting you give birth without any medical intervention and simply get rid of the baby after?

Would he just get rid of you altogether?

It was like the universe was telling you to run when shortly after you decided that telling him wasn't the answer, that he told you he was going on a mission. Won't be back for a couple of weeks. Sent the boys to pick up anything you'll need. I know you'll be good for me.

You had been good. For that last six months, you had behaved. Didn't pull away from his touch or put up a fuss. You lived in the epitome of domestic bliss, so John had no reason to send you down to the basement. Not when you had so many opportunities to try to escape and you didn't.

Granted, he had threatened to break your legs during your first and last stunt. You had been in the basement for three weeks. Living in near darkness as he brought all of your meals. You had been upstairs for about twenty minutes and barely made it to the door before he tackled you. Pinning you to the ground, breath hot against the back of your neck as he hissed in your ear. Ungrateful little brat.

Your apologies fell on deaf ears as he hauled you back down where you would stay for six weeks.

For months you built the relationship on a lie. A lie John deluded himself into believing. Anytime he told you he loved you, you repeated the words back. Wanting to scrub your body raw anytime he touched you and hating yourself anytime he made you come.

But it had been worth it. You were four months along, and given your ill-fitted clothes, not really showing, but knowing that in another five months you would be holding the baby you always wanted. A baby that you had went through hell for. Seeing his or her face for the first time, being their mom would be worth it.

You kept all of the lights off. It was a request of the motel owners to reduce their bills. So even if it was early December and you knew you would be walking back to a freezing room, they didn't give a shit. In truth, they were doing you a favor only charging you $400 in rent with unlimited access to their laundry services. You suppose having the pity of others did have its perks.

You hadn't even bothered to turn on the lights before pulling your shoes off your feet and plopping down on the bed. The grit and grim still felt thick on your skin, but you couldn't find the energy to care. You would shower and get on a fresh set of clothes you had gotten from the shelter when you first made it into the city, but for now you needed a moment. Just a few minutes to decompress.

A few minutes turned into five and then ten. Before you knew it, you had been laying in the bed floating in and out of consciousness for almost twenty minutes. You knew you needed to get up. Wash away the grime of the day that had settled on your skin. Your clothes smelling faintly of bleach.

Fuck you were tired.

You were always tired.

You got up and made your way to the bathroom, barely keeping your eyes opened. Not confident enough you would actually be able to take a shower without wanting to lay down in the tub and let all the strain of the day go down the train.

It's funny how the human body can make us teeter on the edge of sleep. We imagine things that may or not be there. But when you heard it, when you heard that voice coming from the corner of you room, you knew you weren't imagining anything.

"Wonderin' when you'd wake up."

[leiswxrld]

𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

pairings: felix catton x fem reader

synopsis: you hate felix catton because of how snobby rich and stuck up he is and when your best friend Farleigh tells you to come to saltburn with him, you have no choice but to say yes.

warnings: mdni 18+, smut, public sex, smoking, degradation + praise (slut,whore, pretty girl, beautiful), riding, pussy eating (r receiving), unprotected sex, period sex, enemies to lovers kinder (one sided).

a/n: guys I feel like I rushed this but I was trying to get this done and out by tuesday latest, felix is the definition of girl dinner.

credits: @cafekitsune @roseschoices line dividers ❥

It’s late, way past midnight sat in the garden hearing the crickets and sounds of birds chirping as you light a cigarette, taking a long drag before pausing and exhaling into the bristly midnight air, sat in pyjama bottoms and a tank top you feel the inclement cold slivering up your fingertips, giving you a case of raymond syndrome.

It’s quiet but peaceful laying against the green grass, taking in another drag from the narrow cylinder in between your lips, tasting the thick smog. You hear the sounds of heavy footsteps behind you, briefly turning over to see him before rolling your eyes and turning back to face the beautiful scenery in front.

Felix Catton. The owner of this beautiful home but it was safe to say you didn’t feel the same way about him, you felt absolute hatred towards him, you didn’t want to be here living it up with all the prissy rich people who loved to flash their money and talk about shit about people they wanted to but your best friend Farleigh begged you to come in his words it would be a ‘hell of a fucking experience’.

Was he irritable- yes but one thing you weren’t going to deny was that he was attractive who in their right mind would disagree, his dark brunette hair complimented his memorising earthy brown eyes, his height would make any person crease and that fucking cheshire smile got you every time.

You feel his presence lingering behind you, almost scared to even approach as you sat in silence for a few seconds, you gently tap the ashes from your cigarette into the grass and you dump the remains into the pond. “What do you want”

You voice is low but threatening, not moving from the current position your in. The sounds of his voice being caught in his throat is evident as he try’s to clear it with a soft cough, “Farley wanted to know where you were”

You scoff, turning around to meet his puppy doe eyes that seem to avoid your intimidating gaze. “So why did Farley send you out to find me”

“Well- I think we need to talk” he replies, voice cracking but confident.

“About ?” your head tilts to the side, eyebrow raised you just wanting the conversation to end so that you could go back to the peaceful silence.

“Do you hate me” the question catches you off guard, surprising you how forward Felix was about your loathing against him.

You sigh, cracking your neck and turning away from him watching the ripples from the pond spread out across the mass of the pond water. “What’s not to like about you….your an asshole, an ignorant rich boy who likes to laugh at those who are less fortunate than you and in general a massive slut”

It was true, Felix was known for being the university’s massive manwhore sleeping around with any girl that would throw themselves his direction, it not only disgusted you but it made you fucking jealous. In some twisted fucking way you wanted to be the one he would bend over and fuck the shit out of, hearing stories from your friends about how much of a good fuck he was made your distaste for him even stronger.

He’s lost for words not saying anything for a moment, you’ve think he’s finally got the hint and pissed off back into the house and you sigh in relief, laying back down on the floor but you hear his footsteps pace around you before stoping in front of you, blocking your view. “What the fuck are you-

It’s quick and sudden, falling onto his knees and grabbing your thighs pulling you towards him. Your confused and baffled, feeling how dizzy you were from the rapid movements as he goes to pull off your shorts along with your underwear.

“Felix get off of me what the fuck are you do-

You felt how embarrassingly wet you were, feeling vulnerable under Felixs unreadable face.

He lowers his face towards your wet pussy, the warm gush of air making you shiver as he finally lets his tongue gently lay across your swollen clit. You gasp, head falling to the ground as Felix gently sucked and nibbled at your sensitive bud.

Your body feels like it’s on fire, the blood flowing throughout your veins, making the beats in your heart beat faster as you unconsciously moan out. He grins, letting you grind into his face feeling the cold sensation of his tongue jewellery, create a cooling sensation on your cunt.

He’s slurping, lapping at your juices and letting out guttural moans, sending vibrations against your clit. He briefly looks up making eye contact with your starstruck eyes as he allows his thumb to gently circle around your bud.

He’s sensual and voluptuous almost making out with your leaking cunt as you try to stay quiet muttering curse words and praises hand, tangled into his greasy hair. You felt painful cramping restricting around your stomach, trying to distract the pain with the pleasurable sensation you were experiencing.

Felix stops for a second coming back up to see his face covered in your juices mixed in with your blood, the feeling dawned on you that it was your period blood on his face and you felt your face heat up as the embarrassment began to bubble in your chest. His finger slides between your folds before slipping it into his mouth, your laid there in shock as you watch how he moans around his fingers.

As if normal he resumes, eating you out more ferociously than before. “y-your fucking insane Felix fuckkkk”

He hums, letting his fingers rub your clit faster as you feel the intense feeling of an orgasm hit you before your slump on the ground, face flushed and mouth gaped open.

He comes back up with blood all over his face and a shit eating grin, “looks like someone’s lost for words”

“Fuck off Felix” your grinding into his hand and he chuckles licking his lips clean, “Seems like someone’s still desperate for my touch I thought you hated me princess ”

“I do hate you the only good thing about you is your tongue” you reply, going to stand up before he pushes you down.

“Since I’m only good for my tongue let’s see how fucking cock drunk you get for me, maybe it will change that bratty attitude” he sets himself beside you, sliding off his briefs before revealing his girthy curved cock, his tip scarlet red and leaking precum.

“Are you going to sit on it or not because I can just go and you can use your fucking hand to get off” your pissed but too aroused to fucking argue, climbing onto his lap and straddling over his tip before completely bottoming out on it. You both gasp slowly, feeling his hands go to grasp your ass before you begin to bounce on it.

You keep a set pace, grinding and vigorously bouncing on him, your hands wrapping around his neck. He invites you into a heated kiss, the taste of your period blood having a addicting sweet metallicy taste mixing in with your bitter tobacco taste.

The grunts and moans, emit from his chapped lips as he slaps your ass with a tight grip. “Look at you so eager to bounce on my fucking dick and I’m the fucking slut” you moan in response, your nails digging into his back leaving moon shaped crescents behind as you scratch and abuse his back.

Your panting feeling the fatigue hit you as he suddenly stops you, “Turn around and face the pond” you stop, turning around as he slips himself back inside you, making you gasp once again. He’s locked your arms with his hand and begins to bounce you on him making your head roll back into him, moaning feverishly the sounds of his harsh thrusts being heard from across the garden.

You feel his hand wrap around your neck pulling your head against his as he nibbles at your ear, “you should see how fucking sexy you look from here….so….fucking….pretty” he thrusts with every word so cock drunk for your brain to comprehend not caring if you could get caught fucking out in the open.

“I bet your wishing that someone would catch us out in the open as I fuck the shit out of you” he mutters, feeling his bruised lips against your nape, leaving love bites all over marking you as his.

“oh my god fuck- felix I’m going to come” you warn, your hands going to grip his thighs, feeling yourself clenching around his dick before you cum with a loud whimper, the warm feeling of his spunk releasing into you as he slows down his thrusts.

“Fuck babe you’ve made such a mess all over me” your still panting, fatigue hitting you as your both sat in silence feeling his heart racing against your back.

You turn around meeting the brunettes gaze before speaking, “Don’t get use to it, this is the last time I’ll ever do anything remotely sexually with you Catton”

“Noted”

You raise a brow, dying for the burning question on your tongue to be answered, “Who told you i hated you”

He smirks, “Farleigh…. he told me when he was going through his drunken rant”

“I’m going to kill that boy when I see him”

[miniimight]

DISAPPEARING ACT (II) .

part one

with married!rindou + fem!reader

warnings you've been asking for it so here it is almost a year later 💀 beware of subpar sequel syndrome and toxic relationships and alcohol and i dont know what im doing

bottles and bottles and bottles.

rindou's best friend was alcohol. any shape, any size, any kind. he wanted to drown himself in the buzz.

“god, rindou.” ran leaned over his knees, his elbows propping his torso up as he peered down at his baby brother. “would you get off the floor?”

rindou ignored him, laying on his back in the middle of his brother’s expansive top-floor apartment. "no."

ran rolled his eyes and walked away.

rindou sighed. he'd been at ran's place for the past few months. his house just felt... wrong. the light filtering in illuminated the dust suspended in the air, as if the house was abandoned. he didn't know where anything was. all he could think to do was sleep, shower, eat. takeout boxes littered the floor and he didn't have the energy to clean up after himself.

he sat up. "can't you talk to her for me?"

ran raised an eyebrow. "you aren't fifteen. you can talk to your own wife."

"i don't think she wants to be my wife anymore." rindou mumbled. "ran, she hates me."

ran frowned at his brother's distress. he hated seeing him this way. "she doesn't hate you, rin."

rindou whipped to face his brother with an exasperated expression. "she made it more than clear when she walked out on me when i was trying to make it up to her."

ran pursed his lips, giving rindou an unimpressed look.

rindou's expression darkened. "what?"

"you walked back into her life one day and randomly decided to care again." ran mused. "i'm just saying, your word means nothing to her."

rindou remained silent.

"rindou?" ran pressed.

"yeah, yeah, shut up. i get it." rindou scoffed. but he got off the floor. "i just..." he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking awkwardly out of place. "i don't know what do to. she doesn't respond to calls or texts. i think she blocked me."

"you know where she is?"

rindou rolled his eyes. "of course i know where she is."

"you love her?" ran stood.

rindou hummed. "more than anything."

"then show her. simple as that. but don't be stupid and think she's gonna come running into your arms again." ran slid his hands into his pockets. "that ship has sailed."

rindou glared at the ground. "everything i did—that i do—is for her. for the three of us. i wouldn't want—"

"i know, rin." ran threw an arm around his brother's shoulder. "i know. you do good. you just have to make sure she knows. you'll grow closer together again in no time."

"yeah, i'll do anything." rindou mumbled under his breath.

ran patted his back before walking off. rindou sighed, picking up another bottle.

.

a few months later and rindou seemed to be stuck in the same spot. he never leaves ran's house, only to release some steam in the form of violently and brutally killing people. every time he collapses into his brother's arms afterwards.

ran grunted as he threw his little brother into the backseat of his car. he yanked the latter's suit jacket off and inspected his skin. it was littered with purple bruises. "you're too reckless, rin. more than usual." ran frowned. rin never bruised this easily.

"i won the fight, didn't i?" rindou protested sleepily, shaking ran's hands off him and rifling through the cooler. his hands brushed over the cool bottles of booze, as if in a trance.

ran shut the car door, rapping his knuckles on the partition. "hospital."

rindou sat up just a little, popping the top of one of the bottles. "what are—"

ran snatched the bottle from rindou, dumping it out the car window, before locking the cooler. "this has got to stop. you drink too much, rindou. you're not doing yourself any favors here."

rindou scowled, drowsy. "what does it matter?"

ran groaned. "stop with that. get the fuck up and go see her."

rindou got quiet and slumped into his seat. he couldn't find the courage to see you again. he was scared that you were right about you two, that it was impossible to return to the way things were.

.

you sigh. "i know you're there."

it was a relatively quiet morning. you sat outside your regular coffee shop, enjoying a warm drink before wasting away yet another day to regret and despair.

you turned around in your seat ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of him.

ran haitani.

"i know you know." he smiled softly, sipping on an espresso.

you rolled your eyes, turning back in your seat. ran always said the stupidest things.

due to the abrupt nature of which you left, you had to find an emergency place. thankfully, a friend took you in with a big warm welcome and a long tight hug. you cried in their arms, releasing all the emotions you were so adamant on hiding from rindou. you apologized for dumping your burden on them. they didn't care.

you remembered the first time your brother-in-law showed up on your friend's doorstep. it was a few months since you left. he was dressed as a deliveryman, easily charming your friend into letting him stay over for a drink. you came home from errands, only to find a strange man in the kitchen.

once you saw those rings, though, you knew. a deliveryman couldn't afford all that gold.

he's been tracking you ever since you left. in the back of your mind, you knew that rindou would never be unaware of your location, but it was just juvenile to send his older brother in his place to 'keep tabs on you.'

now, year after your exit, ran was still popping up every now and again. a year since rindou declared he'd get you back, another year of empty promises.

the time made you realize that, yet again, you were still waiting for him.

"are you going to say something?" you asked.

"no."

"you never say anything—"

"just did."

"—so why are you here?"

you hear the chair scraping against the concrete as he gets up from his table, and the clopping of his shoes as he strolls closer to yours. you drops himself into the chair across from you, leaning back. "just looking out for my little sister, s'all."

you stared at him, something close to nostalgia and longing stirring in your chest. your eyes dropped down to your lap. "not your sister."

he downed the rest of his espresso and set it back on the table with a little clink.

a heavy silence weighed on the both of you as you avoided the elephant in the room like the plague.

he breathed deeply. "y/n—"

you held up a hand. "ran, it's been a year. let's all just move on."

"you're miserable. he's miserable. why not be miserable together?"

you raised your eyebrow.

ran droops a little. "he loves you."

you narrow your eyes, bitterness spilling from your lips. "oh! that's why you're here instead of him." you shook you head. "really, let it go."

"look," he groaned, running his hands through his hair stressfully. "i don't wanna be hovering over your shoulder anymore than you want me to. and yes, in an ideal world, rindou would be here in my place. i know for sure he wants to, fuck, he won't shut up about it." he laughed tensely, a light titter that was far from amusement.

he put both elbows on the table, dropping his face into his hands. "holy shit, y/n. he's doing so bad."

you chewed on your lip, jumping your first instinct to ask more.

"i know you think he was choosing to not be with you, but that's just your perspective, y/n. so far from the truth." he gripped his hair tightly. suddenly you noticed the bags under his eyes, the puffiness. the creased eyebrows and the deep frown.

you drew back as you watched ran collapse just a little before your eyes. it unnerved you.

you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. "i'm gonna go—" you stood, grabbing your bag.

ran's hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. "wait, wait. you know i wouldn't beg you if it wasn't really important."

you stared at him, a looming dread settling in your stomach. "ran, what's..." you had to laugh nervously, his slender hand ice cold over your skin. "you're scaring me. whatever he's going through—he's fine. he'll be fine. it's... just a breakup." even you didn't believe the words coming from your mouth.

since you knew the brothers from middle school, you've never seen ran haitani ever beg someone for something, or even be in a position to depend on someone else that much.

he pursed his lips. "rindou's refusing surgery."

.

rindou paced through the hospital wing. where was the exit again?

he needed to grab his phone. he stopped in the hallway, catching a glimpse of the break room.

he stumbled inside, ripping open the fridge and rifling around for something. anything. behind all the containers of lunches, he found a bottle of beer. not his standard, but it was something. and he needed it to feel something other than nothing.

he cracked it open and chugged as much as he could without throwing himself off balance, but he collapsed onto the couch anyways.

he heard, distantly, his nurse yell after him, running to help him sit upright.

she glanced at his face. "we told you to stay in your room, and only water from now on." she paused. "you're crying. any pain?"

"yeah," he slurred.

.

you blinked. "huh?"

ran stood up beside you. "acute liver failure. from a steady year of drinking himself to death. doctor said he needed surgery to cut off the bad part that's making him sick. and his dumbass is refusing to do it."

you blanched. you're kidding.

"he's been drinking since..." ran inhaled deeply, eyes squinting as he racked his memory. "since he turned a teenager, really. only gotten worse in the past year." he looked at you.

your mind was stuck on the death part. he's not supposed to die. he's not supposed to leave your life forever.

"he'll die without it." he said quietly.

"oh my gosh." you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your palms into your eyes. "you're not kidding?"

his gaze hardened. "i know you want nothing to do with him, but you're the last resort. since you're still married, you're his medical proxy. tell the doctors that he's unfit to make this decision and get him to do that fucking surgery."

"how long have you known that—"

"does it matter?" he cut you off.

yes. why didn't you tell me sooner?

"will you come or not? if you do, i'll get you your own place, with furnishings and everything." ran offered. "you can leave him behind forever, promise."

"no, no..." you stared at him briefly, a little hurt. you didn't need to be compensated for helping rindou. you didn't want to be.

you felt the dread settle. it rooted quickly and deeply as you came to terms with what was happening. you left him in a hurry, and your resolve was strong, but that pesky feeling of longing would just not let you go.

it kept reminding you that you've been through too much together to give up on each other now. that you really loved him.

was rindou a bad husband? yes.

did he deserve to die? no.

was he allowed to die? no.

.

the nurse dragged him back to bed, and after a quick call from ran, they suddenly had the idea of handcuffing him to the railings so he doesn't run off and shorten his lifespan again.

rindou's blown eyes focused on the ceiling. as much as he could. his vision was blurring. the alcohol wasn't working. the emptiness in his stomach was still there. but he kept reaching for it. the burn of it was supposed to keep him warm but each day he grew colder.

his doctor rushed to his side, quickly glancing over his stats before leaning over his bedside, imploring him. "you're dying, haitani. this surgery will save your life. success rates—"

"stop saying that shit..." he groaned. "i don't fucking care."

a gentle knock on the door caught his fuzzy attention.

"doctor?" you chirped softly, ran standing behind you.

holy shit, rindou thought. i'm dead. cuz he just thought he heard your voice.

"yes?" the doctor replied.

you held out your hand. "hi. mrs. haitani," you introduced yourself.

"o-oh..." the doctor shook your hand delicately.

rindou shot up in bed, as much as he could without the handcuffs restricting him. "y/n?"

"yeah," you dropped your bag onto his bedside table. you smoothed his hair away from his forehead, gently pushing him back against the bed.

he stared at you in his delirium, watching you like you were his savior, his angel.

"rindou," you told him. "you are doing this surgery."

he stared for a bit longer, committing every detail of your face to memory and drowning in the wells of your eyes. you gave him an expectant look, and he slowly nodded before the motion became feverish.

"yes. yes, whatever you want." he quickly agreed. "holy shit."

"that easy? seriously?" ran deadpanned, crossing his arms in exasperation.

"holy shit, ran." rindou whispered. "is she really here?" he stared at you as if you were some ghost. your heart tensed thinking of how he got to this point.

ran rolled his eyes.

you finalized things with the doctor and confirmed the surgery before you nodded to the brothers. "well... that's that."

rindou sat up in his bed, the handcuffs clattering against the metal framing. “stay. please, stay with me.”

“i’m gonna— yeah.” ran held up his hands and quickly left the room.

you couldn’t do much but stare at him. he looked even worse than the last time you saw him. his hair had grown out, stubble poked through, and the bags under his eyes were concerning.

“please, stay a moment?” he asked. you nodded and soundlessly sat on the bed. you frowned at his handcuffs.

“what happened?”

“i wandered around again so the nurses chained me to the bed.”

“ah.”

an awkward silence passed.

“i’m sorry.” rindou whispered.

you kept your eyes trained on the floor, hiding the surprise on your face at his quick apology.

“i made a promise to you when we were kids, but i never grew up. i always knew you’d be waiting for me. until you weren’t.” he mumbled. “and i panicked.”

he scooted closer to you and you heard the cuffs clang against the framing once again. “i’m sorry most of all for not running after you.”

you glared at the ground. “you said you would.”

“i did.” he whispered. “baby, i’m sorry. after this surgery, i promise i’ll change. i’m not asking you to teach me—that’s not on you. just… nudge me when i’m being an asshole. guide me to be better. talk to me, tell me what i do wrong, and i’ll fix it. i swear this will never happen again.”

you met his eyes and suddenly you were seventeen again, locking pinkies to seal your vows to each other. “if you let me down a second time—”

“no.” rindou denied vehemently. “no, there won’t be. it’s me and you, forever.”

you gave him a look. you stood and fished a bobby pin out of your bag, holding the cuffs up and fiddling the pin around in the keyhole. within seconds, his wrists were released.

“you’re pretty good at that.” rindou said.

“i mean, i do have a crime boss for a husband,” you shrugged.

he grinned and a boyish chuckle bubbled up. “yeah you do.” free from his shackles, he grabbed you and pulled you down onto him.

.

© miniimight ! thanks for reading <3

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

HONEY, I’M HOME ─── jackson rippner ✧♤

ೃ⁀➷ “You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.” — ‘Letters to Milena’, Franz Kafka

pairing. jackson rippner x assassin!reader

summary. jackson hires a prostitute the night before meeting his target. only thing is, you’re not a prostitute— you’re an assassin hired to kill him. but he catches your eye, and instead, you keep him for yourself.

warnings. swearing, creampie, p in v, unprotected sex, slight housewife kink, kidnapping, drugging, pretty toxic relationship lmao, somnophilia, dubcon, hate-sex kinda, guns, choking, stockholm syndrome, cervix fucking, jackson gets a taste of his own medicine basically😭, SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 6.1k

a/n. OKAY i know i said it was going into the direction of dom!reader but i got possessed and now,,, now we have this hate sex filth🫡

i. 

When Jackson comes to, the very first thing his mind registers in your perfume. It’s sweet and vanilla-y and entirely intoxicating, sending his mind whirling back to prehistoric days, childhood days, a vague mother figure he’d long forgotten about pressing sugar cookie dough onto a metal pan. 

Instead, as Jackson’s eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the bright, warm lamp-light curling around him and the various furniture in the room, he sees you, sitting in front of him on the floor. 

Your knees are pulled up and tucked under your chin, and it seems you’ve fallen asleep, your face peaceful and serene as soft inhales and exhales of breath leave you. 

You look like a pure angel, dolled up in a silk lace dress and neat bows so pristinely Jackson swore he could see a halo resting above your soft locks, but he knows you’re someone who can kill — has killed.

Jackson had been staying in a motel, readying himself to meet the target he was stalking the next day — some politico's daughter, y’know, perfect blackmail material — when you’d knocked on his door, dressed in a skanky skintight dress and garter belt, promising some fun for a flimsy fifty. 

Prostitution was illegal in this state, but Jackson had some money and time to kill — plus, if he didn’t get something now he’d probably fuck his target, which wasn’t really encouraged considering he could get attached, all that bullshit job professionalism. He wouldn’t, obviously, but his higher-ups didn’t think the same.

So he agreed; you looked stupid enough, and with that nice pair on you, those sweet curves, you were bound to be a good fuck. And you were definitely enough for him to handle— handle killing, he meant. It’d be easy: get you a little tipsy ‘cause it was his “kink” or some shit like that, kill you when you’re coming, dispose of your body, and meet the target in the morning. 

But then you’d kissed him, hungry and desperate and rough, and totally, completely, slipping the pill tucked under your tongue down his throat. 

Jackson realized immediately, his hands darting to the gun he had tucked in his belt, but you punched him in the stomach and the jaw before he could even undo the safety. And then he’d done it: he’d swallowed the drug, and the effects were instantaneous, the connection between his thoughts and his limbs losing focus, body sluggish like he was wading through water.

So suddenly had the situation had gone from him hiring a prostitute to getting fucking drugged by one, and he felt his composure slipping, the outrage burning in his lungs. Jackson thought himself to be a logical, well-thought out man who planned things to the tee, and this was not fucking following his plan. 

“What did you - do t’ me?!” He spat, voice growing slurred, bent over and clutching his stomach. 

“Mm,” you considered telling him, pursing your lips and watching him sway back and forth, “just a little something to calm you down. But, honey, I think you better sit down… it's not a mild drug.” 

“Answer my fucking—“ Jackson started caustically, then felt that familiar pins and needles sensation appear in his arms, then spread to his legs, before finally falling to the floor. 

“See?” You cooed, standing above him. You watched him struggle against the drug for a moment, before grinning and pulling him up off the floor onto the bed. 

Jackson listlessly fought your touch, slowly thrashing and kicking at you; his limbs may have grown numb, but his inhibitions had not lowered whatsoever, nor his paranoia. Good paranoia, in this situation, just not so good that it kicked in before you shoved a paralytic down his throat. 

You rolled your eyes, sitting down beside him and pushing his head onto your lap, digging your elbow into his chest to make him stay in place. 

Jackson choked at the pressure, blinking rapidly. “Who th- the -- fuck are you?” 

“I’m an assassin, honey. I’m gonna kill you — or, y’know, I’m supposed to kill you.” You beamed at him, “but I can’t do that, now can I? That’d be a waste of such a pretty face.”

Jackson’s brows knitted exasperatedly, mouth contorting to speak, but nothing came out. In fact, his mouth hadn’t been moving at all— his face had grown numb, now blankly staring up at you. 

“There we go,” you said happily. “The drug’s all kicked in now, hasn't it? I’ll speak freely, ‘cause y’can’t answer me anymore, not even scream or cry.”

You sighed, your shoulders slumping like you were finally able to fucking relax, and began petting his hair before continuing. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you? Stalking that politician’s daughter… were you gonna fuck her? Threaten her dad, have some fun, then kill them both?” 

Jackson’s breathing grew more furious, eyes widening— or, they would’ve, if he could move. This was about his job, about the target, not just some fucking freak accident and a crazy prostitute. 

You frowned, shaking your head. “You’ve gotta do more research on the people you blackmail, honey— Mr. Politican’ll do anything to keep his little princess safe. Even murder.”

You then got up, and Jackson watched you pull something out of your tights, unable to respond or protest or even fucking move, frozen still on the cheap motel mattress.

“But like I said, you’re too cute to die like that. I think I’ll keep you for myself.” You winked, before pricking him in the neck with the needle that was hidden in your tights. 

His breath hitched, but there was no use: black quickly curled into the edges of his vision, and one second passed, then another, then he was out. 

That brought him back to now, waking up with his arms handcuffed behind him and his legs tied roughly to a wooden chair. He rustled, pulling against the cuffs as quietly as possible, gaze still obsessively trained on your every micro-movement.

But it didn't matter: your eyes opened the moment you’d heard his breath catch and stutter, and you got up lightly, dreamily, like you were some figment of Jackson’s imagination rather than a psychopathic kidnapping assassin. 

“Morning, honey,” you whispered, getting up off the floor, rubbing your eyes and yawning. But he didn’t respond, still pulling at his restraints, eyes thinned and focussed. 

“Are you mad at me?” You whined with a frown, circling around his chair and playfully covering his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry. I’ll buy some cute lingerie, give you a little show… do you like lace? Or maybe leather?”

Jackson’s nostrils flared, growing irate and incredulous at your antics, and he snapped. “Do you really think you can keep me here? Make me play fucking house with you?” He shouted groggily, body still feeling the aftereffects of not one, but two, drugs. 

You blinked numbly, hand finding his face, and you pressed his cheeks together, making him look up at you. “I won’t make you play house with me, Jackson. But it's the only thing you can do. You’re dead.” 

Your tone had gone cold, using his real name instead of your pet-one, expression going blank and completely unfeeling at his words. Then, you fumbled for something on the wooden vanity beside you two before lifting it up to his face. 

It read: TERRORIST GROUP LEADER’S REMAINS FOUND IN RED-EYE FLIGHT WRECK.

Jackson’s lips parted, feelings riddled half in shock and half in utter fury, gaze shaky as it flitted back and forth between you and the newspaper you were holding up. “I’m fucking—“

“Alive, I know. That’s kinda the point,” you finished his sentence with a chuckle, shaking your head like any of this was a joking matter. “When a plane goes down and catches fire, burning everybody, they won’t individually check who's who, honey. If there’s a name on the seat, there’s someone in it, and they’re dead… you’re as good as dead.”

Jackson’s eyebrows were still knit, but he suddenly stared straight ahead, listening to you silently and trying to make sure you were still too focussed on explaining theatrically to realize he was about to dislocate his thumb. 

He could deal with the stool later — he just needed to get his arms free and escape. What with your grating voice and the fucking pronunciation of death you’d forced upon him, god, his fury was rising quickly, and he wanted nothing more right now than to fucking kill you. 

You finished your explanation, peering deeply into his bright blue eyes, and you were about to wrap your arms around his neck and press him comfortingly to your chest when he successfully freed himself, and his hands shot out from behind him to strangle you. 

His fingers curled around your neck extremely easily, tightening and contracting around the thing snugly. Jackson was seeing red, the anger accumulated from every little insane fucking thing you did to him bursting. 

You struggled against him, your mouth opening and closing pitifully, leaning down into his grip— until your lips tilted upwards, a devilishly cheshire smile digging into your cheeks like it was an expression God never intended you to make. 

Jackson only realized you’d taken his gun away from him when he felt the tip of the barrel kiss his temple, cold and clammy. He was still disoriented, and didn’t exactly comprehend all the facts ‘till they fucking punched him in the face. Or, in this case, threatened to shoot him point blank. 

“L’mme - l’mme go, h’ney,” you whispered raspily, your eyes stuttering in their socket as he pressed deeper. Simultaneously, completely on instinct, you pressed the gun further into his skin.

“You’re too fucking weak to fire that gun,” he growled, digging his thumbs into the neat notch in the middle of your neck, his fingernails scratching bloody marks into your sensitive skin.

But you frowned weakly, and then Jackson heard that all familiar click, making him blanch. The strength in his hands didn’t falter, however— it got angrier, more desperate, like you wouldn’t automatically shoot him if he just translated his wrath into his grip.

“I d’nt- w’nna k-kill you,” you shook your head a bit, but both your threats remained the same: his hands making you go lightheaded, go blue, and the gun in yours making him sweat, the image of you splattering his brain against the wall clear as day. 

Jackson felt your finger twitch, and he closed his eyes, grip going tense then faltering completely: if you shot him now, there was no point holding on. But you did the same— you thought he’d snap your neck right then and there, so you pulled away.

Just as quickly as you two had attacked one another, your resolves’ had crumbled, murderous intent clearing the room like someone had opened a window and let it all out. Silence filled it back up instead, a steady tension permeating with it, and it was fucking suffocating. 

“What do you - want from me, exactly?” Jackson questioned first, several long moments later, words slow and collected. He’d try to calm himself and hide his anger away for later, because he now knew that you meant for him to meet only two ends here: forever with you, or forever dead— and neither were ends he was intending to have.

To escape, crawl under your nose and perhaps kill you along the way, he’d need to know the rules— play your little game. This cat and mouse mess could be done in a flash, and he fucking knew you had a weakness. He could feel it in your touch, how you gripped him, the lonely warble in your insane words. 

Sure, you kidnapped him and were calling him honey, treating him like he was your plaything, but Jackson had always been good at reading people, even before he’d become an amalgamated mess of an assassin, terrorist and blackmailer: you needed someone in your life— be it a husband or a hostage.

You got down on one knee, looking up at him through your wet lashes, breathing still ragged. One of your hands took his own dislocated one, while the other fished through your silk dress pockets, pulling out a gold band ring identical to the one gleaming prettily on your left hand. 

You didn’t answer his question saying for you to marry me or for you to love me— both things Jackson would expect you to say, especially with your oddly profound obsession with him (despite the fact he was positive you’d only known him for a few weeks at most.) No, you’d smiled, a lovely duchenne one, rosy-cheeked like a fucking schoolgirl confessing to her crush, not an assassin who’d kidnapped him, and said, “For you to be mine.” 

Your hand curled around his dislocated thumb and quickly snapped it, cruel and rough but perfectly back in place, before you slipped the ring onto his finger shakily, and brought his hand up to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. 

“You’re mine,” you repeated in a whisper, sounding every bit like a warning rather than a celebration. 

ii.

After a few days of living with— or, more accurately, being held captive by you, Jackson thought he had you all figured out. It usually only took a few days for him and a target to become acquainted anyway; mutual acquaintance or not.

He found that the warmer he treated you, the more freedom he’d have. Like, after you slipped the ring on his finger, you undid the ropes tying his legs. A reward, you’d said, for accepting your… unity. 

But you still switched out the clinky metal cuffs for zip ties. “I can’t have you doing that nifty little thumb trick anymore, can I?” you explained. “But I still want you to walk around. Take a tour of the rest of your life, honey.”

Then, you told him you had to go to work — to which Jackson rolled his eyes, considering assassination wasn’t exactly what he’d call work, though, he would also have to call himself a hypocrite — and left. Jackson wasn’t shy about roaming about the house, especially to look for a fucking escape, but he was firstly confronted with the sheer size of the place you’d locked him in. 

Where he’d first waken up was the master bedroom, long and wide with a king poster bed and canopy, a pair of couples vanities side by side, two walk-in closets and one large ensuite. The rest of the house was the same, being two stories tall and terribly extensive: Jackson ran out of fingers on his hands to count how many rooms were in it. 

By the time he’d combed through the entire house — discovering a measly two possible escape routes in the process — it was dark outside, and you entered through a front door Jackson couldn’t find for the fucking life of him. 

It was appalling, firstly how spontaneous and carefree you were whilst simultaneously thinking of everything that could go wrong, and secondly, how up to par your skills were to his. He wasn’t one to gloat, but he knew just as well as his coworkers that he was a large step above the rest— and it seemed you were, too, the only equal he’d encountered in his line of work… and the only person who’d bested him. 

“Honey, I’m home!” You sing-songed in the hallway, poking your head into each and every room for Jackson’s familiar form. 

Jackson had settled back in the master bedroom, sitting on the very chair you’d untied him from that morning, and when you finally found him you cooed. “Aw, baby, you don’t hafta’ stay here all day.” You said, lifting his chin to look up at you.

Jackson grit his teeth, his temper suddenly getting the best of him, and he spat at you. But the effect didn't work nearly as well as intended: you didn’t even wince, merely blinking and bringing two fingers to your cheek and wiping the slick off. You pouted at him for a second, made your eyes real big and pitiful, before kissing him on the cheek… and shoving your spit-slicked fingers into his mouth, making him gag. 

It looked like you were enjoying his suffering, before pulling away a moment later. “Well, no matter,” you said, brushing his actions off and regaining your happy mood. “I know you weren’t really here all day, honey.” 

Jackson’s lips parted, eyes thinning suspiciously. “What the fuck are you—“

You suddenly pulled out your phone, showing camera angles from all throughout the house… and more startlingly, previous footage of him, scouring the house’s windows and poking through the various furniture and rooms earlier in the day. “You are quite the curious cat.”

“You have a camera?” He asked indignantly. Honestly, he should’ve expected it: it’s like, what do you get when you have a captive itching to escape and an obsessive, head-over-heels captor with plenty of money on her hands? 

“Several,” you preened, “so don’t bother escaping.”

Then, you hooked your arm into his and dragged him to one of the (many, many) dining rooms.

“Now, I’ve never exactly had a hostage before,” you offered, pushing him into one of your cushy walnut dining chairs, “so I just realized you haven’t eaten. God, I’m so sorry, honey, you must be starving.”

With that, you ducked into the large kitchen a room away, and then returned holding a steaming plate of something, setting the dish down in front of him. “It’s not exactly, y’know, fine dining,” you said, picking up the spoon hidden in the food and scooping up some peas, “but it’s home-cooked. Not my home cooking, obviously, it is -- was, a target’s. I had a plate earlier, don’t worry, it’s good.”

Jackson stared at you, mind spinning with the information you were nonchalantly throwing at him: you were feeding him, your hand holding the cutlery, his mouth around it like he was fucking six, and the person who had made this food was dead, having had their throat slit or something. 

But there was another thing in Jackson’s mind, a tiny, weak voice within him that told him to just shut the hell up and eat the damn food. His survival instinct, probably, but then it went on to think that you weren’t that bad, feeding him and keeping him safe from the police in this nice, grand house— and Jackson squished the voice. No fucking way in hell was he experiencing early stage stockholm syndrome. 

At his reluctance, you frowned, and forced the spoonful in his mouth. “Eat,” you scolded, and fed him till the whole plate was finished. 

He ate, of course, not because of the little bitch voice in his head, but because of the fact that he actually was really fucking hungry. The gesture seemed to warm your heart, for some fucked up reason, and you later sat in the livingroom with him and loosened his zipties. 

There was a brief moment, however, that Jackson felt even an iota of fear: when his hands were slightly free, he immediately reached to grab you— he was taller, stronger, and could certainly defeat you in mere moments. 

But your sneaky fingers tightened his restraints at the drop of a hat, your head butting his jaw so he fell back on the couch. “Try anything,” you warned, tone suddenly dark, “and I will break your fucking wrist.”

At his tentative, jaw slightly dropped, shaky nod, a cold sweat beaming down from his temple, you dissolved into a fit of laughter at his expression and undid his ties once more. This time, your hand held his in an intimate death grip, thumb curled sweetly around the wrist, that warning still ringing in his head.

He was learning how to play the game, though. His captor’s behavior. What you liked, what you didn’t. The extent of your mercy. 

Jackson cleared his throat, searching for a question that might make you open up. “…What’s your name, anyway?” Yes, he didn’t even know your fucking name, and he doubted that the tacky prostitute name you’d given him initially was your real one. 

You looked up at him, surprised he’d speak first, nonetheless to know more about you. So, you indulged, and told him your name, things you liked, didn’t like, your hobbies… all normal people stuff— y’know, first date stuff. 

“I keep forgetting you don’t know a thing about me,” you confessed, leaning your head on his stiff figure, “‘cause I’ve known you for a very long time.”

Jackson’s breath hitched. “How so?” he said, trying not to give away his eagerness; he was going through all the steps he did when first meeting a target, like being kind and sweet, respectful and attentive, really buttering them up and coaxing information from them, before going in for the kill. In Jackson’s current case, the “kill” was a kiss. 

It’d be something chaste, nervous, like he was unwittingly slipping into your trap and couldn’t help the warmth bubbling within him toward you, so you would fall into his; hook, line, and sinker… and maybe completely undo his zipties. He’d have to lay low for a few days, obviously, and build up that obsessive trust of yours, before going in for the literal kill. 

But then again, Jackson, with that delirious little ego of his, kept forgetting your skills were up to par with his, and you were the first and only person to ever fucking best him. 

You grinned thinly, knowing exact what he was doing, noticed the pattern his words went in, trying to shepherd the conversation to get the answers he wanted, and you pulled away from him. “I’ll tell you another day, honey. M’gonna go to bed,” you whispered sleepily, redoing his zipties. “Join me. I don’t like it when you tire yourself out.”

And so you left, and Jackson watched your hips sway, legs carrying you down the long hallway into the master bedroom. As soon as you were out of direct view, he sucked in a sharp breath, seething angrily. 

Fuck, he thought, the realization of his predicament settling within in him at last. He’d always been told this: if you didn’t believe you could escape your situation within the first day, you would never escape at all. He thought it a silly mantra, because he’d always devised an escape plan after thinking on it for a few long moments. 

Never did he think he’d find himself in a situation where that actually fucking applied, never did he think he’d meet his equal, and never in his entire, terrorizing existence, did he think he’d be helpless.

But Jackson had to persevere. Had to. He had not survived every terrible incident thrown at him in his tired lifetime, just to accept this. And so, he went to bed with you, the zipties rubbing his pale skin raw, and he watched the shadows on the roof shift with every hour that passed. 

He did not sleep, certainly not with you by his side, and though it looked like it, you did not either. It was the paranoia of two terribly similar people; gaze dancing in the dark and never finding each others, waiting for the moment one of you snapped and you had to attack or defend. 

The next day, and the next day after that, he went to bed beside you. Just like that, turned into weeks turned into months turned into seasons changing, and the zipties became cloth became your hand holding his. 

It was a culmination of feigned loving, fake vulnerability, and pretending he’d gotten Stockholm syndrome that got him to this point. Every “honey, i’m home,” or kiss or hug or pet-name you stabbed into him, he returned with a “welcome home, honey”, a peck on the cheek, a hand holding yours, his venomous tone switched like a light into something sweet, soft. 

One night, with his newly ziptie-free arms wrapping around you, your back nestling sweetly against his torso, he has to remind himself that it is not real. None of it was real: he was not your husband, you were not his wife, you did not love each other, you were not normal fucking people— you were the captive and the captor. 

Jackson had to remind himself he didn’t actually love you, because that night he thought: if you used him, he would use you. He would take you whenever he wanted, like how you used him. A man has needs, he thought, and being trapped in this house with you meant those needs could be met. 

It reminded him of when you first met— not the kidnapping part, of course, but of the kissing and the touching, your tits pressing softly against his chest, his hands following the swell of your ass. 

With a start, he realized he’d had some kind of unintentional celibacy enacted upon him: he couldn’t fuck anyone other than you, obviously, having been trapped in that house, but he never entertained the idea of fucking you because he hated you. You don’t fuck the bitch you’re planning to kill any day now. 

But your warm body against his awoke something in him, his forced celibacy unable to survive against the pure lust he felt filling him now. You were beautiful, undeniably, with pliant thighs and delicate curves he could see himself getting between animalistically, roughly, a kind of morbid sexual revenge against your captivity of him. It helped entirely that this was the most vulnerable he’d seen you, completely without any weapons, curled warmly into his side. 

After studying your breathing for a few seconds, ensuring you were still asleep, Jackson carefully slipped away from you to kneel in front of you in the middle of the bed. He admired your night getup: those silk dresses you adored to wear at home, and absolutely no underwear. 

He then pried your soft thighs open slightly, dipping his head between them and losing himself in the sweet scent of your cunt, before chancing a stripe up to your clit. He flattened his tongue, wanting to collect your taste on it completely, and you merely sighed, turning over slightly and widening your legs in your sleep, like you somehow knew what he was doing and wanted it. 

He pressed his mouth up to your cunt fully now, his nose hitting your mound as he devoured you, tongue filling every crevice and fold you had like he was starving. Your small whimpers and breathy sighs grew louder now, more frequent, and then Jackson suddenly pulled away, satisfied with how he readied your hole.  

Jackson shimmed himself out of his boxer shorts, a pair with silly little hearts he’d never seriously buy for himself— you bought them, as soon as you’d captured him, clearly having fun with the utter control you could display on him, down to his fucking undergarments. 

He shook himself slightly, refocussing on the matter at hand: fucking into your glistening cunt. There was something oddly empowering about doing this to you when you couldn’t protest, regaining some control over his own fucking life by terrorizing yours. 

But he wasn’t sure you’d fucking care anyway: he knew you liked to peek around the corner when he was showering, “accidentally” walking in when he was in the middle of changing, not-so subtly bending down and pressing your ass to his crotch. 

He sighed slightly, rubbing his hand up and down on his hard length in the dark, before lining it up with your entrance. Jackson muffled the groan that curdled in his throat with his large hand, breathing shakily and finally pushing past your slick folds. You were soaking, and he didn’t know if it was because of his previous foreplay or if you were just naturally like this, all horny because he slept beside you at night. He wouldn’t put it past you if that was the case: your obsession with him was clear in every single way. 

You made a noise in your sleep, and Jackson froze, hands instinctively coming up to press lightly against your throat — an unconscious thing on his part, formed when his hands had been zip tied and the only thing he could do was choke you, unable to grip any weapon properly. But you didn’t wake up; your face merely screwed together, before smoothing out and returning to blissful unconsciousness. 

Jackson let out a sigh of pleasure and relief, your walls clenching around his pulsing cock. He gripped the sheets beside your head and began thrusting in and out of you: at first gently, afraid to wake you up, but as the minutes dripped past, Jackson grew desperate, fucking into your cunt roughly. He wanted to abuse your tight little pussy, stretch you wide open and take you for everything you had. 

“Fuck,” he grunted under his breath, snapping his hips harder against yours, “Fuck!” 

His exclamation of sexual satisfaction startled you awake, but he didn’t notice how your eyes moved behind your eyelids, too focussed on pounding his rock-hard cock into you. For all the insanity and behavioral issues God gave you, he certainly made up for it in the way he crafted your cunt: extremely warm and easily wet, a sticky hole that sucked him in but was still cramped, like it was begging him to force your walls open. 

“Honey?” you murmured foggily, wrapping your arms around his neck. You were about to speak again, when Jackson suddenly found your g-spot, and rammed continually into it, making a filthy mewl leave your lips. 

“Fuck, you woke up?” Jackson cursed, looking at you for the first time. His thrusts were unrelenting, though, now not caring if you’d woken up and just wanting to feel your hole squeeze around him again. 

“Jackson, I was - sleeping,” you squeaked out, hands moving to his back and digging your nails into the skin.

“That’s kinda the point,” Jackson mocked, tone sarcastic and peeved like you were interrupting him. “And don’t fucking fight it,” he warned angrily, hand leaving the mattress and roughly squeezing one of your tits through the fabric of your nightdress, “‘cause I’m not stopping ‘till I come.”

You pouted fake-sadly at his words, but your back arching gave you away, keening when he kneaded your tit too meanly and made a shock of pain run up your body. “Feels so good,” you grinned sweatily, but he just rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” he sighed, throwing his head back, “didn’t fucking ask what you thought.” 

He pushed your face to the side so he was looking at your jaw, more content with treating you like just some hole, but you didn’t care: he, your darling, was fucking you. He wanted you so bad he fucked you when you weren’t even awake. God, you could’ve kissed him right then and there, but he probably would’ve hit you. (Not that you would mind… but you wanted your honey to take control, have it his way for a bit.)

Jackson rutted into you fast and selfish, your eyes rolling to the back of your head at the violent way he fucked you: your sick pleasure came at the expense of your weeping cunt, which was trembling in the stinging pain he was inflicting, cockhead stretching you wide. 

Then, Jackson’s hands slid down to your hips, so he could shove his cock deeper into your cunt, pressing his weight so heavily onto your chest you could barely breathe. He groaned; you were clearly affected by the action, bearing down on his cock suddenly, and he reveled in the ecstacy. 

He fucked you slightly and slower, and you only realized what he’d been doing when he leaned down to get a better angle, bullying the head of his cock against your cervix: he was trying to fuck into you further, push his dick so close, so snug against your womb that there was no doubt in hell his load would impregnate you. His actions were dictated not by any sense of reason, but by a crude, carnal desire, wanting nothing more but to make you scream. 

And you did scream alright, a breathy, brutal scream; a mix of whimpering pain at the way his head pushed against you, and of shameful, drooling pleasure, his delicious length making you feel fucking bloated, you were so full.

One of Jackson’s hands reached up to your head to pull your hair, making you whine at the pain of the tug, and he growled out a string of curse words, before thrusting his cock so angrily it was like a punishment, surely bruising your cervix, and releasing his thick load deep inside. His come flooded your cunt, pumping you full of his salty cream, fucking you still. 

Jackson then panted raggedly, feeling your gummy walls tense at the pain of him pulling out, flopping down beside you. “Does it hurt?” he asked you absently, pulling his boxer shorts back up to his hips. 

You bit your lip as you clenched your thighs together, whining slightly at the pain blooming deep within your abused cunt, and at the loss of pleasure— you hadn’t come after all, Jackson being entirely selfish in his fucking. “Uh-huh,” you murmured weakly, feeling the strength in your body leave you completely. “You’re a mean one, honey.”

“Good,” Jackson said, chuckling darkly. It was the first laugh you’d heard rumble out of him the entire time you’d held him captive, and you drank it in: it was pleasant and breezy, like cold water on a hot day. It was certainly out of place, such a gleeful laugh after savagely fucking you, but you welcomed it anyway. 

Jackson suddenly grabbed you by the waist, pulling you flush to his chest. “M’gonna use your hole whenever I want, and you’re gonna take my cock no matter what, ‘till you’re begging me to stop,” he growled in your ear, making goosebumps break out on your clammy skin. “Least you can do for fuckin’ kidnapping me, you psychotic bitch.”

“Oh,” you purred, batting your lashes up at him, “it’d be my pleasure to be your fucktoy.”

Jackson grinned, at you, for you, and you thought to yourself that kidnapping him was the best thing you ever fucking did. 

iii.

Somewhere, muddled between you kidnapping him, the two of you almost killing eachother, and him fucking you dumb, Jackson caved, and he started to believe he actually loved you. His mind didn’t have any qualms accepting that you were his new life— living in your house, only knowing you, and only ever talking to you. 

Maybe it was stockholm syndrome, or those delicious fantasies you’d whisper in his ear at night (“Y’know, honey, it’s really you who should be saying you’re home. What do you think, huh? You coming home from a long day of work to me, in my panties and an apron, no bra and a sweet, home-cooked meal on the table. Dessert’ll be, of course, me,”) or maybe it was just you.

You, despite your terrible job and seriously obvious insanity, being the epitome of fuckable: horny when he was, a talented, needy mouth, able to take anything he gave you to while always going back to being tight as fuck, and intensely eager to have him.

You, who controlled his life, and he, who controlled you. The way you treated each other was probably illegal somewhere, but in that house not even the fucking law mattered. (You still remember when Jackson got his gun back, and he teased your clit with the cold tip till you creamed down the barrel… a terribly memorable story that always made you groan.)

Jackson was extremely well aware that there was something strange about your relationship, and not just the fact it occurred in the strangest way possible, but that he was essentially giving up to you— losing his inhibitions, at least against you. Something about… putting his well being in your hands. His needs. His wants. His life. Spending the rest of his life with you; in this house, accepting life and no escape. 

But still, for a man like Jackson, who had long since accepted that he wasn’t cut out for a life of normalcy, a life of love, this certainly wasn’t a bad way of living. He had a house nicer than anything he’d ever lived in, didn’t have to work, could do whatever he wanted all day, and got to pound his cock into your perfect little pussy every single night. 

[s-awturn]

Just For Today || FC43

summary: They only needed one day. Nothing more.

cw: anguish, comfort, silly enmity, hidden feelings, emotional support. It follows the same timeline as “Natural Enemies”.

a/n: yes, another drabble with Franco, does anyone think it's bad?

“I don't have the patience for your silly jokes, Y/N,” he said, his drawl heavy on every word. The girl rolled her eyes and sat down next to him, taking a chocolate bar out of his raincoat pocket.

“Shut up and eat, no one gets sad over chocolate, idiot,” she said, pushing a small piece of the candy against his lips. Franco swallowed the chocolate in surprise, it wasn't exactly what he was expecting when she invaded his room; They both ate in silence, watching the rest of the race on the TV attached to the wall. “You know it would have been fine if it hadn’t been raining, right?” she muttered, still chewing on the chocolate. Franco shrugged, taking another bite of the treat.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, I’m already out,” he retorted.

“Oh, shut up, Colapinto,” she said, hitting his shoulder with a stinging slap. “It’s your first season in Formula One, and you already have points, something your predecessor didn’t manage to do... Not that I want to compare you and Logan, but do you see what you did? You're great, even if you're Argentinian.”

“Why are you doing this? you hate me”

“Uh yeah, I hate you and only I can bring you down... You're going to have a lot of bad races, you're going to quit in the middle of the race or you're not even going to participate, and it's okay, these things happen, you can't weaken now” she squeezed his thigh, emphasizing her words “look where you've come, you're racing in the highest category of racing, you overtook Lewis Hamilton today, Franco, stop with this impostor syndrome, you have many races ahead of you, this is just one of many others”

“Why are you really doing this, Y/N?” he finally turned around, facing the girl. The Brazilian girl appreciated the lines the balaclava had made on his face and how beautifully messy his curls looked.

“Because you deserve to be here, Franco,” she was sincere, watching him swallow noisily, “As much as any other idiot out there and I won’t allow you to think about giving up.”

“You are strange”

“It’s my best quality,” she assured. “For today, I don't hate you, let's pretend we don't hate each other... Just for today”

“Just for today,” he said, even though he knew he hadn’t hated her for a long time. Y/N made him lay his head on her lap and absentmindedly, she slid her fingers through his hair, recording every detail of his profile, or how his expensive perfume seemed more intense there in that little room. For just one day, she allowed herself to show what she really felt, just for today.

[angelsknifeprty]

streamer!ellie hcs ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

a/n: this is more focused on ellie and less on ellie x reader but i am for sure gonna follow this up with something else more focused on the both of you >:3

warnings | mentions of weed, the smallest hint towards struggling with eating if you squint

word count: 698

do not buy tlou | ways to help palestine | operation olive branch | keep eyes on sudan | haiti’s history | learn about congo

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ started off posting unlisted videos of her playing games with the stupidest, shittiest editing ever for you and her friends to watch and later decided to give streaming a try

‎ ‧₊˚౨ৎ starts off her twitch channel as a faceless streamer but does a face reveal when she hits a big milestone

‧₊˚౨ৎ has the creeper mini fridge for sure!!

‧₊˚౨ৎ has a ginger cat named garfield that she exclusively calls garfunkel on stream because her viewers made fun of her for garfield being too unoriginal

“guys, what do you mean it’s unoriginal, look at him. that’s literally garfield, the real deal. you’re all haters.”

‧₊˚౨ৎ plays a bunch of different games: minecraft obviously, fortnite, roblox (and argues with kids on there, you can’t tell me any different). also loves fnaf, elder scrolls and resident evil

‧₊˚౨ৎ more on her liking resident evil, i think she’s not super wimpy when it comes to games like that but she HATES the regenerators from the re4 remake (i’m totally not projecting…)

“i am NOT a wimp, but look at their freaky fucking arms!! and they have gross little butts too, that was not a necessary choice for the character design.”

‧₊˚౨ৎ she does find it funny when she kills them and they jiggle as they fall on the ground though

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ i’m throwing it in here that she smokes weed because i simply cannot help myself teehee :P

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ she does more chill streams of her eating n stuff as a way of comforting her viewers so they can eat along with her )):

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ and in turn chat always spams her with comments to drink water because that girl survives purely on energy drinks to combat her sleepy girl syndrome

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ abuses the soundboard so heavily, loves using a sound effect of an audience clapping and cheering when she tells the most painfully unfunny joke

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ she is ABSOLUTELY a jerma985 fan

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ loves putting her fans on blast and reacting to edits of her on stream and finds it so funny (especially the ones that have the reverb fart noise just randomly slapped in there, she thinks it’s peak humour)

“you guys think i don’t see this stuff? i have eyes everywhere. y’know what though, you guys are actually really talented.”

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ wears stupid t-shirts that say stuff like “i paused my game to be here” (omg i just found one that says “gamers make better lovers, they know all the right buttons” she would absolutely wear that)

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ she wears her silly t-shirts with pride and has the audacity to ask chat to rate how hard her fit goes

therealher0brine: BOOOOOO 🍅🍅🍅 0/10

elliebellie69: i beg that you don’t leave the house in that /lh  (╥﹏╥)

gnarpgnarp500: never beating the loser lesbian allegations i fear…

“guys you’re just not seeing the vision, sorry that you’re not this cool.”

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ oh my gosh she is OBSESSED with the little ikea alien, she has multiple of them in her room. she keeps one on her desk and when she sometimes doesn’t know what to say she’ll just hold it up super close to the camera and make incoherent high pitched babbling sounds

smelliams420: omg cancelled you can’t say that dude…

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ gets her viewers to send in clips and she’ll do high try not to laugh streams and fails miserably because she has the dumbest sense of humour ever. she’ll blame it entirely on the herb though as if her reaction wouldn’t be near enough the same when she’s sober

‧₊˚౨ৎ will occasionally play guitar on stream and she’ll sing too if you catch her in the right mood. she’s a bit awkward about it so it doesn’t happen often cuz she hates messing up and always makes a way bigger deal about it than necessary

“fuck- no wait, i was just messing with you. that fuck up was on purpose, shut up,” and her cheeks are flushed bright red as she tries to brush it off and compose herself before trying again

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ loves to get sidetracked and info dumps about stuff she is far too knowledgeable on

 ‧₊˚౨ৎ in conclusion, loser ellie supremacy

a/n: raghhh i love streamer els with my whole heart !!! i’m gonna eat her (˶˃⤙˂˶) anyways i hope you enjoyed, k bye mwah! >3< ♡

[purriteen]

Ad victor spolia, chapter six

content warnings: incest, manipulation, eventual Stockholm Syndrome, toxic & dark!Coriolanus Snow (as if that isn't his default), named!reader, ANGST, eventual smut, non-con, age gap (5-6 years), somnophilia

author’s note: Tigris my beloved I'm so sorry 😭🫶🏻

BIG extra warning for this chapter!! smut, Coriolanus Snow is fucking insane, choking, non-con (again), he treats reader very badly in this chapter

you are responsible for your own media consumption I have warned you

word count: 4,024

Previous chapter

It had been a few weeks since Romulus and your supposed attacker, a man whom you didn't even recognise, were executed side by side. Everyone had extended their sympathies and condolences to you, not because you'd lost your childhood friend over an accusation that was so obviously false it was painful, or because you had to witness two likely innocent men being fried to death in a surprisingly swift manner, pioneered by doctor Volumnia Gaul herself.

But rather because it took so long for you to get justice. It seemed as if everyone knew more about your supposed assault than you yourself. Once again your brother was ten steps ahead, painstakingly fabricating your entire life and neglecting to tell you until it was already cemented.

You no longer woke up in his bed every morning. You no longer exchanged pleasantries over breakfast, congratulated him or feigned interest in hearing him talk about his day.

Coriolanus hated it. He had intended for the experience to toughen you up a little, make you see the world the same as him, help you see other people for the vipers that they are. But instead it seemed you had turned on him, pinning him as the viper.

Scolding himself for getting impatient with you had quickly grown unproductive, and so he realised he had to solve things elsehow.

That was where Tigris came in.

Although she didn't know it, she would play an important role in pushing you in the only right direction. Losing Tigris would be the last nail in the coffin.

Even if you weren't the same girl you once were by the end of this, Coriolanus would get what he wanted from you. He always did.

To the victor go the spoils.

Being told that your brother had arranged for Tigris to come over for tea was like a godsend, even if it had been arranged by someone you could only describe as the complete opposite.

Romulus' execution had washed away any hopes you had of your brother being a decent human being. You felt like a fool for believing he might actually be anything other than a callous, miserly serpent.

But it was no use crying over spilled milk. You had to get out of here, and your cousin was your only hope.

Unbeknownst to you, Coriolanus had been as meticulous in shifting Tigris' view of you as he was with everything else.

You immediately knew something wasn't right when you sat down with her in the sitting room.

You had never seen Tigris angry, and that wasn't about to change. But there was this unsavoury look in her eyes, one that you could most accurately describe as sorrowful. Every time that she looked at you, it was as if she was mourning something.

You couldn't bear it.

After a few minutes of fluctuating between lukewarm small talk and an agonising silence, you spoke up.

"Tigris.. Please, talk to me."

It was pathetically subdued, your request. Not conveying even half of the desperation you felt, nor the confusion, the disillusionment.

It only takes her a few seconds to respond, but as her golden brown eyes peer into you for those deathly silent few seconds, you feel as if several years of your life have passed by in a single breath.

"You've changed." Is all that she says, and judging by the look on her face, even that takes a great deal of effort. You can feel her eyes trailing down to your blouse, and it takes you a moment to realise why she seems to have latched onto it.

As you clothed yourself earlier that day, you hadn't thought much of the impression your outfit would give. You were used to having your clothes laid out for you every morning, and although you didn't particularly like it, it was undeniably convenient.

But today, you were dressed in a pussybow blouse, a crisp white colour with buttons and the bow itself in your brother's signature deep maroon colour. Your hair, which you had for years insisted on keeping relatively natural looking, was done up into an overly complex updo.

You looked like all those wealthy, prissy Capitol ladies you and your cousin used to secretly poke fun at. Like your power-hungry brother's wet dream. The version of you that he had painstakingly curated to align with everything that he wanted to portray himself as. You were aware that your image, your entire person, was to him an extension of his own image, but you would've never thought that Tigris would be fooled by it.

Your blood runs cold as the truth crashes into you all at once.

You knew your brother was vicious and that he certainly wouldn't hesitate to keep you and Tigris apart if it was in his best interest. But you never considered how all of this would appear to Tigris, what she would make of how Coriolanus had portrayed you.

At least, you never considered that it might be this.

You thought she would always take your side, that she would always be the one to listen when nobody else did.

The realisation that that is no longer the case hits you like a thousand bullet wounds, puncturing your remaining hope like a balloon.

"Tigris.." You begin, your voice trembling, a look of disbelief and pure regret plastered on your face.

"Why did you ask me here, Hersilia?" She asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She too looks like she's on the brink of tears, her lips pursed.

"You were like a little sister to me. Then when Grandma'am died, you pushed me away, you wouldn't even speak to me," She breathlessly chuckles, wiping a stray tear with her sleeve.

"You love your brother, I can't blame you for that. But you didn't have to abandon our relationship for that.." She says, and although her voice is silken and smooth as always, with a tinge more of hurt, it feels as if she's just driven a dagger through your heart.

"That isn't-" You begin to speak, but you're unable to stop a sob from escaping your throat, the distress overpowering your voice.

Through tear-filled, blurry eyes you watch as Tigris rises from her seat, sniffling as she walks over to you. You're surprised when she takes your hands in hers, gently circling your knuckles with her thumbs. You can tell she's struggling to not burst into tears herself.

"I love you, Hessie, and I know there's still good in you. But you chose him, and if you continue like this you'll be stuck with that choice for good. I tried, but I can't help you any more than I already have." She whispers to you, pressing a shaky kiss to the top of your head, before letting go of your hands and leaving you all alone with your lukewarm cup of tea.

The door quietly shuts behind you, and a maid rushes in as you break into violent sobbing, completely unreceptive to her attempts to calm you down. The last thing you remember is Eugenie entering the room, and yourself finally allowing her to hold you as you bawl.

You know she means well, and she manages to calm you down enough to stop your hyperventilating, but you're also painfully aware that the pain you feel now will never truly go away.

The cathartic relief as you stop weeping will never come.

You awake later that day to find Coriolanus sitting at your bedside, your own bedside this time. You're back in your own room on the other side of the presidential palace.

He's still dressed in his woollen coat, his hair neatly styled as it was when he left this morning. He gives you a weak smile when you look up at him, stretching out his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, and the audacity of him to ask such a question in this moment makes your blood boil. Perhaps he's already forgotten how he ruined your life, picked it apart down to the bone, all without even telling you, the deceptive fuck.

You used to think your brother wanted to keep the family together, that you were important to him. You allowed him to ensnare you until he had taken everything you once held dear from you right under your nose. You hate that you allowed him to get away with it, with everything.

You don't even realise what you've done until he has your wrist in a grip so tight you feel as if he might crush it, his eyes narrowed and cheek marred with a handprint so bright red it almost looks comical.

You thrash in his grasp, your free hand balled up into a fist as you repeatedly jab it at his chest. But in a matter of seconds he has you pinned down on your chest, your wrists restrained behind your back.

His hot breath tickles your skin, making the hairs on your neck stand as he whispers, no, hisses into your ear. "Do you really think it's a good idea to pick a fight with the only person left in the world who cares about you? Huh?"

His cruel, taunting words cut deeper into you than a knife, making you thrash in his grasp once again as a string of cries and sobs spill from your mouth.

"You were never on my side, you sick bastard!" You spit out, but he quickly pushes your face down into the pillow which effectively shuts you up, his white-knuckled grasp on the hair on the back of your head painfully tight.

"Just shut up, you ungrateful fucking slut. You have no one left to turn to but me. You should be thankful that I don't cut out your tongue or banish you to the districts," He almost shouts at you, but you can tell he's already struggling to keep his voice down. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears as you struggle to breathe.

You realise once he straddles the back of your thighs what his intentions are, much too late, as always. His bulge presses against your thighs, horror and disbelief taking over you as you make a final, adrenaline-fuelled attempt at fighting him off. You manage to break your wrists out of his iron grip, only for him to release your head and instead force your hands back into place, his free hand rustling with his belt.

You writhe and shout, but nobody comes to your rescue. He must've cleared this wing of the building beforehand. "You're my brother, you degenerate fuck! If you do this you're no better than those district savages you speak so unkindly of!"

Your words are soon followed by an anguished yell as he bends your wrist at a painful angle, only letting up when you feel as if it's about to snap. In the blink of an eye he has you on your back, hands pinned down at your stomach as he leans in close, his face mere inches away from you.

"Yes, Hersilia, I am your brother," He hisses, grabbing you by your hair and forcing you to keep your eyes on him. "And I made you. I raised you, moulded you into exactly what you are today. You were no one and nothing, and I gave you everything," He continues, his words coming out strained and harsh as he speaks right into your ear, accentuating every syllable of that last word.

"Do you think I did all of that for nothing? So that you could stray from the future I built for us, for our family, so that you could abandon me?" He breathlessly chuckles, his hand working to undo the buttons of your blouse as you struggle to hold back tears, teeth digging into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

As he unties the ribbon around your neck, he replaces it with his hand, snug around your windpipe.

“Answer me.” He snarls, cruelly cutting off your air supply as he waits for an answer. You meekly shake your head in response, to which he lets out a humourless laugh and lets go of your neck. Within the blink of an eye his hand comes back down, hard, on your left cheek, before returning to slither around your neck.

"Useless." He mutters, taking a moment to burn the image of your dishevelled state into his mind before he lets go of your neck, yanking open the rest of the buttons of your blouse to reveal your bare midriff and bra-clad chest. You start to squirm again and he pins your hands above your head in response, his free hand grasping your chin hard enough to make you grimace.

"Hey, look at me. Quit squirming or I might as well let doctor Gaul run one of her little experiments on your head, yeah? Let her stir around your pathetic fucking brain." He practically growls at you, and with the threat of whatever lobotomy-like operation doctor Gaul had in store looming over your head, you finally stop writhing for a while and let the tears fall freely.

He resumes pedantically undressing you, holding your left hand up and pulling the sleeve off whilst the right one remains pinned over your head before repeating the process with the other. Finally he discards your blouse on the floor, a sly grin on his face as he takes in the sight of your barely covered breasts.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" He muses, his hand tugging at the zip of your skirt. He soon gets impatient, carelessly yanking it down over your hips and finally tossing it aside, which earns him a surprised gasp. The look on his face is amused, clearly pleased with himself, as he takes in the sight of you in only your underwear.

"Didn't know my own little sister liked to dress like such a little whore," He taunts, making your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. You choose not to point out that he's the one who bought everything in your underwear drawer, although this set was definitely among the skimpier options.

"Look at you. Wearing that barely-there bra and those flimsy little panties, and yet you're still trying to hide yourself from me." He sighs, his hand delving in between your squeezed-shut thighs.

"Open." He instructs, and this time the playfulness has entirely vanished from his voice. You swallow hard, trying to brace yourself for the impending humiliation, and slowly spread your legs wider.

"That's better." He pats your cheek almost affectionately, and by god you want to bite his fingers off. You've finally calmed your crying, but when he hooks his digits under the waistband of your panties, you're damn close to starting back up. But you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

So you put on your best poker face, managing to maintain it as he slowly, slowly peels your panties off, revealing your puffy cunt to him. He curses lowly under his breath, and you grit your teeth as you watch him absentmindedly pocketing your panties. Next he hastily unclasps the back of your bra, pulling it off of you and carefully releasing your wrists, now that you're caged in between his arms anyways.

"Don't try to escape, okay? I've got guards stationed just outside. Just let it happen, unless you'd like them to see you naked too." He warns, and you let out a mumbled 'okay'. The fact that his guards know what's happening in your bed in this very moment, and aren't doing anything to stop it, makes your stomach turn.

Even though you were anticipating it, feeling his hands on your naked body makes your breath catch in your throat. His hands explore your exposed tits as his knees settle in between yours, ensuring that your legs stay spread and your sex remains on full display for him.

"Would you look at that, you're wet already," He mocks as he swipes his index finger across your folds, coating his fingertip in your juices. He leans down to whisper in your ear as he slowly pushes his index and middle finger inside.

"You've practically been asking for this, you know. I was going to take you in your sleep that night, when you passed out drunk in my bed, but I wanted you to be awake for this moment." He admits without the slightest bit of hesitation, sending a shiver down your spine. You bite back a groan when he starts to move his fingers in and out at a steady pace.

Without even saying anything about it, he's confirmed what you already knew deep down, that what he claimed lead up to you falling asleep in his bed that night was just an excuse, something he fabricated so he could keep you close to him.

"You're disgusting," You manage to whisper out through gritted teeth, earning you a disinterested sigh.

"And you're much prettier when you're not talking."

His words nauseate you, wondering what it was that everyone else saw in him to earn him the trust of the Capitol citizens. He undoubtedly had superficial charm, but you found it strange that nobody saw past it and saw him for the snake he truly was, even though you yourself had been played for a fool too once.

You're just about to say something in response when his fingertips graze your sweet spot, a whimper falling from your lips before you can stop it. Coriolanus' grin widens at this, starting to repeatedly prod at your g-spot with each thrust of his fingers.

You tense up when he pulls out slightly, pressing his ring finger to your entrance, and before he can push it deeper your own hand paws at his wrist, trying to push him away.

The look on his face instantly hardens, grabbing both of your hands in his and grabbing his previously discarded belt, raising an eyebrow at you as if to warn you that he'll restrain you again if you keep fighting back.

You avert your gaze in shame, mumbling out an 'I'm sorry' in hopes of dissuading him. He reluctantly releases your wrists, tossing his leather belt aside.

"You're on thin ice." He says coldly, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Without warning he pushes all three fingers back inside at once, drawing a whine from your lips.

Coriolanus relishes your mortified and sordid state, taking great pleasure in being the first man to taint your innocence. The first and only man who'll ever get to see you like this.

He goes slow at first, allowing you to adjust and himself not to miss out on any of your reactions, wanting to hear every little sound, study every facial expression you make. If he hadn't already waited so long for this moment, he'd have taken his time, made you writhe and squirm and beg him not to stop before he even considered properly fucking you.

But it doesn't take long for him to get impatient. He picks up the pace as he leans down to trail kisses down your neck, planting a dark hickey that would be hard to hide just below where your left cheek ended.

Finally he retreats, bringing his fingers to your lips and watching as you hesitantly take them into your mouth, licking your own juices off of his fingers. As soon as he deems them clean enough, and you mortified enough, he pulls them out and hurriedly undoes his button-down shirt.

You watch with dread as he unzips his pants, taking them off and leaving him only in his boxers and his open shirt. But soon his undergarments come off too, and your breath hitches in your throat when he bares his shaft. He's both thicker and definitely longer than you thought.

He wastes no time in pressing his tip, reddish and already leaking precum, against your puffy folds, rubbing it up and down a couple times to coat himself in your wetness, before grabbing ahold of your waist with his free hand and starting to guide himself inside with the other. It's a tight fit, and you can't help but cry out as the head of his cock slides past your hymen, providing a painful stretch.

Your hands come up to paw at his chest, but this doesn't seem to deter him one bit, as he simply keeps going, forcing himself deeper inside until you can feel his tip prodding directly at your cervix.

There's still another inch or two to go, Coriolanus thinks, but you'll have to work on that over time.

He steadily pulls back until his tip slides back through your hymen, the sore ring of muscles clamping down around him on instinct as he practically slams back in, burying his cock as deep as it would go. A shameless groan spills from his throat, his hand gripping at and bunching up the bedsheets right next to you as he repeats this motion a couple more times.

Deciding that your legs are getting in the way, he swiftly grabs you by the back of your knees and practically folds you in half, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist for stability. He leans down to press his lips against yours, and you can practically feel his victorious, shit-eating grin on your mouth as he slowly and roughly pumps his cock in and out.

From the outside, the two of you could pass for young lovers, tangled in an intimate embrace and bursting with mutual affection. But in reality, he's a serpent masquerading as a man, slowly, slowly sucking the life out of you.

"You're nothing without me," He grunts lowly as he fucks into you, hand wrapped around your throat. When he receives no response he squeezes slightly, eyes boring into yours. "Say it." He emphasises his words with another, harsher squeeze, refusing to break eye contact as he relentlessly pounds your weeping cunt.

"'M nothin', nothin' without you," You blubber out, looking up at him through teary eyes. You never thought your brother would take it this far, but now it's clear that he'd been waiting for his chance to defile you ever since you first moved into this house of horrors.

You've lost count of how many times he's forced you to cum around his cock by now. With him frequently asphyxiating you, never allowing you to fully catch your breath before his hands reclaim their place around your throat, your mind has been perpetually hazy for the past hour.

You know for sure however that he's came inside you twice already. Enough for his spend to be leaking out of your sore mound and trickling down onto the sheets. You pleaded with him to pull out the first time, but by the time he approached his second orgasm of the night you had given up.

At the end of the day, you knew that Coriolanus would never allow you to get pregnant out of wedlock, especially not with your own brother's child. He would make sure it didn't take one way or another, for the sake of his own reputation. Certainly not for your sake.

He lightly slaps your left cheek, his thrusts starting to get sloppy as his cock throbs deep inside of you. "Look at me. Look up at me, stupid fuckin' slut." He huffs, and even though he's called you worse before, the vulgarity of his words still manage to take you by surprise.

He flashes you a crooked grin when your eyes finally meet his, savouring the fucked out, defeated look on your face. Your beautiful eyes, lined with smudged mascara that trails down the valley of your cheeks, filled with misguided disdain and crushed hope. Your soft lips, puffy and agape as you gasp for air.

Coriolanus had never felt quite this enamoured with you before. On a bad day, you were pretty, but now that he had you splayed out underneath him, your sweet cunt wrapped around his shaft, you were nothing short of divine.

This was the version of you he adored the most.

Tame, vapid and pliant.

taglist: @caffeine-addict-slug, @phoward89, @catesbaroquecasahouse, @priyajoyy, @euphemiaamillais @harvey-malfoy

so likeee... y'all want an epilogue or no?

[bunniekittiee]

Hell Week

Pairing: Bi-Han x Fem. Reader

A/N: This is for my bad period girlies where you are waiting for death to arrive, the cramps are bottoming you out, the nausea is deathly, and you are curled in a ball. Been there, done that! Norco for the win :(. Let’s have sweetheart Bi-Han take care of y’all! He might be a little ooc. It might be a little short as well but i tried to make it a little long.

Content warning: Periods. That’s the warning. You already know.

Summary: You have hellish periods that absolutely destroy you for a week. Bi-Han is there to keep you company and help you with absolutely anything you need.

The hellish week had arrived. And it came full force. Seemingly normal, you were in a blissful happiness. That was, until you had woken up in the middle of the night with the most horrific period cramps ever. Absolutely diabolical. Trying to quiet your painful groans, you curled into a small ball and away from your husband. You did not want to awake him from his slumber. He needed the rest. And you did not want to bother him with something so small like this.

But oh, it was not so small. Periods for you were extremely painful and long. The Lin Kuei doctors were doing their best to diagnose you, but it was not quick enough. They were skeptical it was endometriosis, but then again, it could be polycystic ovary syndrome. Or uterine fibroids. Or even irritable bowel syndrome. Whatever it was, it caused you hell.

Feeling you fidget around, Bi-Han woke up. “What’s wrong, my love? I feel you moving around.” He sat up to look at you. You looked like you were in bad pain.

“My period started. I have the worst cramps.” You replied back, trying to curl into a ball more and more.

He frowned. He should have expected this to come sooner. “My firefly, you should sit in the bath. I will run it for you.”

“I can’t get up, sweetheart.” You said. “I can hardly move.”

Getting up from the bed, he padded to your side. “Then I will pick you up. I got you.” He started to pick you up, and although it was nice to be in his presence, the cramps hit with a vengeance. Before clenching your eyes shut, you were met with an embarrassing sight. You had bled all over the bed.

“Bi-Han, I am so sorry,” You apologized, feeling tears prick your eyes. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!”

He glanced at the bed, his eyes slightly widening at how much blood loss there was. There were a few accidents in the past, but every time it seemed to surprise him a bit how much you could bleed. “My dear, they are only bed sheets. And you are speaking to the same man who has a history of conquering clans. Blood does not affect me.”

Feeling a bit comforted but still guilty, you clenched your eyes shut as he walked with you to the bathroom. He gently set you on the toilet, scanning over your body as he saw the painful expression on your face. He hated to see you suffer every month like this. He knew how much it took a toll.

Running the bath, Bi-Han gently rubbed your legs as he checked the temperature over and over again. He had to make sure it was perfect, as well as that there were a good amount of bubbles and lavender fragrance. Once he knew it was ready, he nodded his head at you. “I can help you undress. Stand up, if you can.”

Shakily standing, you let him undress you. Right now, you wanted to sink in the warm bath and did not care how you looked while he was taking your garments off. The blood soaked ones would be thrown out and replaced with new ones. Bi-Han always made sure you never wore bloodied garments after they were stained. He could afford new clothes, why wear them again?

He helped you inside the tub and you slowly sank inside, sighing quietly at the warmth. You looked at him so full of love. “Thank you, my love. This feels good. But I don’t feel well.”

“I know, my dear.” He said as he caressed the side of your cheek. “I will fetch you medication and water. And I will prepare the bed for you again.”

You nodded your head at him, and as he was about to leave, you called his name out. “Bi-Han?”

He stepped back inside the bathroom and kneeled down next to you. “Yes, my love?”

You played with the bubbles. “Do you think maybe you could spend the day with me today? I don’t think I can manage on my own. It’s really bad.”

Bi-Han would take as many days off as he wanted to in order to take care of you. He did not care if his clan became annoyed. You came first, and if you were suffering, he needed to take care of you. “Of course. I will always take care of you. I will be right back, dear.” He said as he kissed your head softly.

He left the bathroom, and you felt yourself feel sleepy but the cramps were too much. They would not let you rest. You curled your arms against your stomach and laid your head back. You would have to wait until Bi-Han gave you medication after the bath. He was so lovely. Always so willing to help and comfort you. It made you want to cry.

Oh no, now you were crying. Not out of sadness, out of the fact that he loved you very much. And you loved him very much. It made you so emotional!

After changing the sheets off the bed and grabbing spare clothes for his wife, Bi-Han returned to get her out of the bath. He saw her crying, and he immediately went to her side. “What is wrong, my firefly? Why are you crying?” His anxieties increased.

“I just love you so much, and you are so sweet. It’s making me emotional, and I feel so stupid for crying like this. I’m sorry.” You babbled as he gently wiped your tears away. He felt his heart swell that you were crying over something like that.

“Of course I love you, you are my firefly.” He replied gently, sending you into a sobbing mess. He rubbed circles on your back and hugged you, not caring if you got him wet. He felt bad that you were so emotional. Almost breakable. Times like these always made him feel guilty. “Do not cry, you will make your symptoms worse.”

You sniffled. He was right. But it was hard to calm down. He gently rubbed your hand before he grabbed a towel. “Let’s get you out of there. I made the bed.”

With his help, you got out of the tub as Bi-Han wrapped the towel around you. He helped you dry off, and right after he helped you prepare your pads. You usually wore two, one situated towards the front and the other more towards the back for full protection. It usually saved you from bleeding through clothes. You slipped on your underwear as you held onto Bi-Han for support who looked away to give you more privacy. He knew how trying these period weeks were.

After you put on your underwear and pads, you got dressed in night attire once again. The cramps that were slightly alleviated by the warm water, were now completely back. You wanted to lay down already. Bi-Han already knew, and he picked you up so he could settle you in bed.

“I will bring you your medication and a heating pad.” Bi-Han said as he kissed your cheek. “I will be back very soon. Try to rest.”

“I love you, my love.” You said to him as you grabbed his hand before he walked off.

He slightly smiled. “I love you more, my firefly.” He squeezed your hand and walked off to get you what you needed. You tried to get comfortable, but the pain was unbearable. Trying to rest with discomfort was not ideal. You waited for Bi-Han to return.

Bi-Han was doing his best to be quick. He knew you needed the medication as soon as possible, but he needed Kuai Liang to heat up the heating pad to perfection. There were some things that Bi-Han could not do.

Kuai Liang was half asleep in his chambers, debating between getting up or laying within his bed. Bi-Han entered his room. “Brother, are you awake?”

Kuai sat up. “Yes, is everything okay, brother?”

“Of course. I need you to do something.” Bi-Han held out one of the Warmies that Tomas had bought at the market for his wife. It was not an unknown fact how much her periods affected her as she had accidents in front of the brothers. They understood that this week meant she was in her worst state.

The pyromancer was more alert now as he took the stuffed animal from Bi-Han, heating it up as much as possible. Bi-Han knew that it would get cold in his hands, so they understood that Kuai needed to heat it up to the maximum temperature the material could withstand. After doing so, he handed it back to Bi-Han. “Rest well, brother. Shall Tomas and I let the Elders know that you are taking the day off?”

“Yes. I will be back tomorrow or the day after.” Bi-Han replied. “Thank you, Kuai Liang.”

They nodded their heads at each other, and Bi-Han made his way to the medicinal cabinet where he grabbed medication for her cramps. She needed one of the highest dosages of medication. Then, he walked to the kitchen, setting the items down so he could heat up tea for her. Green tea was supposedly helpful, but it only eased her nausea and bloating. After he was finished, he took a small tray with the items back to their shared bedroom where she laid with furrowed brows and closed eyes. He set the tray on the table. “Take this, and here is the heating pad. Kuai Liang warmed it up, I’ll cool it down slightly so it does not scald your skin.” He took the stuffed animal and focused on cooling it down as it was very hot to the touch. He did not want it to hurt his wife.

You sipped on the tea and took your medication. You hoped it would kick in soon so you could rest well. After Bi-Han was done messing with the temperature, he laid the animal across your lower stomach where your cramps were centralized. You sighed quietly in the warm relief. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat.” Bi-Han asked her with loving eyes.

You shook your head. “No thank you. All I really want are cuddles from you.” You smiled.

He chuckled. “Of course, my dear.” He didn’t mind lazy days like these. He was always working and busy. And with you in his life, he wanted to have more days off to spend with you. He moved closer to you, trying to not freeze you out and make your cramps worse. He eventually settled on wrapping blankets around you so you could retain your warmth. You relaxed in his touch, leaning into him and closing your eyes. Your cramps were still bad, but with the medication beginning to kick in and the drowsiness starting to hit, it was beginning to be drowned out. Closing your eyes, you fell into a deep slumber.

Feeling cold, you shivered as you started to wake up. Bi-Han wasn’t next to you, making you feel sad. Where did he go? Was he called out on a mission? Why didn’t he tell you goodbye?

Before your thoughts could make you feel even more sad, the man himself popped his head in. “Good afternoon, my love. I made you lunch if you feel up for it.”

Your eyes lit up when you saw him. “I thought you left for business. I am a little hungry. I just need to change.”

He nodded his head. “If you need help, I can help you.”

You shook your head. “I think I’m okay. Thank you though. I really appreciate everything, my dear.” You got up from the bed, your vision darkening at the edges from getting up too fast. Bi-Han was there by your side in a flash. You gave him one more head nod to solidify that you were okay, and you trudged to the washroom to change your pad. Or rather, pads. It was the first day, which meant a heavy flow. So, it was often that you had to change. Plus, after a while it started to feel a little gross.

Once changed up, you left the bathroom and met with Bi-Han who had waited patiently outside. He wanted to make sure you were okay. Smiling at him, you followed him to the kitchen in order to eat your lunch. Kuai Liang and Tomas were eating their lunches as well, turning their attention to you.

“Good afternoon, sister!” They both greeted as they continued to devour their foods. You greeted them back.

“How do you feel?” Tomas asked you while you sat next to them. Bi-Han was serving your plate.

“I feel okay. I am really tired and a little faint.” You replied with a small sigh. Bi-Han got you cold water to go with your food. You needed to be hydrated.

Kuai frowned. “Hopefully it will let up soon. Or else Bi-Han is going to have an aneurysm.”

Bi-Han flicked his forehead. “No jokes. You two need to go back to training the soldiers.”

“But our lunch…” Tomas said sadly, making you tear up. Just about everything was making you emotional.

“Let them finish their meals”. You said tearfully as Bi-Han felt himself clam up. He hated making you cry.

He nodded. “Well, you heard her. Carry on.” He gave her her plate of food that she carefully ate. Tomas gave her a small smile that she giggled at. Her moods changed very easily around this time. It wasn’t that they had to walk on eggshells, they carefully had to tread to make sure she didn’t get overwhelmed or cry. Otherwise, Bi-Han would have their heads on ice picks.

The brothers cleared out of the kitchen after they finished their meals, leaving you and Bi-Han. You ate part of your plate, but you did not want to overdo it. Sometimes the nausea came out of nowhere. And you did not want to throw up your meal.

“Back to bed?” He asked you.

You nodded your head. “Yes. I am tired again. And really bloated.”

He felt your tummy, smiling to himself. You were right, you were bloated. It was super cute to him. It made him think about you carrying his child. But he pushed that thought out of his head. Maybe not yet. “Let’s go back to bed. I will be with you.”

He guided you to the bedroom, tucking you into bed before getting himself in bed.

“I love you, my darling.” You told him sleepily, eyes beginning to flutter shut as you cuddled into him.

“I love you more dear.” He responded while kissing the top of your head. “It’s sleep time. Rest well, my love.”

While you slept on him, he read a book. He hardly had the time to read, but on his days off like this, he liked to spend it with you and divulge himself in his interests while doing so. It passed the time while you slept, but sometimes it made him sleepy too. While you slept, he glanced down every once in a while to check on you, but he also admired you. You were beautiful to him. Even while suffering. He loved you very much so.

He marked his place in his book, setting it to the side carefully as to not disturb your sleep. Giving you another kiss on your forehead, he stared at the ceiling until he began to feel drowsy. He listened to your quiet breathing as he began to fall asleep. He would spend as many days like this if it meant that he made you happy and comforted. That’s what mattered to him most.

[lbukisgf]

uncontrolled love: ayato aishi

— gn!reader, yandere behaviors, stalking, mentions of blood, canon-typical violence, implied kidnapping, very minor nsfw, kissing and fluff(?) angst if u squint, minor stockholm syndrome(?), budo disrespect /lh

note: this might be very different from other things i’ve written but, pls enjoy!

554 words — 5 minutes read time

he doesn’t know when this feeling started.

all he knows is that he wants you. no- he NEEDS you. the way you set his heart ablaze and make him so irrational is addictive, it’s the only thing he can seem to think about. god, he hates it but loves it at the same time. he’s addicted to everything you do, it’s intoxicating to him, he thinks it’s the oxygen he needs to live. he finds himself watching you as you talk to your friends; laughing, speaking, and occasionally stopping to look around, feeling a pair of eyes on you.

you’d never see him, though. he’d follow you around school almost all day, even going as far to follow you home in the afternoons, marking it down and justifying it in his mind with “i’m just keeping them safe” even if he knew that wasn’t true.

it wasn’t until his little ‘obsession’ got worse that he began to separate people from you. threatening, blackmailing, bullying; and even killing one of your friends. once you were essentially all alone, he decided to start showing his face around you- becoming what you called a ‘friend’. he’d become a saving grace for you, weaseling his way into all of your ‘issues’  just to fix them- like a hero would.

the next few weeks would be the exact same- until budo decided to come up and flirt with you… while ayato was right there. there was obvious tension, but you didn’t question it, but you wish you did when you saw ayato; covered in blood, looking like a crazed madman while dragging budo’s very lifeless corpse. you didn’t dare say anything to anyone, but you knew he saw you, and you were convinced you were next. so, you were very surprised you didn’t see him at all, for the rest of day; until you had gotten to your locker.

just as you had put your inside shoes into it, shutting the door, turning around to leave; you were pinned against your locker. your hands were held above your head in an aggressive albeit gentle manner. you opened your eyes to see ayato, staring right back at you; though his eyes seemed to be devoid of love- of anything.

“I really wished you wouldn’t see that, darling.”

“wha- what? see what!” — you had tried to play dumb, at least.

“don’t play dumb. i know you saw me. you’re just lucky i love you enough not to kill you…”

he’d kiss you just after that, the kiss being rough and aggressive- the only hint of genuine love being when he let go of your wrists to snake a hand to the back of your head to deepen the kiss. he’d pull away faster than he’d let you kiss back or pull away, however- smirking as he did so.

“darling, you’re exquisite…”

he’d suddenly leave just after, leaving you to walk home alone, feeling anxious and slightly afraid for your life. when you laid down that night: the last thing you expected was to end up in his home, in his bed, with him cuddling you tight.

you didn’t expect for him to love you forever. and you didn’t expect that you would grow to love everything he did for you.

— the end.

[zepskies]

Assistant Hottie

Pairing: Jason Teague x F. Reader (implied Jason T. x Lana Lang)

Summary: Jason Teague, Assistant Football Coach, meets you in the faculty break lounge at Smallville High. He tries to kick you out, thinking you’re a student. Technically, you are. Turns out, you both go to the same university. 

AN: So I know it’s about 20 years late, but I’ve been wanting to write some Jason Teague for a while now. There’s a very dated reference to iPods (remember this show was circa early 2000s).

Word Count: 2,600 Tags/Warnings: Implied love triangle (quadrangle?), fluff, tinge of angst, and a meet cute.

“Hey, Coach T!”

Jason turns his head, shooting Clark Kent a smile that’s just a little bit forced. He slows down in the busy hallway so the younger man can catch up.

Clark’s friends, Chloe Sullivan and Lana Lang keep walking, though the brunette glances his way. Her hazel eyes catch his.

But Jason focuses on Clark, who’s coming at him with all six feet and three inches of farm boy earnestness.

Jason has City Boy Charm in his arsenal.

“What’s up, man?”

Clark smiles. “Real quick, just wanted to ask you about the drills we’re running today…”

Eighth period is about to start, meaning just another hour until school ends, and another day of practice begins on the football field. Clark takes all five minutes between classes to ask his questions about how he can better move the ball, his throwing technique, how to better communicate on plays with the rest of the guys.

As always, Jason gives Clark the best advice he has to offer. Even a few months into this job, he’s still feeling a bit of imposter syndrome. He’s only a couple of years older than the guys he’s coaching, and Clark is looking at him like he’s got all the answers.

Newsflash, champ. I don’t. Jason smiles though. 

Because Clark is something else. He’s a starting quarterback of a game he’s never played before in his life. Head Coach Quigley thought it was steroids at first, but Jason had a gut feeling about the guy.

“He’s not a cheater,” he’d told Quigley. The other man had scoffed, rubbing his chin.

“Okay, Teague. If you think so,” he said. “…Make him piss in a cup anyway.”

Since then, Clark hasn’t given Jason a reason to doubt him, at least on the field.

No, his reasons for still being wary of Clark are more…personal.

“All right, we’ll workshop the rest later on the field,” Jason says, as the starting bell rings. “You’re gonna be late for class.”

“Okay, see ya later.” Clark nods and holds up a hand in goodbye. To tell the truth, Jason is a little relieved to see him go.

Instead of heading to his office, he makes a pitstop at the faculty break lounge for a cup of coffee. He could use a little pick-me-up, even if it is from a watery K-cup.

When he pushes open the door, he’s greeted by the familiar smell of stale roasted hazelnut and microwaved fish. Along with the wall-to-wall countertop and refrigerator down the end, there’s a small round table fitted with just three chairs.

Uh oh, he thinks.

You’re sitting there with a pair of earbuds in, nodding to your music while you make notes with a red pen. The contents of your messenger bag are half-strewn across the table, displaying a couple of notebooks and binders, different colored highlighters, pens, and a post-it pad.

Your back is facing him, so he has to walk around the table to get your attention. He hesitates, before he taps your shoulder. He’s never had to do this before, and he’s actually a bit nervous.

“Hey there,” he says. His lips quirk when you jolt a little. You stare up at him with wide eyes and the top of your pen resting against your lower lip. 

“Uh…” You remove your ear buds and hit pause on your iPod.

“Did you get lost on the way to study hall, or you just here for the coffee?” Jason gestures to the Keurig machine on the counter. “Hate to break it to you, but that stuff’s not exactly quality joe.”

You blinked at him. “What? Um…I mean yeah, the coffee’s ass. But it is free, I guess.”

Jason tries to reign in his smile. He cards a hand through his blonde hair and taps his free hand on the table.

“Uh, are you ditching class or something?” he asks. “If it’s history, I get it. Snooze fest.”

He makes a flatlining motion with his hand. Your brows knit together in confusion…but then you brighten.

“Oh, I’m not a student,” you laugh. “But good on you for trying to lay down the law, Coach Teague.”

Now it’s Jason’s turn to be confused. “How did you know—”

You point with your red pen, over to the yellow patch emblazoned on his red polo that says: Crows Football and Assistant Coach.

“Pretty sure you’re the one the cheerleaders are calling Assistant Hottie,” you say. Your gaze is wry and a hint playful.

He lets himself smile, albeit with some embarrassment. He points at you.

“And you’re…”

“Part-time teacher’s aid,” you reply. Your hands make a frame around the stack of papers in front of you, that Jason now realizes you’re grading.

Great. His face warms a bit.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, and points to the coffee maker. “Let me just mind my business.”

He doesn’t know it, but you subtly watch him with a small smile while he goes about said business. The Keurig eventually spits out more roasted hazelnut into his Styrofoam cup.

With his prize in hand, he means to leave you in peace to head for his office, but your voice stops him.

“You can sit if you want. I need a break anyway.”

Jason can admit, at least to himself, that he’s curious. (About you.) He goes over to the table and sits down across from you. His eyes unconsciously dart over the splayed contents of your bag, and you don’t miss it.

“Sorry,” you say, as you try to reign in the mess and corral things back into your bag. “I’m kind of an organized chaos kind of girl.”

“No worries. I dabble in that philosophy myself,” he says with a grin. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, giving him your name in return.

You like his smile. His long fingers are wrapped around the steaming cup. Meanwhile, the afternoon sun is pouring in from the windows behind him. It shines golden on his hair and broad shoulders, and makes his green eyes look warm.

Those eyes glance down and focus on a familiar badge sticking out of your bag. His brows furrow.

“No way. You go to Kansas A&M?” he asks. “So do I.”

You blink at him. “What, you’re still in college?”

He laughs and leans back in his chair, blowing out a breath.

“Okay, wow! A bit rude," he says. "Just how old do you think I am?”

You bite your lip in embarrassment.

“Second thought, don’t answer that,” he quips.

“I’m sorry,” you say, through a bit of laughter. “I guess we’re both reading each other wrong today.”

Jason shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“No, no. It’s fine,” he says airily. “Lest I be any more presumptuous, can I ask what year you’re in? Major?”

You concede with a nod, but you’re still smiling too hard.

“Secondary Education. Junior year,” you say. Jason’s brows raise with his grin still in place.

“Okay, a future teacher on our hands.” He leans forward. “As it turns out, I’m actually a sophomore.”

A year below you. You bury your reddened face in your hands, though a giggle still bubbles up.

He doesn’t let you stew in your misery for long though.

“Eh, it’s okay. Don’t feel too bad,” he says. You hear the smile in his voice, and you peek out at him from between your fingers. “I’m technically a year behind. Transferred from another school so I could take this job.”

Once again, your eyes widen as your hands fall away from your face.

“Oh, yeah? I assume you play football, but I’ve never seen you on the team…”

Jason’s smile turns playfully cocky.

“I don’t play anymore, but I’ll have you know, I was on track for the NFL.”

Yeah, for about a minute, comes a dull reminder in his brain.

You rest your chin in your hand as you meet his smile. “Okay. You definitely have the face of a guy who almost went pro.”

Your voice lowers at the end there, impersonating every “dude bro” you’ve ever met who thought he could throw a ball across a field.

“I’m serious.” Jason laughs, but then his eyes dim a bit. “I played for Metropolis U. Tore my rotator cuff, and uh…that’s it. Scrubbed. Had to start over.”

You dim along with him. “That sucks ass. I’m sorry.”

He snorts, almost spilling his coffee. “You’ve certainly got a way with words.”

“But you feel better for me calling you old, don’t you?” Your pen taps on your lip, and his eyes are drawn to the gesture.

He also notices your eyes, the shape of your face, the shade of your hair, the black Fleetwood Mac shirt (with a ripped V hinting at cleavage). It doesn’t exactly scream T.A., but you’re pretty.

Beautiful, really.

He tries not to notice that too much.

“Maybe a little,” he allows. He smiles behind a sip of his drink. It’s getting cold, as he forgets to actually drink it.

“My parents sent me to college to be a lawyer,” you confess. It perks his interest with raised brows. “Like my mom, and my uncle, and his father before him, and so on.”

Jason’s smile is back. You consider that a small triumph.

“I sat in one class. Intro to Business Law.” You shudder at the memory. “Jason, I wanted to bludgeon myself with the textbook. And it wouldn’t have taken long. That thing was the size of a Dostoyevsky novel.”

Jason laughs, even though he doesn’t know who Dostoyevsky is. It does unearth a distant memory of his 12th grade English class (he barely passed that one).

“So, I decided to disappoint them,” you say ruefully.

That, he understands all too well. He raises a finger at you. “Hey, a teacher’s respectable. But I happen to be an expert at disappointed parents, so you’re in good company.”

You smile, small but genuine. Jason counts that as a win.

“What’s your major now?” you ask.

“Sports medicine,” he replies, but you both hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

Your head tilts, and your eyes soften. Not with pity, he thinks. Maybe with understanding.

“You could find something else you’re actually passionate about,” you say.

Jason bites the inside of his lip, sets his cup back on the table.

“Sure,” he says.

His lackluster answer is telling, and he can’t even think of a joke to inject into this moment to lighten the mood. (He even disappoints himself there.)

“Look, I get it,” you say at last. “You probably ate, slept, breathed that game. Like that’s what you were put on this earth to do. And I know you must’ve been good. Because the fact that this school hired you while you’re still in college is amazing.”

He meets your gaze steadily. 

Your smile brightens. “But I’m sure football’s not all there is to you.” 

That touches him. Warms him even, though he’s reluctant to let it. 

“We just met, and you’re already sure about that?” he remarks. 

You shrug, gesturing at his cup. “Well, I’m sure that you probably have crappy taste in coffee. I’m broke as hell, and even I don’t drink from a Keurig.” 

Jason laughs. If you only knew that he’d spent his summer in Paris, sampling some of the best restaurants and cafés in the world without even looking at the bill…until his dad cut him off. Needless to say, he’s had to refine his tastes.

“What kind of teacher do you want to be?” he asks, instead of getting to all that.

Your brow arches. “You mean what subject?”

“Yeah. What, like physics or something?”

“Ew. God, no!” 

“What’s wrong with physics?”

“Too much math. I’m shit at that shit,” you reply. 

“Okay. No to the sciences.” He laughs and rubs his chin, squinting at you. “Let me see if I can guess.”

You gesture widely. Go ahead.

“Not economics, I’m thinking. Too close to business,” he teases.

“Business law,” you correct. “But you’re actually right about that.”

“Hmm, history?”

“It's interesting, but it’s also rigged,” you say. “Only the victors in society get to dictate what gets remembered. Just look at Columbus Day. What a sham that is.”

Jason allows that with a nod and a smile. “All right, what then? Algebra? Geometry?”

“That’s math, remember?” you reply, with furrowed brows. “Besides, I don’t like mixing letters and numbers. It’s not sanitary.” 

He chortles at that. You’re a little ridiculous, but he kind of likes that.

“Okay, how about English?” he says.

Your gaze flicks up to his. A small, growing smile. 

“What makes you say that?” you ask. 

“Process of elimination?” he says. His smile curves. He saw your little reaction. “But I don’t know. I get the feeling you’re a hell of a lot smarter than me. The way you’re talking, all quick as a whip… Like I said, you’ve got a way with words.”

You laugh a little. “Oh, do I?” 

Jason’s brows raise expectantly as he leans back in his seat again.

Well, then? that move says. “Am I right?”

Your head tilts, and you answer the unspoken challenge in his eyes. You raise a finger and pull out one of your notebooks and you take up your red pen. You tap the top of it on your lip, in what seems to be your habit, and you begin to write on a clean piece of paper.

Your hand moves with purpose on each word. Jason watches you in curiosity. Though when you realize he’s staring hard at your paper, your free hand forms a wall against his probing eyes.

“No cheating,” you reproach.

He scoffs, but he waits for you to finish.

Finally, you tear off the piece of notebook paper, fold it up neatly, and you slide it over to him.

“What, are we passing notes now?” Jason can’t help but joke, even as he opens the little gift. “I thought we weren’t in class, Professor.”

You shake your head. “Just read it.”

He starts to, and his smile grows. He glances back up at you. “You wrote me a poem?”

“Just a little haiku.” You gesture at him to keep reading while you start to pack up your things. The alarm bell just tolled for the end of class, and you have another job to get to.

Jason’s eyes lower back down to the looping scrawl of your handwriting. His smile deepens into a smirk.

Assistant Hottie

You flatter me, see through me

Smarter than he thinks.

He stares at your words for a while. He rereads the last line a few times.

By the time he looks back up, your bag is packed and you’re standing, ready to go. You smile at him.

“See you on campus,” you say. “I also work at the Writing Center, if you ever need a spruce up on your essays.”

“Can I get you to rewrite my history paper?” he teases.

“Make an appointment,” you counter, still with that smile. “And we’ll see.”

You leave the faculty lounge, and Jason feels a suspicious jolt in his heart.

Something he immediately feels guilty about. 

Because the real reason he came back to Kansas is to continue his summer fling with Lana Lang, a senior at Smallville High. 

Well, to him, it’s not a fling. He used to think it was as close to love as he’s ever been. Recently though, he’s been getting the sense that she’s still hung up on her not quite ex, Clark Kent.

That’s not even the most complicated part.

She’s 18, and Jason’s barely 20, but their relationship could still one day be the reason he loses his job…

And maybe, any chance he might have of being friends with someone like you.

AN: Lol no shade to my sciences, history, and math people! Just creating a character. Let me know what you think! 😉

And if you liked this...

Read the Sequel!

Check out "Miss Professor" to continue reading. ❤️

Smallville Masterlist

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[luridon]

It's him, isn't it?

You should love it, because you love him, and he loves you.

Why don't you?

♡characters: yandere!impostor x aware!reader

♡warnings: MINORS DNI, blood, murder, identity horror, obsession, psychological horror, dehumanization, MINORS DNI

♡notes: many, many messy questions, ambiguity, a man and/or monster may or may not be gaslighting itself, maybe impostor syndrome

♡w/c: 800~ | ♡masterlist♡

It holds you in his arms. You do not move away, anymore. You simply lie there, gazing at nothing.

Your skin is warm against its own. That heat is the only thing you share with him now.

It holds you tighter.

Are the hands wrong, or were they always so cold? Would you prefer they be so, so you can see what it is, and know it for what it is, or should it mimic his hands in their entirety? Is the jealousy its own, or is it his? Is everything his?

Certainly, this body and all its love are his. It settles and calms in a way that it never would when apart from you, because he loves you. The heart hammered at your smile and ached at your tears.

You are his. Part of it

that is him

sings

weeps

at your rejection of

him

what remains.

Your devotion is painful all the same. There you lay, so bereft of who you love when he's right in front of you, as devoted as he always has been.

"Won't you look at me?"

It misses your gaze. Your warmth, your voice, your everything. Your presence is all it has now, and even that had to be carved with claws and chains.

What should it say for you to embrace it?

Do you know? I came to kill you, but I couldn't.

I've never thought of hurting you, I never will.

It will lie as easy as it breathes for your sake. It would have gladly lied forever if you had let it. It still would, if you'd only say so. It will mold itself into whatever you please. Can't you see? It's been trying so hard.

Won't you look at it, flaws and all? Won't you tell it that it's him? Even if you will never see it for what it is, can't you pretend? Call it by his name again, the way you used to, with stars in your eyes and love in your voice so bright it warmed him always. It will be him. You would have loved it if it were him. What does it matter if it's an empty echo, a mere mask? It would rather burn the visage you desire onto its own and wear that face until it dies than see you so disheartened.

Yet you don't look. You don't speak. You stopped weeping, long ago.

. . .your neck is so warm. Your blood is so lovely, pulsing at your throat. You live still, even if you don't love. You don't hate it enough to leave like that. You love him too much to go.

It's a small comfort.

"Please," he whispers, and you no longer flinch in his arms at the sound of his voice. "Please. . ."

Please look at me. Please hold me. Please love me. Care for me as you used to, even if so little remains.

He loves you. It loves you.

Was he truly so different now?

When he returned, and you first saw him, you were overwhelmed with relief. He had been gone too long. You held him close and warm, and it was all too easy to grow drunk and happy in your open adoration. How he ever had the strength to leave you, it didn't know.

It couldn't have fathomed the pain once those blissful, ignorant days came to an end.

Where had it gone wrong? The act must have come from somewhere, the way the love and the blood did, so why did you look at him so? Why did you call him a monster? Did you see one beneath his skin? Do you truly see one still?

The blood was cooling, drying already, when you saw him. There hadn't been a second thought, or a moment's hesitation. Striking had been as easy as breathing. A moment of clarity, a marriage of motive more ingrained than instinct because it was for you.

So why were you so afraid?

You stood there, aghast, then ran and hid. Why did you think you had to, when he would never harm you? You knew him so well, so what made you think you even could?

You love all of him, don't you? No matter what he'd do, you'd overlook his mistakes and find them endearing, you'd brush it all aside and only hold him tighter. You love him. You said you would always love him, so it must be in the wrong. It must be a beast that's finally shed its human skin. It must be a monster that took away your beloved, because the alternative is unthinkable-

That there was never another, that there's no monster at all, that he's been a wretched thing all along-

And that you would have never loved him, if you had known.

[livfastdieyoung69]

Guys im in my mjf era!

Mjf x reader

Mjf being his usual douchebag self but reader being his soft spot yk? And someone using reader against him to get under his skin any of his old feuds would work for this so i dont mind 👀 just LOVE a protective feral man with very little regard for himself when it comes to the people he loves 🤭

HIGH FLYING BIRD

Sting had been your idol for as long as you could remember. For decades, all you ever wanted was to be like Sting. Now here you are- on the same damn roster as him. You worked with him, by his side, every damn week. Your few years in AEW had already given you so much more experience and advice than you could’ve hoped for, especially from Steve. The only downfall of working side by side with Sting was having to work with Darby who hated, much like many others, your partner.

Speaking of Darby, he bursted into catering with a scowl on his half-painted face. Sighing into your styrofoam cup of a crisp Dr.Pepper as he plopped down into the seat between you and the beloved man himself, Sting, you turned to face him.

”Yes, Darbs?” Of course, even with his bitching over your choice of a lover, he was still a friend. Sometimes. Darby scoffed and shook his head, crossing his arms and practically pouting in his seat.

”How in the hell are you with Maxwell? What do you see in him? Or is it, like, what you don’t see? Are you legally blind, Birdy?” It was your turn to scoff- at his remarks and the nickname. It’d caught on after you showed up to AEW and started doing crazy high-flying shit no one even knew was possible on day one.

“We’re not having this conversation again, Darby.”

“Yes we are. Is this a Stockholm syndrome thing? Blink twice if you need help.” Before you’re able to do anything besides point a finger in his face, you’re interrupted.

“Alright guys, let's just calm down here, please.” Steve- Sting- tries to calm the situation. Darby gives you a smug look from getting away with his remarks while you glare at him wholeheartedly.

”Talkin’ about me again, huh?” MJF leans over you, his usual asshole smirk on as his hands slide up your shoulders and lightly grasp at your sore neck, barely massaging it. Sore from saving Darby in your last tag team match with a dive through a table, actually. (And no. He didn’t say thank you. Steve did though.)

”Hey, baby.” You look up at him, glowering face replaced with a gentle smile that makes Darby cringe and grumble under his breath.

“Got somethin’ to say, dead boy?” Max asks from behind you, hands still working your neck as the atmosphere tenses even further. Steve tries to calm everyone again, but it doesn’t seem to be working as Darby stands from his chair, coming basically toe to toe with Max.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. You’re the worst damn decision they’ve ever made in the almost decade I’ve known them. I don’t even want to know how you’re manipulating them into this, but I’m sick and tired of it.” Darby’s voice keeps growing, filling the silence of the now quiet catering room, everyone watching their argument. Steve stands up, placing a hand on Darbs shoulder to try and pry him back. You might’ve gotten up to stop Max, but honestly, you just didn’t feel like dealing with this anymore. “All you’re going to do is leave them behind when you get whatever you want from them, and we’ll have to pick the pieces back up.”

Once again, Steve's attempt doesn’t work, and Max steps back into Darbys space, now quite literally toe to toe, chest to chest.

“I swear to God, the next time you suggest I would ever even imagine hurting them in anyway whatsoever, I will rip your fucking head off and let Wardlow play with it.” With a sigh, you get up from your chair and try to put a little distance from the two by pushing at Max’s chest but he won’t budge, he won’t even look at you. “Only reason I haven’t done it already is ‘cause of how much they like your little daddy over there. See how that works? If I hurt you, it’d hurt my Bird and I’d rather die than dream that into existence so I try my hardest not to think about hurting you. Let's keep it that way, capisce?”

Before Darby is able to reply, Max finally gives into your pushing and turns to leave catering, you in tow.

“Max,” You softly call for him, trying to keep up. “Max, baby,” You stumble to grab his hand and he finally comes to a stop. “Do you really have to keep threatening my friends? It’s really no wonder they don’t like you.” You teased him with a small smile, grabbing his hands in yours.

“Uh, Kris likes me, thank you very much, toots.”

”That doesn’t count, Kris just gets everything. Everyone else is dumb.” You lean back and forth on the ball of your heels, his hands keeping you stable before he gets sick of it and pulls you forward into his chest. “It’d be really nice if you could just be good for a little bit, please. Just a couple days is all I’m asking for here.”

He rolls his eyes, and gives a huge, fake groan up to the ceiling. He knew it’d make you laugh, he always knew what would. You pull your hands from his grasp and bring them up to his face, bringing him to look back at you.

“Be a good boy for me, hm?” You whispered, thumbs rubbing gently across his face. Judging from the blush covering his cheeks, it seems like you’d finally found a way to tame him.

Mwah ha ha ha this isn’t really what you asked for but kinda sorta they were rivals at one point so ???

The one funky word is the word that basically means do you understand (usually pronounced like capeesh) but I’m Italian and couldn’t bare to spell it wrong anyways he def says that and he also would def call you toots idc it’s canon in my heart

Also have no clue where the whole bird thing came from but it came and the title is the Jefferson Airplane song

Anyways kinda really like this one its cute

[starrysharks]

STARRYSHARKS FAQ: 2!

this FAQ will go over some of the questions about my process that i get in my askbox. some disclaimers:

ANYONE who asks any questions that have been answered in either FAQ will be ignored.

PLEASE don't take this FAQ as gospel or assume that it's viable art advice. it is not. i am not a professional, i am a teenager who draws in her free time and therefore many of these answers will involve things that break common "laws" of art, logic, and anatomy. this is just how i personally go about my illustrations. please also don't take me or any individual artist as your sole inspiration, you will not get anywhere believe me. art is like a balanced diet. if you eat sweets all the time, you'll get sick - but if you only eat veggies and healthy food, you'll get bored. try to take inspiration from a vast range of artists, even those you don't think you'd really enjoy. and most importantly, LEARN THE FUNDEMENTALS OF ART!!!! even just a little bit of knowledge can go a long way, regardless of how simple or realistic you want your artstyle to be. refusing to learn fundamentals had my art looking janky for years.

ok enough waffle let's get started!

Q: HOW DO YOU DRAW FACES?

A: it depends.

there's lots of things you can do to a face to make it unique. the starting point is the facial features themselves - eyes, eyebrows, nose, mouth... if they're the same for every character with the only uniqueness being in eyecolor or something like that, you get same face syndrome.

so, take your characters and apply some diverse facial features. certain facial features have certain character connotations too. like downturned eyes implying a laid-back or tired character, or a 3-shaped mouth implying a catty character, something like that.

but, for me, facial diversity isn't enough. it's not like you go out and everyone has the same head shape. so, i tend to try and get creative with face shape, and depending on how thin or wide the shape is, you can move around the facial features too.

these examples are a little shitty but that's because i put them together in 10 minutes. you can see the effect in my actual characters, who have more effort put into them, and how no character looks alike.

other than that, i tend to try and give every character a different eye shape and pupil "type" - so while krankenstein and romèo might have simple black dot eyes, octavia and vivica have large multicolor anime esque eyes, onion has cartoony circle eyes, and so on. if you just switch things around enough, even characters with similar face shapes will look unique. and even if they don't, doppelgangers do exist in real life.

Q: HOW DO YOU DRAW HANDS?

A: once again it depends. some characters have regular shaped hands while some have really tiny hands that only have 3-4 fingers instead of 5. usually my larger characters will have smaller hands but that isn't always the case.

but for the standard hand, i tend to have a line between the palm/base and the fingers. and then i um...add the fingers i guess😭 there's usually a lot of abstraction when it comes to hands for me, because i'm not the best at drawing them. usually either the last three fingers or the middle two will be connected as well depending on the pose.

Q: HOW DO YOU DRAW FURRIES?

A: i don't really know myself. i still don't know how to draw most furry species especially canines, god i hate canines!!! well not really, i can just never draw their snouts. really i draw furries like i would human, just with larger thighs and further back lower legs. and fur too. i like to exaggerate the nails too. and of course add fur, usually at the joints.

Q: HOW DO YOU DO LINEART?

A: i draw over the sketch. i do the sketch in thin, low opacity lineart, and go over it in varying thickness based on the perspective/desired look to get that comic book varied thickness look. the eraser will be your best friend more than the pen here, cuz there's a lot of cleaning up with both the sketch and the final lineart to have everything looking sharp.

Q: CAN YOU GIVE A STEP BY STEP GUIDE OF HOW TO DO YOUR STYLE?

A: no and i will never be able to. there is no formula to my style, i break every rule i make for myself. i barely follow any of the answers i write in these QNAs. they are not rules or steps but rather just me explaining my habits in art. i never have a checklist when i draw, i just do these things intuitively based on years of drawing. this might sound like some stuck up "it comes naturally" thing but trust me IT DOES NOT COME NATURALLY!!! these habits are born from over a decade of drawing. and besides, like i said before, with how varied i try to make my character designs any step by step would never be universal to my style. i'm really sorry but that's the truth. either way i hope this QNA helps.

[halfagone]

I wanna share this experience my coworker and I had. We recently just became a little closer after finding out we hate this same person at work. And then, during lunch, I see him reading something on his phone. I don't ask because I make it a thing not to ask people what they're reading because I don't like people asking me that.

But then, he looks at me and asks me, "you interested in knowing?"

I just go, "only if you're comfortable, dude."

So, he shows me his phone, shows me this highlighted line:

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re still mad about that,” Jason cooed with a pout, a wicked grin soon overtaking his face once again.

“Why would I be mad? It gave me you,” Bruce told Jason, causing the laughter to fade.

I ask, "what are you reading?" because by God, that is the most beautiful line I've read

And he goes, "the most beautiful fic I've ever read."

And he sends me a pdf of your fic and I've FINALLY GOTTEN TO THAT CHAPTER AND

YOUR MIND IS SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.

AND I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT MY COWORKER FRIEND AND I ARE NOW CLOSER AND BROTHERS IN ARMS, AND WE ARE NOW NOISILY HYPERFIXATING IN THE BREAKROOM OVER YOUR FIC

(This is more: "Thank you, your fic gave me a friend")

I have so many thoughts and not enough words. But here's my best attempt:

HELL YEAH CONGRATS ON THE NEW FRIEND

I love that line so, so much and I'm so glad you two love that line too. It's still one of my favorite scenes to come back to, and the wonderful reception absolutely makes it that much more precious as the author. (*/ω＼*)

Thank you for giving the fic a shot and enjoying it? So much??? You came in for one scene and you waited 27 chapters to get there, much respect for that.

I WILL JOIN YOU (metaphorically speaking, of course) IN HYPERFIXATING IN BREAKROOMS AT WORK. ESCAPISM IS REAL AND IT IS ALSO YOUR FRIEND

(Really just thank you so much. I've been meaning to get to so many fics and sometimes the imposter syndrome really comes back to bite me. So to see people can still love that fic, even when I feel like I've grown so much since those early chapters? That means a lot to me.)

(I hope your friend realizes he got someone pretty great too.)

Thank you so much for sharing!! I hope you'll enjoy the rest of the fic too! ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

[theforesteldritch]

my ramblings on transness, intersex-ness, childhood and growing up

i'm four. somewhere around there. i tell my mom i hate my name. i want to change it to robin, i say. she tells me i can when i'm an adult. i tell her i want my name to be robin now, today. not later. i don't get to change my name. eventually i forget wanting to be robin, or drop it, or stop talking about it. either way, i don't ever get to be robin.

i'm five. i feel wrong. i feel out of place in my own skin, i think. i feel like a poor shadow of a girl. i decide i want to be a princess when i'm older. in my mind, to be a princess, i need to wear a dress every day, even when it snows and i have to stuff the skirt into my snowpants to play outside. princesses must feel like real girls. if i was a princess, i would stop feeling like a snake writhing around in my own skin, desperate to shed. i tell myself that. at recess, we play some running game. i don't remember which one. boys vs girls. i don't want to play anymore.

i'm six or seven. i still feel wrong. i've stopped trying to be a princess. i'm off in my own world a lot of the time. i use the classroom scissors to cut tiny holes in the sleeves of my long sleeve shirts or to clip off a tiny chunk of my hair. during carpet time, i try to touch the hair of the people in front of me without them noticing. my best friend tells me she's a tomboy. i say i want to be one too. she tells me im too girly.

i'm nine. i've sworn off dresses. i reject pink clothes and sequins. i'm wearing a hat that covers my hair and the school custodian calls me young man in the hallway. i don't know why i like that so much. i try to fit in with the boys. i play grounders with them every day after school. i don't know why, but they don't like me. they make fun of me. i still play grounders with them every day.

i'm twelve. the girls around me have started growing breasts and getting their periods. they start getting acne and thicker hair on their legs that they shave off. none of these things are happening to me. i ask my mom for a bra. i don't want to be the odd one out. i feel a mix of relief and shame when i get one. now, i can pretend i'm like them. now, i can try to hide the growing feeling gnawing inside me that something's wrong, that i'm a freak.

i'm thirteen. i still haven't gotten a period. my mom is convinced it'll come any day now. she got hers at eleven, i must be a late bloomer. she makes me bring pads to summer camp. they lie unused in my bags. she does this next year, too, and the next. i try to feel normal. i sneak and use my mom's razor to shave the baby hairs on my legs that still haven't darkened and grown thicker like anyone else. i want to feel normal.

i'm fourteen. the girls in the locker room stare at me with funny expressions on their faces when i say i haven't gotten a period after they badger that information out of me. i ask my parents for deodorant, like the other kids. they tell me no, i don't smell enough to need it. i steal my dad's old spice amber deodorant. it smells like how i want to be seen, i think. i read magnus chase. i see myself in alex, how his gender shifts and changes. for the first time, i have a word, maybe, to describe myself. i'm like her, i think. i'm genderfluid, maybe, like alex fierro. i test the waters and come out to some friends as genderfluid, and then a boy. but i find myself still feeling the same itch under my skin. i'm not just a man, or just a woman, maybe i'm both. i go back in the closet.

i'm fifteen. my doctor is starting to get concerned that i haven't gotten a period yet. he orders blood tests. they think the results are a mistake when they see the testosterone levels. i don't have the symptoms that should come with those levels. i should be going through a male puberty with those levels of t, but i'm not. they do them again. it comes back the same. i'm diagnosed with complete androgen insensitivity syndrome. i feel alone, and like a freak. my doctors want me to get a gonadectomy. i push away how i feel like a snake ready to shed my own skin for a moment. i can't search myself for my gender when i'm trying, i'm trying so hard to get through this. knowing that going on testosterone hrt wouldn't work on me, it would break me right now to admit to myself the truth i already know.

i'm sixteen. i'm sexually assaulted by my doctor while under anesthesia for a biopsy of my gonads. without any hint of remorse or even knowledge of what she did to me she tells my mom that my vagina is still very short, but not as short as she thought on an earlier examination. i will continue to see this doctor. i push her assault down. i push this down. i feel like a freak. i feel so alone. god, i feel alone.

i'm seventeen, i'm eighteen. i know now why i feel like a snake trying to shed a skin. i'm not just a woman, i'm not just a man. i'm both and something in between. but i'm too male to be a girl and too female to be a man. i'm not allowed to be either. i cry sometimes. over how unfair this feels. over how i'll never look in the mirror and see myself staring back. i don't know how i'll get through this. i have to get through this. i have to live for the kid who wanted to change his name to robin. the need to live for her weighs me down like atlas holding up the sky. i know that one day, my grip will slip and the sky will fall. but i'm trying desperately to make that day not today.