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deliciousangelfestival · 7 months ago

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The Imperfect Couple - 7

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Bucky’s gut had been gnawing at him for weeks, a familiar, nagging feeling whenever Ian was around. Something about the man didn’t sit right, and Bucky couldn’t shake the sense that he’d seen this behavior before. His instincts kicked in, and he ordered someone to dig deeper into Ian’s past.

The brown envelope arrived the next day. Bucky sat at his desk, his eyes narrowing as he tore it open. Inside were the results of the investigation—pages that painted a much darker picture than he’d anticipated. As he skimmed the documents, his jaw clenched, and a low curse escaped his lips, “Shit.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The next day, you and Bucky arrived at a shelter for single mothers, a stop on the campaign trail. The women inside had experienced hardships most people couldn’t imagine, fleeing from abusive partners and trying to rebuild their lives. Their stories of survival hung in the air, unspoken but palpable in their tired eyes and wary smiles.

You moved through the room, serving food and making small talk with the women, trying your best to offer some comfort. As you handed a plate to one woman, you said softly, “I understand what kind of psychological torment you’ve been through. I hope you stay strong.”

The moment the words left your mouth, what you’d meant as a word of encouragement didn’t land the way you’d hoped.

Later that night, a video of the conversation went viral. It was clear someone had recorded the interaction and released it online. Bucky knew this had to be the work of his opponents, seizing the opportunity to discredit you—and by extension, him.

You watched the video, feeling a pit form in your stomach as the comments poured in:

"Stay strong? She doesn’t seem like someone who’s ever been through what we have."

"She wouldn’t understand. She lives in a happy home. How could she possibly know what it’s like to run from someone who’s supposed to love you?"

Their words cut deep, slicing through your carefully constructed image. They didn’t know the truth—that your marriage to Bucky was its own kind of prison. Pretending to be the perfect wife had taken a toll on you, but no one saw behind the curtain.

You froze, feeling exposed, as if they’d somehow sensed the cracks in your façade. You had become so good at lying, at convincing the world that you and Bucky were happy, that now, faced with these women who had lived through real pain, you felt like a fraud.

Furthermore, you wanted to tell them that you understood, that you too had felt trapped and powerless. But the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you smiled for the cameras, playing your part, knowing that your life was being documented as an example of “happiness.”

Then your eyes landed on a comment that sent you reeling:

"If they’re so happy, wouldn’t they have a kid by now?"

The question hung in the air, mocking you. They didn’t know the truth—how could they? And yet, their words seemed to pierce through the mask you’d been wearing for so long.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The silence between you and Bucky was heavy, almost suffocating. You hadn’t said much since the shelter incident, and Bucky could sense your stress in the way you barely touched your food or drank any water. You sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the untouched plate in front of you.

Bucky watched you for a moment before stepping closer, his brow furrowing with concern. He gently touched your forehead, his fingers warm against your skin.

“You have a fever,” he said, his voice low with worry.

You immediately pulled away from his hand, your body instinctively recoiling. Your stress had a way of manifesting physically, and whenever you were overwhelmed, your body shut down. This was no different.

“Don’t touch me,” you muttered, your voice hollow.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew this would happen, knew how your body responded when you were pushed too far. Without a word, he slipped his arm around you, supporting you as he guided you toward your room. You didn’t resist, too tired to fight.

“Just leave,” you said once you reached your room, your voice barely above a whisper.

But Bucky ignored your words. He sat you down on the edge of the bed, gently lifting your feet into his lap. You stiffened in surprise as his hands began to massage your aching feet. The familiarity of the gesture caught you off guard—he used to do this all the time when you were together, especially on nights when you came home exhausted, too tired to even think.

Your face grew warmer, though not just because of the fever. The tension between the two of you was palpable, a mix of unresolved emotions and unspoken words hanging in the air. Bucky’s touch, once comforting, now felt like it held the weight of all the things left unsaid.

“I’ll bring the medicine,” he said after a few moments, his voice softer now.

You didn’t respond, too lost in the swirl of emotions flooding your mind. The way his hands moved, the care in his touch—it was all too familiar. It made your chest tighten with memories of when things weren’t this complicated.

As Bucky stood to leave, you finally spoke, your voice quiet and raw. “Why are you doing this?”

He paused, turning back to face you. “Because I care. I always do” His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it was as if the walls you’d built between you both cracked, if only just a little.

You didn’t respond, not knowing what to say. You could feel your eyelids growing heavy as the exhaustion of the day and the fever pulled at you. Bucky noticed, his eyes softening. Without another word, he pulled the blanket over you and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You lay there, your mind racing despite your body’s exhaustion. His touch, his words, they lingered long after he’d gone. You hated that he still had this effect on you. And yet, deep down, there was a part of you that wanted to believe him, wanted to let your guard down. But after everything, how could you?

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You woke up, feeling the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your limbs, but something was different. The fever that had clouded your mind the night before was gone, leaving you with a sense of relief. Slowly, you sat up, glancing around the room. Bucky wasn’t here. It was the first time you’d been alone in the apartment since arriving.

The quietness felt strange, almost eerie. For a moment, you simply sat there, trying to shake the grogginess from your mind. Eventually, curiosity got the better of you, and you decided to explore the space. The apartment was large, meticulously designed, but there was a personal touch to it that reflected both of you. You wandered through the rooms until you stopped at his office.

The door creaked slightly as you pushed it open. His office was a mess—papers and law books were scattered across the desk and shelves, as if he’d been too busy to organize anything. But something caught your eye, an area that was surprisingly tidy amidst the chaos: his vinyl collection. It was neatly arranged, displayed with care, each record in perfect order.

Bucky loved collecting vinyls. You remembered that about him. As you approached the collection, your eyes scanned the spines of the records. Most of them were from artists both of you used to listen to. Your fingers grazed over the albums, a nostalgic pang in your chest.

Then, something unusual caught your attention. Tucked between the vinyl sleeves was a piece of paper, slightly worn. Frowning, you pulled it out and realized it wasn’t just any paper—it was a letter.

You stared at the handwriting, your heart skipping a beat. It was Bucky’s handwriting. Slowly, your eyes widened as recognition dawned on you. It was a letter he never sent. A letter to you.

Your pulse quickened as a rush of emotions hit you. Should you open it? Guilt twisted in your stomach, but then that familiar voice—the devil on your shoulder—spoke louder. He wrote this for you. He never sent it, but it’s yours.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you quickly hid the letter under your shirt, glancing around the office as if someone might walk in at any moment. Your heart raced as you hurried back to your room, the letter burning against your skin like a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

Once in the safety of your room, you sat on the bed, staring at the letter in your hands. The room felt smaller, your breaths shallow. Was this right? Should you be reading this? But you couldn’t stop yourself.

With trembling fingers, you opened the first letter.

It was short, written in Bucky’s familiar scrawl.

"I’m sorry. I know everything we went through must have been painful for you, more than I ever realized at the time. We were close, but we never truly communicated. I knew you were hurting, and I did nothing to stop it. That’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.

One day, if we ever meet again, I hope you’ll give me another chance. You deserve happiness, and I wish you the best of luck in finding it, even if it’s not with me."

You blinked, feeling a lump form in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. An apology. Words you thought you’d never hear—or read—from him. Your hands shook as you carefully unfolded another letter.

"I read your article. It’s really good. I always knew you’d make a great writer. You’ve always had a way with words. I’m proud of you. I hope you have a safe journey."

The words blurred for a moment as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You never knew he was following your work, that he cared enough to read what you wrote. It felt like a secret window into a part of him you thought had closed off to you long ago.

With a deep breath, you opened the final letter, bracing yourself.

"I’m worried about you. Going to a war zone as a journalist—it’s dangerous, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Please be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. I pray every day that you’re safe."

Your chest tightened as you finished reading, the rawness of his words washing over you. Bucky had been worried about you all this time. His concern, his pride—it was all there, hidden in these letters you were never supposed to find. And yet, here you were, holding the pieces of his heart in your hands.

It was overwhelming. You didn’t know how to feel—angry, confused, touched. All you knew was that the walls you had built to protect yourself were starting to crack, and you weren’t sure if you could put them back together.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You and Bucky met Greg again to prepare before heading to the TV station for the debate. Greg, always thinking ahead, was pacing as he went over the final details. His sharp gaze darted between you and Bucky, trying to ensure everything would go smoothly.

As the minutes ticked by, Greg suddenly paused, his face lighting up with an idea. "Perhaps," he suggested, "before Bucky heads out for the debate, you could give him a peck on the cheek. You know, for the cameras. A little show of affection can go a long way."

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, your expression neutral. "Okay," you agreed simply. The decision seemed easy enough—just a small gesture for the public eye. However, from the corner of your eye, you noticed Bucky’s brow arch slightly, a glint of surprise crossing his features.

Bucky glanced at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "How about a kiss on the lips instead?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your exasperation. "Shut up," you muttered, though the warmth of the moment lingered between you. Bucky chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the brief banter as Greg scribbled down notes, already planning how to work this into the media strategy.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The day of the debate finally arrived. The room buzzed with tension as cameras were positioned, reporters whispered amongst themselves, and the stage was set. You stood backstage with Bucky, watching as the other candidates made their entrances. Edgar, running for president, was calm and composed, the very image of a seasoned politician.

Then there was Brock, another candidate for vice president—and Bucky’s long-time rival. The two had been at odds for years, their competition fierce and personal. The air between them crackled with animosity as they took their places.

As the debate began, the moderators threw sharp, pointed questions at the candidates, each probing their policies and character. Bucky was in his element, answering each question with practiced ease. His words were clear, his tone confident, and his delivery flawless. Every question thrown at him was met with a precise, well-thought-out response.

Moderator: "Mr. Barnes, what would be your first priority in office?"

Bucky: "My first priority is to address healthcare. Ensuring affordable and accessible healthcare is the cornerstone of a strong nation. We must invest in preventive care and make it easier for families to access the support they need."

The audience nodded in agreement, and even the other candidates seemed to respect his answer. Brock, however, was struggling. Every time he tried to match Bucky’s eloquence, he stumbled, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to make a point.

Moderator: "Mr. Rumlow, what is your stance on education reform?"

Brock: "Well, uh, we need to… to invest in schools, yes, but we can’t just throw money at the problem. We need accountability, and we need… um, better results."

His answer lacked the conviction and clarity that Bucky’s did, and you could see the frustration in Brock’s face as the debate went on.

The tension between the two men simmered, especially as Bucky continued to outshine him with every answer. But just when it seemed like Bucky had the upper hand, Brock saw an opening—and took it.

At the height of the debate, Brock's voice cut through the air, sharp and malicious. "You talk a lot about honesty and integrity, Barnes. But what about your brother? Didn’t he hit someone and never face any punishment?"

The room fell silent, a heavy, uncomfortable stillness filling the space. From your spot backstage, you could feel the tension roll off Bucky in waves. His muscles tensed beside you, his jaw clenched tight. This was his darkest family secret, one he’d hoped to keep buried. But now, here it was, dragged into the spotlight in front of a national audience.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his eyes narrowing as he shot Brock a cold, hard glare. For a moment, it looked like Bucky might lose his composure. The silence stretched on, the entire room holding its breath, waiting for his response.

But then, with a deep breath, Bucky straightened, his voice steady but laced with restrained anger. "My brother's actions were reprehensible, and there is no excuse for them. But unlike my opponent, I believe in accountability—and my family has taken steps to address that privately. This debate is about the future of this country, not digging up personal attacks to avoid talking about real issues."

The room shifted as Bucky’s calm yet pointed response cut through the tension. Brock, visibly thrown by how easily Bucky had deflected his attack, fumbled for his next words, but the damage had been done. Bucky had taken control once again, leaving Brock at a loss.

Backstage, you watched the scene unfold, a mixture of relief and pride swelling within you. Bucky had handled the moment with grace.

But you knew you couldn’t rest. With Shawn’s dark secret now exposed, it meant that your marriage to Bucky could be the next scandal to surface.

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redvexillum · 6 months ago

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I feel like the way I portray Alastor is all in the spectrum of Yandare. So, I tried my best to write...yandare Alastor in a way it makes sense for my head canon of him. I want to give a quick shout out to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe ! I thought the best way to welcome her is dedicating this unhinged Alastor story to her!

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, dub con, obsessive!alastor, p in v, gentle sex, gaslighting, entrapment, breeding kink, psychological, dark, mental torment, unhealthy relationship, orgasm denial, power dynamic, unhinged!alastor, reader is not okay, implied cannibalism, suicidal thoughts, depression, reader is delulu, alastor is delulu, extreme co-dependency, extreme denial, yandare!alastor

🙏 please mind your mental health before you read 🙏

The thought curled through you like poison, clinging to every corner of your mind: you wanted to die.

It was a siren song, cruel and haunting, a whisper that slithered deep into the crumbling fortress of your mind, eroding the defences you’d built to keep it out. Your hands shook as exhaustion seeped into every crack; bones weary from a battle that felt endless. It wasn’t just tiredness – it was a soul-deep weight, a leaden heaviness that hollowed you out.

In the background, soft jazz played from the kitchen, each note swirling with a warmth that felt so alien in the cold void within you. Sunlight poured through the window, a golden river that washed over everything it touched, indifferent to the shadows lurking within.

You noticed the knife on the counter – a sharp gleam that seemed to pulse with a dangerous allure, its polished blade catching the light with a slick, almost wet shine. It seemed to call out to you, offering a quick, dreamless eternity.

But even as your gaze lingered, your heart resisted, tethered stubbornly to someone who’d become both your prison and sanctuary.

Alastor.

A man you never should have crossed paths with. A man you should never have fallen for.

You sighed, holding the knife as you turned back to the chunk of meat. Its once bright crimson flesh changing to a dull, dead brown. The raw smell was overwhelming, thick and nearly spoiled in the oppressive Louisiana heat. Alastor left you with some tasks today, after you had begged him to give you something to do as you wait for his return. Your task was to package the meat, clean up the kitchen, polish the floor while you waited for his return.

The smell of raw meat brought images to flicker through your mind: men and women, faces frozen in terror as Alastor dragged them down to the cellar. A shiver ran down your spine, and a small whimper escaped, a whisper of fear against the tears that threatened to fall. You tore your gaze away from the knife and forced yourself to look outside. The bayou stretched out beyond the window, a bleak expanse of gnarly trees and dark water – silent, desolate, and as inescapable as him.

You took a steadying breath, mentally reciting the day’s tasks like a prayer to keep you grounded. Finish the meat, scrub the blood stains, bleach the floor, and when the last crimson smear was gone, he’d return. By then, you’d be ready, composed. With a sniff, you shoved your feelings back, burying them under the monotony of chores.

Finally, when every trace of red erased from the floor, you heard the front door click open. The sound echoed, a rhythmic click-click-click, each lock sliding free, the metal grating sharply against the silence. Your heart skipped as the door creaked, and there he stood – Alastor, haloed in the setting sun. His smile was gentle, but his eyes gleamed as he opened his arms.

“My love,” he murmured, setting down his bag and slipping off his coat with an air of practised ease.

You scrambled to your feet, the memory still fresh from the last time you hadn’t been there to greet him. He had panicked, refusing to leave your side for days. He held you then, whispering sweet words of devotion, his arms an unyielding cage, each word sinking deeper until it was all you knew. You didn’t know if he knew the truth – that every word bound you closer even as you longed to escape.

Fear wrapped around you, yet somewhere deep within, in a place even you struggled to reach, you needed him. The years of isolation had stripped you bare, leaving only the two of you locked in this strange dance.

Five years – five years of him as your only constant, your only company in this void. That had to be love. It was the only way to make sense of why you stayed, why you remained bound to him by something more powerful than chains.

It had to be love.

“Alastor,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, legs shaking from hours of kneeling on the hard floor, scrubbing away every crimson stain. You took a step forward, the chilling clink of metal grazing the wood beneath your feet with each uneven, hesitant step. The floorboards seemed to pulse below you, each creak an echo of your own heartbeat, until finally, you stopped, frozen four steps away from the exit.

He chuckled – a warm, resonant sound that should have been comforting but only heightened the chill trickling down your spine. With graceful steps, Alastor closed the distance between you, his arms circling around your shoulders. His chin rested gently against your head, the weight of him grounding you in place, his presence washing over you like a tide you couldn’t escape.

“I missed you,” you mumbled against his chest, nuzzling into his embrace. The heat of him, the solid reassurance of his touch, brought you back to yourself, to the one undeniable truth of your existence: you were here, alive, because he held you tethered. “Did you have a good day at work, my love?” you murmured, soft and tentative.

His hand slid over the back of your head; fingers gentle as he stroked you. He breathed in deeply, a wistful sigh slipping from his lips. “My love, you never left my thoughts for a single moment.” His voice was soft, warm, and his arms tightened around you, so tightly that for a second, you felt as though the air was slipping away.

Finally, he parted, just enough for you to breathe again, his fingers grazing along the warm curve of your cheek. “Let’s get you out of that, hmm?” His voice was gentle, and his whisky-brown eyes glittered with a kindness that made your chest ache.

A swell of relief surged in you, and you threw your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Alastor, thank you!” Laughter bubbled out of you, bright and involuntary, stretching your lips into a smile that felt foreign, almost unbelievable after everything.

He lifted you effortlessly, his strength both exhilarating and terrifying as he carried you toward the couch. Each step sent the faintest clinking of metal into the air, a reminder of the bond that held you captive.

As he set you down and took a step back, you could feel his gaze moving over you, slow and deliberate, like he could peel back each layer with a single look. You flushed under his scrutiny, your shoulders curling inward, a strange blend of shame and need warring within you. Despite your clothes, under his gaze you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could read every thought you’d ever dared to keep from him.

“Cher,” he murmured, his hand drifting over the outside of your calf, fingers tracing a path until they reached your ankle.

You heard the fabric rustling, and then – there it was, glinting between his fingers: a silver key. Your eyes focused on the key, and your heart skipped, hope blooming like wildflowers in a barren field. The promise of freedom lay in that tiny object, so close and yet, a lifetime away. You watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he took your ankle in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your bare foot. It was a reminder of the first time he’d ordered you to go without socks when you first escaped from this manacle.

He slid the key into the lock, and with a single twist, the manacle opened with the same familiar click that marked his return home every day. The cool metal fell away, clattering weakly to the floor. A rush of air hit the skin beneath, and you winced as blood surged back into your ankle, a dull ache flooding back into limbs so long constrained.

The shackles lay there, lifeless on the floor, the physical proof of your captivity now nothing more than a scrap of metal, stripped of its power. And yet, as you looked up at him, his eyes shining with something both possessive and achingly tender, you realized you could never truly cast off the chains that bound you to him.

Not as long as you believe you loved him.

“Oh, my poor cher,” Alastor murmured, his voice thick with a twisted blend of regret and possessive tenderness as his eyes traced the dark bruises wrapping around your ankle. His lips brushed softly over the tender skin, lingering in a gentle, reverent kiss before his forehead rested against your leg.

With his eyes closed, he sighed, pressing warmth into you. “It pains me,” he whispered, “to see even the slightest mark of discomfort on you.” His lips began a slow journey, grazing from your ankle upward along the sensitive skin of your inner calf, each kiss stealing a shiver from you. “But you understand, don’t you, cher? It’s a necessity.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, their intense gaze sending a shudder through you. His position – kneeling between your legs – made it impossible to think straight. Despite being in a servile pose, he was still the master of your heart.

“Yes...I understand,” you managed, your voice raspy and barely audible. His lips continued their climb, each kiss leaving a cool, tingling path against your skin. “But I’ve been good, Alastor.” Your breath hitched as his head came to rest in your lap, his fingers tracing languid circles along your thigh.

He chuckled softly, low and indulgent. “You have been,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “Perhaps if you continue to behave...I might let you roam freely around the house when I’m not here.” He looked up, giving you a small, playful smile that made your heart stutter.

The thought of moving freely, without the heavy, omnipresent clink of the chain dragging behind you, sent a thrill through your veins. You clenched your hands into fists, desperate to keep your excitement contained.

“I can be good,” you whispered, fingers drifting to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you stroked his head. “I can be good for you, Alastor...”

A groan escaped him, his eyes falling shut as he leaned into your touch, savouring the sensation like a man starving. Emboldened, you took a breath, letting words slip out – words you’d held back for so long, daring to hope he might grant them.

“Maybe...” you hesitated, voice barely a murmur. “Maybe sometimes in the distant future, I could go into t-town with you?” Your fingers froze in his hair as his body tensed, muscles stiffening under your touch. You held your breath, dread and hope tangling within you, afraid you’d crossed some unseen line. Alastor’s overprotective streak was ironclad – whenever he sensed a threat, real or imagined, his vigilance would lock you down even more tightly than before.

A heartbeat passed before he spoke. “Perhaps...” He rose to his feet slowly, drawing you up with him, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Perhaps one day, cher.” His hands slid under your legs, lifting you from the couch, his grip firm and desirous. “But for now...” he trailed off, leaving the sentence open, thick with suggestion as he carried you up the stairs.

The scent of him, rich and intoxicating, filled your senses, mingling with the sharp, metallic undertone of old blood. Recently, he had brought up the idea of family, his eyes lighting with a dark kind of joy when he saw your loneliness. The house felt hollow most days, empty but for him, and he’d suggested a child - a little soul to fill the silent rooms.

At first, the notion had left you reeling, uncertain, but the longer you were left alone with only your thoughts, the more the idea began to take root. Its appeal started to bloom uncontrollably like weeds in your mind.

Now, Alastor and you spent every waking moment together in his bed, until your wishes took fruit.

He lowered you onto the bed with an almost reverent tenderness, as though each touch was sacred, each look a silent promise. He shed his clothes slowly, his eyes never leaving you as his skin emerged, bare and raw. By the time he climbed onto bed, leaning over you, his desire was unmistakable – his cock hardening just from watching you laid out beneath him.

He hovered for a moment, his face close to yours, and his gaze softened as his hand brushed along your cheek. “Cher,” he murmured, a plea woven into his tone, his voice low and thick. His fingers traced down the side of your face as though memorizing you by touch alone. “Will you let me...feel you tonight?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, slow and lingering, each word like a promise. “For the rest of the night?” His hips lowered, pressing himself against your thigh, his warmth branding you.

Heat flared through you, your body’s response instant and shameless. Every part of you remembered him – his hands, his mouth, the way he claimed you until the world slipped away. Your body answered before your mind could, a warmth pooling low in your stomach as he lifted the hem of your dress, slowly baring your skin. You sat up, letting the fabric fall away, and his eyes flickered, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts. Your only cover now a thin piece of cloth hiding the most intimate part of you.

Alastor’s grin widened, his gaze roving from the pebbled peaks of your nipples down to the damp fabric between your thighs. His hands traced down, catching the waistband and tugging it free. His touch lingered over each inch of exposed skin as he pulled it over your thighs, past the bruises on your ankle, until you lay just as bare before him.

Your legs fell open, your slick folds glistening in invitation, your body traitorous in its eagerness. Alastor’s eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around his cock as he gripped himself, slow strokes stoking his own arousal as he stared, captivated by your wetness.

“The thought of you carrying my child, cher...it drives me mad.” His voice was a rough whisper, his breaths shallow as he stroked himself harder, faster, his eyes on your throbbing core. “It drives me to the edge,” he murmured, his grin feral as he leaned closer, his gaze smouldering with dark intent. “Drives me to the point of bloodlust,” his adam’s apple bobbed up then down, his grin trembling as it couldn’t stretch further lest it tore through his cheeks.

You swallowed, your pulse quickening at the edge of his words, at the memory of the shadows he kept hidden – the bloodstained cellar, the bodies you helped him to clean. Whether you were here or not, you knew he would continue to kill, as relentless and ruthless as ever.

"Ah, cher,” he sighed, settling his body over yours, his hard length pressing flush against your entrance, teasing you with his warmth. “Cher, cher, cher,” he murmured, his voice a low chuckle as he brushed his fingers through your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. “Why do you have to be so lovely?” His nose skimmed your hairline, nuzzling his way to your temple, where he pressed a slow, heated kiss. “Why do you tempt me like this?”

“You’re all I think about, dream about,” he murmured, his voice honey-sweet as he pressed his mouth against your skin, each word a whisper trailing down your cheek, your neck, and finally, open-mouthed and lingering on the curve of your breast. “So much so, cher, that I sometimes imagine killing you.” His tone was soft, unsettlingly jovial as though he’d confessed a secret desire, his hands tracing delicate patterns over your skin.

Your heart pounded, memories flashing across your mind like dark, haunted snapshots – the cellar door muffling desperate cries, the hollow silence that followed. The scent of blood hung thick in those memories, the darkness swallowing up the faces that haunted you. Your hands trembled, a pulse of fear mingling with something deeper, something you could barely acknowledge.

“But I won’t,” he murmured against your skin, pulling you from the spiral of those memories. He lifted his hand to catch a tear that had slipped from your eye, his thumb brushing it away softly. He gazed at the glistening drop before licking it from his fingertip, his eyes darkened as he held you captive in his gaze. “I would never hurt you, cher. Have I ever hurt you?” His voice was quiet, coaxing yet intense, his question leaving no room for escape.

His eyes burned into yours, searching, unwavering. “Tell me, cher,” he pressed, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with a demand that made your pulse stutter. “Do you see me as a bad man?”

There were moments when Alastor felt so delicate, so gentle that he might as well have been made of glass, every touch featherlight. But there were others, moments like this, when he shifted – his possessive grip, his words, his gaze – all dark and consuming. When he asked these questions, you felt like a bird trapped in his cage, heart fluttering as you tried to find the right words.

Your lips quivered, unable to form a reply, the silence thick as more tears slipped down your cheeks. Alastor’s gaze softened just slightly, and he gathered you close, arms wrapping around you as he rocked you, as if you were a fragile, precious thing in his hold. “Shh,” he whispered, his lips against your hair, “I love you, cher. I love you, I love you,” he repeated, his voice lilting like a lullaby.

Your mind fractured, the edge of your memories sharp, each fragment glinting in the dark recesses of your mind. You reached out within yourself, searching, groping for the piece of you that had loved him first – the man you’d met one hazy night at the speakeasy, the man who seemed to light up the room just by existing.

Slowly, you let your hands drift to his back, your fingers pressing against the warmth of his skin. Your eyes closed, more tears slipping free as you tried to remember the feeling of joy, of laughter that you’d felt with him. Your lips brushed against his shoulder, a tentative sign of trust as he sighed, his body relaxing under your touch.

You dug deeper, sifting through memories of that laughter, of your first dance, your first kiss – all those quiet, gentle confessions that had once coloured his eyes in soft brows. You found yourself on your knees, clutching at those fragments with desperate hands, determined to recall the moments when his touch had felt safe, cherished.

“Shh,” Alastor’s mouth hovered over yours, his lips ghosting against yours, a barely there whisper of warmth. “It’s alright, cher. I have you.” He guided himself against you, pressing gently, his cock slipping slowly into your wet, pulsing heat. His mouth melded to yours as his tongue traced along the seam of your lips, savouring each taste as his low moans mingled with your soft gasps.

A hum escaped him, rich and satisfied, as he sank into you, his body pressed to yours, filling you with a quiet intensity that left you breathless. The salted trails on your cheeks lingered as your lips curved into a slow smile, your legs parting, welcoming him deeper, your heart opening despite everything, the echoes of his whispers filling the night.

“Good girl,” Alastor groaned, his hips pushing forward, stretching you around the hard, unyielding thickness of him. “Oh, cher, you’re perfect for me,” he murmured, his words a deep, reverent moan as he sank in deeper, inch by inch, until he was completely enveloped. His hands settled possessively on your hip, his eyes devouring the sight of you.

“I’m going to fill you with my seed all night, love,” he purred, rolling his hips with a languid, maddening rhythm. “After all, your body is begging me to take you – wouldn't you say?” His voice rose with playful amusement, the bed creaking beneath you as if echoing his delight.

“Yes,” you gasped, breathless, the sensation of him making you tremble. “Please,” you whispered, your nails pressing into his shoulders, urging him closer. Alastor drew his hips back slowly, agonizingly, until only the tip of him remained, only to push back in, the pace deliberate, every inch of him dragging against you with intent. Each movement seemed to ignite a new flame within you, stretching your pleasure, drawing it out until it was almost unbearable.

“Look how good you are for me,” he whispered against your flushed cheek, his lips tracing his words into your skin. “Look how perfect you are,” he breathed, sinking deeper as he tightened his arms around you, locking you into his rhythm. “No one will understand you the way I do. You were destined to be mine.” His voice was rich, warm, but tinged with darkness that was both thrilling and terrifying.

“Al-Alastor,” you whimpered, each thrust stoking the tension building inside, reaching deeper, pulling you into a spiral of desire and delirium. His moans, his heated words, his relentless pace – all of it washed over you like a fevered dream. Each breath, each sigh and whispered praise tangled together in a symphony of need.

The creaking of the bed became louder, and with a sudden surge, he lifted himself, teeth gritted, and drove into you harder. His hips snapped against yours; his pace relentless.

“Cher...cher...” he growled, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he focused on you, his gaze hungry. “That’s right, cher,” he chuckled breathlessly, each laugh broken by the sound of his hips smacking against your own. “Oh, you’d make a perfect mother,” he panted, his words nearly incoherent as he picked up his pace. The final thrust left you both gasping, his grip on you tightening as he finally reached his own release, filling you with powerful, pulsing bursts of warmth.

You moaned in frustration, your pleasure still simmering, unsatisfied, leaving your skin taut with need. You tried to move, but Alastor held you firmly, pressing himself deep inside, his body still wrapped around yours.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face as he slowly softened within you, the warm rush of his seed starting to trickle down. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slipped to your entrance, pressing lightly to try and keep every last drop inside, as if marking you as his.

Lying on his side beside you, he gazed at you, his expression gentle as he took in your flushed, tear-streaked cheeks, still needy with unfulfilled desire. A smile tugged at his lips when you also turned to your side to face him. His eyes drifted down, and you knew he was watching his own essence escape, sluggishly slipping down and pooling on your inner thighs. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said quietly, his voice low and calming. “I’ll take care of you, again and again, tonight.” He withdrew his fingers, now slicked with his and your arousal. “Until your body takes my seed, we’ll keep trying,” he promised, his gaze flickering down between you both before meeting yours with a playful, boyish grin.

With a breath that finally began to steady, you raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek tenderly. He turned to press a gentle kiss to your palm, a quiet moment of warmth shared in the aftermath.

In moments like these, in the field of fractured memories, you saw one shard glinting brighter than the rest, pulling you toward it. It was a piece of you – something essential, something more truthful and dangerous than anything else. It shimmered with dark clarity, cutting through the shadows of doubt and lingering despair.

You drifted past the memories that still haunted you, not quite registering the images that flooded your mind. Alastor’s eyes, once warm, turning nearly black with fury the night you tried to leave, his grip like iron as he vowed you’d belong to him. You passed by the moment he chained you to the cellar walls, his victims mere echoes in the darkness, his voice soothingly venomous, telling you that no one else could ever understand you as he did.

Each scar those memories left on your soul was still fresh, a raw edge in the depths of your mind, fragments of yourself that would never heal.

But in this one shard – this singular piece of undeniable truth – you saw something more. It was in these quiet, raw moments after he’d loved you, held you close, his breath mingling with yours. It was here, next to him in the aftermath, that you could almost believe he was the only soul in this world who would ever love you with such consuming fervour.

You dragged your body closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, as his arms immediately circled protectively around you. His eyes softened as you leaned closer, drawing him into a gentle kiss. Your lips grazing his in a tender, slow exchange that felt achingly real. His fingers traced up and down your back, as if branding his name on your skin.

In this quiet, lonely world, he was your guiding light, a burning soul who consumed all but left you somehow whole. You wanted to hold on to him, to keep him by your side. You feared whatever darkness lurked beyond Alastor, the fear of the unknown paled in comparison to the thought of leaving the one person who had vowed to love every fractured, scarred piece of you.

He needed you, just as much as you needed him.

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

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gladoswantscake · 5 months ago

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An Eternity with You - Dracula x Reader (DBD)

Summary: There's only pessimism if you were taken into a realm of lifelong suffering.

Warnings: Psychological distress/trauma, blood, gore, horror

Available on AO3

The hacking, slashings, stabbings, and murder never stopped. Every time your body was pierced with those hooks or killed by the killer's hand; you prayed to whatever deity existed to put you out of your misery for good. But alas, you always wake up back at the campfire. You were unwillingly taken by the Entity; taken into a realm of endless pain and suffering and stuck in sick games of nothing but pure torment. You dreaded going back to that campfire. It never led to anything new. You never came to terms that this was your new life, and you were never going to see your home again.

You could hardly close your eyes to rest without visions of murder entering your mind or the paranoiac-piercing screams messing with your eardrums. Streaks of your hair were becoming white from the great amounts of trauma, and bags under your eyes took effect from the lack of sleep.

The other survivors you've met had been here longer than you, but they never grew used to it, either. You never truly wanted to die so badly till now.

But then something happened during the times you served your trials.

Your chest grew heavy when there were no sounds of generators being repaired, or a teammate calling out in need of assistance. The air was silent and heavy as you explored the trial. The clicking of your footsteps only gave sound to the dead air. Fog entangled your legs with a step towards a sign of any life within the trial. In the midst of the fog, a silhouette laying on the ground could be faintly seen from a distance. As you approach further, you realize it was one of your teammates with their neck torn open. A small pool of blood lays underneath your dead teammate and soaked into their clothing. Upon further examining the body, the hole in their neck looked as if an animal had done it. Their eyes remained open; a hint of expression of fear remained on their face. It was almost as if they were begging you for help.

Quickly and quietly your teammates were being killed without you realizing. Was it just them or all the others?

"I apologize for leaving a mess for you to see. It wasn't very chivalrous of me." A deep voice startles you from behind causing you to whip your head around to see a rather tall man.

The Dark Lord, or Dracula that some of your fellow survivors refer to him as. Word of mouth went around the campfire that he was a vampire. He held no mercy for anyone who had a beating heart. Except for you. The first impression wasn't the best. You found him towering over you as you cowered beneath after watching him toss your teammate's dead body to the side after draining every drop of blood from them.

For the longest time, he's felt his dead heartstrings being pulled. He wasn't sure what caused him to feel this way. Maybe if he was not feasting on your dead teammate, he would have looked less frightening.

He's grown obsessed with you since the day he spared you.

He takes his time walking up to you, wiping the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand in the process. "I was afraid I wasn't going to see you again." His hand reaches for your face with a clawed thumb to wipe a streak of blood splattered on your cheek from healing a teammate earlier.

"Is there ever a time you haven't?"

He chuckles at your response. "No, but I must say, it's become a hobby of mine as of late."

Every time you entered his realm, Dracula always saved you for last. Killing off your teammates as fast as possible then finding you. He couldn't have any of your teammates spoiling anything between the two of you. After killing off your teammates, he would take his precious time stalking you from a distance in his wolf form. His dead heart always skipped a beat whenever he found you wandering alone with no one to get in his way.

"I can tell."

His fingers feather down to your arm until stopping when he notices discoloration on your skin. He pulls your wrist towards him examining a red swollen area with scrapes. The color was slowly bruising into a purplish red. His thumb gently glazes over the scratches allowing his cold touch to calm down the swelling for a bit finally.

"It's nothing. I fell." You reassure.

"My dear, you should be more careful. I'd hate for something so delicate to get into harm's reach."

"If I had a flashlight that lasted longer than ten seconds, I would have been able to see."

"Rather than relying on something so worthless, you should find something that'll do you good."

"Is that your way of saying I want to spend more time with you?"

"Of course. I enjoy indulging in conversations with you." He leans into your face, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not only that, but I also enjoy feeling your warm skin under my hands and hearing the rhythmic pulse underneath your skin." His warm metallic breath hits your face. "It's so rapturous. Wouldn't you agree my dear?"

"I suppose it's better than death." You wince.

It took some time to warm up to him.

The Entity eventually notices the strange behavior of Dracula. He was unable to fulfill his duty because of you. No matter how much the Entity craved and demanded the survivor's flesh and blood he couldn't do it. He could never conjure enough courage to sacrifice you. It decided to remove you from the trials that involved him for it to be satisfied with its sacrifices. He grew angry upon hearing the news, but the Entity didn't care. If it wanted sacrifices, it was going to make sure it got what it wanted.

Now he finds himself in his castle away from the other killers—sitting alone in his throne room staring off into the distance, sulking in his thoughts. He had no regret being taken into the Entity's realm at first; it felt like paradise, but now he's beginning to have second thoughts. He grew madly in love with you that's why. He wanted to take you away from a place that's done you no good. He wanted to spend an eternity with you. If only he could.

Quiet clicking sounds from a distance pull him from his thoughts. He turned his head to where the sound was coming from and there you were just a few feet from where he sat.

If only he saw how his face beamed at the sight of seeing you again. He rushes to you. "I'd never thought I would ever see you again." His clawed fingers stretched outward feeling your hair as his thumbs stroked your cheeks; feeling the warmth that once sought comfort to him "I pray your suffering has not been too utmost for how long I've been away from you."

"Nothing has changed. I hate it so much."

"I'm sorry how things have-"

"I missed you. So. Much." Your voice cracks upon interrupting. He stares down at you as you try to keep your composure. You look away from him to hide your frustrated tears. "I wish I didn't have to go back."

"Please don't grieve." He lifts your face. "No matter what happens, I will always be here waiting for you. And one day there will be no more suffering. I promise you."

Despite you suffering eternal damnation in the Entity's realm; to Dracula, in a certain way he has gotten the happy ending.

An eternity with you.

#sorry for the shitty summary :( not very good at them #sorry again if its ooc #i really love writing castlevania dracula fanfics :3 #dead by daylight #dbd #dbd x reader #dbd oneshots #castlevania #castlevania x reader #castlevania oneshots #dracula #dracula x reader #dracula vlad tepes #dracula vlad tepes x reader #my creation

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darkside9995 · 15 days ago

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As someone who loves TCF novels, I'm addicted to Rok Soo's character and life, so I want to talk a little about him. Let's list his problems that we remember.

His body and life were stolen.

He was affected by the White Star's curse.

His parents died at a young age. It's not mentioned how old he was, but it was likely between 7 and 8.

He was taken in by a distant relative who was good at first, but changed and began treating him badly, beating and starving him to the point where he would eat filth or go hungry for days.

He was so afraid of his uncle that he was afraid to even go to the bathroom. So, being a helpless child, he resigned himself to his fate.

He received help from some people who took pity on him, so with their help, he escaped from his uncle and entered an orphanage (we still don't know how, nor do we know how long he lived with his uncle).

His life in the orphanage was the only period of peace in his life, but he later discovered that he had been the target of an assassination attempt by hunters and had been used as bait by a wanderer. He was erased His Memories 8.. He was worried and afraid of taking responsibility for his own life when he left the orphanage, so he studied hard and intended to enter college (Note: Rok Soo's goal was to enter college and build a life. He worked hard to achieve this goal, but when the world was destroyed and he joined the company with the Su duo, he changed his goal to becoming a lazy rich man.) 9.. He worked various part-time jobs (We didn't know what these jobs were except for being a waiter in a restaurant. The rest of the jobs are a mystery.)

He witnessed the disaster at the age of 20. Everyone in the restaurant was killed. He suffered from fear and hunger for 3 days. (He stayed alive by drinking rainwater that seeped through cracks.)

He was rescued and entered the shelter. We all know his suffering in the shelter, and how he witnessed everyone's death, like Grandma, Jin-tae, and others, in order to protect him and everyone else because they were weak and powerless. (I bet he gained the ability to record when he witnessed their deaths, and the first thing he recorded was the moment of their tragic deaths, so he felt guilty because of his weakness.)

He joined the company and met the Soo duo, and he had a family for the first time. (They were always losing and getting beaten because of their weakness and lack of numbers and equipment.)

Because he was physically weak, he was protected by his two friends and witnessed their deaths and the brutal deaths of his team. His arm was broken and he bled, and no one asked him to take care of himself or wipe the blood because they were focused on his explanation. (Of course, he recorded the deaths of his friends and felt guilty. He asked support to collect their bodies because he was powerless. He didn't stop explaining at the same time because his friends entrusted him with the team and what (He remained.)

He was subjected to all kinds of insults, curses, and humiliation because he didn't cry over the death of his friends and became a leader at a young age (he bowed his head to many scoundrels to protect the team and the company he was now responsible for).

Because of the curse and the death of his friends, he created a barrier between himself and his new team. He ate and took care of his health, but he couldn't sleep, take vacations, or get proper rest (we all know because the log works by itself when Rok Soo is alone and the atmosphere is quiet. I can't imagine the psychological torment he went through for over 10 years).

After the death of his friends, he activated his Instant Ability, and we all know the amount of pain he went through and the scars he received every time he used it.

He always wore long-sleeved clothing for fear that people would see his scars and be frightened or disgusted by them.

He worked hard, memorizing all records of the monsters and other things, and working like crazy to protect his team and prevent any casualties (his casualty rate on his missions is 0%).

He received numerous offers to give speeches and lectures, but none of them were successful due to the monsters that suddenly appeared or the terrorist acts that only occurred during his appearances.

The general public knew nothing about him or his accomplishments.

Finally, he was suddenly thrown into another world without his knowledge or even his opinion being asked.

Let's not forget that he was monitored since birth by Death and was watched for over 10 years by Soo duo. They laughed at his injuries while he suffered psychologically every day due to his regret and grief over losing them.

This is about his life as Kim Rok Soo. I haven't yet written about his struggles as cale Henituse. If I've forgotten anything else, please let me know so I can remember.

#trash of the count's family #Krs past #lout of the count’s family #kim roksu #tcf novel #kim rok soo #lcf

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spider-mandaily · 1 month ago

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Marvel Rivals Infinity Comic #3

I love the fact that this panel from Marvel Rivals Infinity #3 perfectly encapsulates Venom and Spider-Man’s chaotic relationship—somewhere between mortal enemies, an obsessive ex, and a feral cryptid that just won’t take a hint. Venom’s line, “Before we swallow you whole,” isn’t just a threat; it’s a deeply unsettling promise, because with Venom, it’s never just about fighting—it’s about psychological torment wrapped in way too many teeth. The tendrils coiling around Spider-Man add to the discomfort, making it feel less like a standard villain monologue and more like an overly aggressive hug from an ex who still has feelings. It’s even like a visual representation of how Venom suffocates Peter in every way—physically, mentally, morally. Meanwhile, Peter’s expression is the best part—he doesn’t look terrified, just mildly inconvenienced, as if this isn’t even the worst thing that’s happened to him today. It’s this dynamic that makes their rivalry so compelling: Venom isn’t just out for revenge; he wants Peter to suffer specifically and personally, like a petty villain fueled by pure resentment. I mean, let’s be real, Venom has beef with Peter that goes way beyond the usual hero-villain dynamic. It’s not just about hate—it’s about spiteful obsession. Venom doesn’t just want Peter dead; he wants him to know that he is personally offended by his existence. In the end, this panel is less about a deadly battle and more about the unhinged energy of a creature that refuses to let go—because if Venom can’t have Spider-Man, nobody can.

#s-mpeterparker speaks #s-mpeterparker rants #spider-man #peter parker #marvel #marvel studios #webhead #marvel comics #spidey #wallcrawler #marvel entertainment #marvel legacy #comics #spider-man comics #venom #symbiote #marvel rivals #infinity comic #3

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luxaofhesperides · 1 year ago

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Wings AU ; requested by @justwannabecat!

“Are you sure it looks good?” Duke asks for the sixth time in an hour.

Tim sighs and says, yet again, “It looks fine. Just give it to him! If he doesn’t love it, I’ll beat him up for you.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“I could! But you’re right, I wouldn’t. I would just psychologically torment him until he broke.”

“Don’t do that, please. I’d like to actually have a chance with him, even if he hates this.”

“He won’t,” Tim says. He actually stops typing to give Duke a severe look. “Go and give it to him. If you don’t go now, he’s going to think you bailed.”

Duke glances at the time, then jumps. “Shit! Thanks for your help, man!” He’s out of the door before Tim can say another word. He doesn’t bother with the front door, or even going down the hallway. Instead, he opens the nearest window and flings himself out of it, unfurling his tawny wings to catch the wind beneath them and ride them into the city proper.

He briefly considers stopping for a moment to change into his Signal outfit so he can fly above civilian jurisdiction, then decides that it’s far easier to just bend the light around him so he’s invisible. He wouldn’t want to be late meeting Danny, after all. Especially not for this.

He hadn’t been expecting Danny to be into traditional courting methods. Most people tend to go the more modern way of dating, but Danny had mentioned once or twice that he thought it was romantic. He had blushed, mumbling the words, but Duke heard them and went into researching courting methods to see which ones Danny might like best.

Sure, he could just ask Danny out on a date like he normally would if he liked someone, but if Danny wants to be courted, then Duke is going to court him!

It’s why he’s been planning this out carefully, gathering his primaries after his wings molted a few months ago so he could string them together into a thin wing covering.

Admittedly, this courting method isn’t super common, but the thought of giving Danny his feathers, making it look like their wings are one and the same, has kept Duke up some nights, wanting it so badly.

Besides, he thinks Danny will like it. Considering the state of his wings after the Accident…

Duke holds his handmade wing covers closer to his chest, flier lower as he leaves Bristol and enters Diamond District. The streets are busy, full of people. Most tend to stay on the ground, wings tucked close to their bodies, but there are plenty still flying above cars and buses that Duke has to carefully fly around.

It takes another twenty minutes to get to Robinson Park, where Duke drops down to the ground and takes a moment to make sure all his feathers are straight and neatly displayed. Then he walks into the park, heading towards their usual meeting place.

For once, it’s a nice, sunny day in Gotham. Everyone’s taking advantage of it. The park is full of couples and families, walking around slowly, and kids dart through the air, still unable to go very high with their wings not yet fully grown in. It’s nice to hear the laughter and general chatter of people wandering the park.

Duke doesn’t spend too long walking the paved paths through the park. He steps off of it near the second water fountain on the path, then heads into the trees, passing two moms on a picnic with their three kids rolling around the grass nearby.

Tucked away in this corner of the park is a small clearing surrounded by thin trees. The tile is dirty and cracked, no one maintaining it at all with it hidden away.

He sees Danny’s wings first, with long feathers that trail onto the ground, a black that shines dark blue in the light. He follows the lines of his wings back to his body, where Danny sits on a bench, leaning his weight back against his hands as he lifts his head up into the sunlight, basking in the warmth.

He really is so pretty. He insists that he isn’t, but Duke regularly spends time with the Wayne family, all who have modeled before, so he’s got a better idea than most about what pretty looks like, and Danny fits the bill.

“Hey,” Duke calls out softly, watching as Danny slowly blinks his eyes open and turns to give him a warm smile.

“Hey! I’m free for the rest of the day, which means we have so much time to complain about things today.”

“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”

“Nope,” Danny says. “I wouldn’t mind waiting, though. I like hanging out with you.”

Heart pounding in his chest, Duke walks forward. He doesn’t know if there’s something specific he has to say when presenting his gift, if there’s a courting tradition involved that he didn’t learn about. He’s terrified Danny’s going to reject it. He’s praying that Danny accepts it.

“Are you okay?” Danny asks, standing to get a better look at him. “You seem tense…” He trails off as he catches sight of what Duke holds in his hands, breath stuttering.

“I’m fine. I, um.” Duke steps into the clearing, entering the sunlight, and holds out his wing covers. “I made them for you. You mentioned before that you thought courting traditions were romantic… I don’t know if you like wing covers, but I thought you’d look good in my feathers… Only if you want it though!”

He’s trying so hard not to cringe away in embarrassment. He’s flirted with Danny before, half jokes and half serious, always playful. Duke was smooth then, delighting in how flustered it made Danny before he hit back with his own flirting. Now he’s a hesitant, stuttering fool, tripping over his words and struggling to find the perfect things to say. Maybe he should have thought up a speech, or something. Memorized a few lines to speak his intentions with this courting gift. Done literally any prep for giving the gift instead of focusing only on making it.

Danny doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either. He just stares, wide-eyed at the wing covers in Duke’s hands.

That’s a bad sign, isn’t it.

His hands lower just a touch, and he quietly prompts, “Danny?”

Just as he’s about to pull back, step away and try to fix things, messily attempt to salvage their friendship because clearly Danny doesn’t want to be courted by Duke, Danny’s hands snap out whip-fast and latch onto his wrists.

“This is… for me?” he whispers, awed.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s for you.”

“And you’re courting me? Like, for real?”

“Yeah, definitely courting you for real. Do you accept?”

Danny throws himself into Duke’s arms, careful not to crush the wing covers between them. “In what world would I say no?” he laughs, bright with joy. He pulls back a second later, not giving Duke time to hug him back, and turns around, carefully stretching his wings out. “Put them on for me?”

“Of course.”

He starts by smoothing out some of Danny’s feathers. He doesn’t get to do this often; Danny hates having his wings on display for anyone, with how they spasm occasionally, and have empty patches where feathers will never grow in again. The Accident, all that electricity coursing through him, it permanently damaged his wings. There is no healing to be done.

His wings are lacking too many flight feathers and primaries for him to fly. He’s stuck on the ground now, unable to use his wings for more than a minute. Old burns are still visible closer to his spine.

Danny prefers hiding his wings away. He hates thinking about the Accident, hates how it’s taken his wings from him, how it’s changed him completely.

But Duke loves his wings. He loves the softness of Danny’s lower feathers, how they shine in the light, how they always puff up when it gets windy. He’s only gotten to preen them twice before, and he treasures those memories more dearly than anything else.

This easily outshines both those moments.

He gently combs his fingers through Danny’s feathers, straightening them out, then lays the first wing cover over his right wing. His own brown feathers drape over the top of Danny’s wings, hiding the featherless patches from view. He does the same to the other wing, then adjust both until they lay perfectly on Danny’s wings.

As soon as he lifts his hands away from Danny’s wings, Danny is spinning around with a grin, flaring his wings out.

“How do I look?”

“Perfect,” Duke answers. He was right; Danny looks good in his feathers.

He watches, fond and amused, as Danny spins, keeping his wings flared, admiring his new look. “I’m never taking these off,” he says. “I love them so much. I can’t really make one for you, though…”

“You don’t need to.”

“I can’t just accept this and not give you something in return!”

“Well… There is one thing you could give me. Something I’ve been wanting for a long time.”

“What is it?” Danny asks, leaning towards Duke. He’s eager, ready to please, so delighted to be courted.

Duke smiles. “A kiss.”

“Done.”

He doesn’t have time to react before Danny is pouncing on him, hands fisting the collar of his shirt as he tilts his head up and kisses Duke. He pulls back before Duke can kiss back, blushing and unbearably cute.

And all Duke manages to say is, “Cool.”

He’s so good at this.

Danny rightfully laughs at him, then grabs his hand and pulls him down to the bench. “Come on, I promised to complain about my teachers today and I intend to deliver. And maybe later, I could take you out on a date? If you want.”

“Danny, of course I want to go on a date with you. I’m courting you! I thought I made my feelings clear!”

“I’m just making sure!” Danny shouts over him, and Duke can’t resist the urge to pull him closer and pepper kisses along his cheek. “Okay, okay, I got it. You’ve made your feelings clear. I’m going to date you so hard.”

“You better. It’s about time you put some work into our relationship.”

“Excuse you?!” Danny gasps in mock outrage, and they start bickering lightheartedly as they always do.

Even with their feelings come to light, even with a courtship started and a date promised, it doesn’t feel like anything between them has changed.

It’s just them. Just as it always has been.

Duke couldn’t be happier.

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp fic #prompt fill #my writing #this was going to be longer bc i got into worldbuilding but then it got TOO long so i scrapped all that to focus on duke and danny #first time writing wing fic.... the amount of thought i put into how this world works had my head spinning #like this one: most people sleep in hamocks or have beds that are off the ground so they can stretch their wings out #regular beds like ours exist but mostly for kids/senior citizens/people with damaged wings who cant fly #like danny. so he has a normal bed and duke has a hammock which means the cuddling situation is Difficult #usually it ends with danny on his back and duke on his chest or danny completely wrapped up in dukes wings #just picture that. youre welcome :)

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importantstudentbusinessspy-blog · 1 month ago

Text

Controlled

Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, third person POV, 1950s-60s, spies, psychological conditioning, telepathic reader, mind control, PTSD, cold war, Hydra, winter soldier program, split personality disorder, emotional, jealousy, protective bucky, possessive bucky

Additional tags: sex, sub reader, dom/sub dynamics, intimacy, forced proximity, sadism, blood, biting

“Test number five.” The Hydra research intern, a man named Mark, spoke into the recorder before clicking it. “Since our last test, subject G-34, was able to read the thoughts of all the people in the room with her, she has been practicing since. Isn't that right, G-34?”

“Right,” she nodded, wiping her sweaty palms on her beige uniform. The same uniform all the test subjects in the facility wore.

“And now, we will test her ability to read someone outside of her vicinity. I have a screen with me where I will type questions to Dr. Braun, who is in the next room. He will type the answers back to me. All I want is for you, G-34, to tell me his answers. Nod if you understand.”

As soon as she nodded, he began to type into his computer. “Go ahead.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated on locating Dr. Braun's mind. When at last she found her intended destination, she began with the first answer. “The shirt he is wearing is the color blue.”

The scientist nodded, before typing in a new question.

“The number he is currently thinking about is 34,” She answered.

“Very good.” The scientist mumbled, already typing in the next.

She focused again. “His dog is a mix of a husky and–” her voice cut off with a sudden gasp.

Braun’s voice was gone. Replaced by a completely different one. The new voice belonged to a man, English. No... no, American. “No, no, no, please I don't want to forget!!”

She cupped her ears, desperately trying to quiet the overwhelming mental scream.

Simultaneously, someone else spoke to the screaming American, in Russian.

“Желание” (wish) The third party spoke.

“No!” The American cried desperately.

“Семнадцать” (seventeen)

“Stop!”

“Ржавы��” (rusty)

“Please! I don't want to feel this anymore! Please just kill me! Kill me!” The American begged.

“Stop it!!” G-34 let out a cry of her own. With her head in her hands, she was desperate for the torment and pain to cease. Whoever he was, wherever he was. He was in agony. He was terrified. What kind of experiments were they running on him? She shivered from the thought of it alone.

“G-34?” Mark placed his hand on her shoulder.

“S-sorry,” She said through clenched teeth. “I am hearing from someone else. A man. He is in great pain.”

“... Interesting.” The scientist said. Not a shred of sympathy in his tone as he wrote in his notepad. “Can you still hear him?”

“Yes, he–” Before she could finish speaking, the voice disappeared. Or rather, changed. He was calm now. Quiet. At first, she wondered if she was back to hearing Dr. Braun. But no, it was the same voice that had been screaming just a moment ago. This time however, he spoke in Russian.

She had only managed to catch the last few words when he said, “Зимний солдат... готов отвечать.” (Winter soldier, ready to report).

“He… he stopped.” She said, lowering her hands from her ears.

Mark hummed, raising a brow at her. “Stalling our tests again, G-34? You know that only wastes both our time.”

“I was not stalling, sir!” Her mouth felt dry. “Really! He... was begging to die…” Her voice felt hollow at the haunting sound. “I thought he needed help.”

The scientist blinked, waiting for her to say more.

When she didn't, he clicked his pen and offered a disappointed smile. “Well, let’s try to stay focused from now on.” He gave a dry laugh. “Nod if you understand.”

Still in shock, she nodded absently.

Two Weeks Later

“Subject G-34,” Dr. Arnim Zola, the head researcher at the facility smiled at her. “Meet subject Z-26.”

Zola gestured proudly to the man standing across the room from her, like a child presenting a high test score to their parent.

She gazed up at Z-26. So this was the man whose screams she had been hearing for the last couple of weeks. The man whose family called him ‘James’ and whose friends called him ‘Bucky’ in his deep subconscious memories.

The Winter Soldier.

She gave a choppy nod. “Hello.”

Z-26 nodded back. With his chin raised and his hands resting behind his back in military fashion, he towered over everyone in the room. She curiously eyed his left arm, which seemed to be made entirely out of metal.

In the fluorescent lab lights, he managed to be somewhat more tanned than everyone else, hinting at his foreign origin. Perhaps he grew up spending lots of time outdoors.

He was in his twenties. Clad in a new pair of combat boots, cargo pants and a clean white t-shirt. He looked like a commodity rather than a person.

His facial features were sharp, angular, yet unlike everyone else in the facility, he did not look malnourished or underfed. He looked strong. Blue eyes with dark circles stared pointedly at her as if sizing up a target. His dark hair was cut short, matching the same haircut as all male test subjects.

“G-34 is one of our brave volunteers,” Zola explained to the soldier.

Z-26 eyed her with an unreadable expression. In his mind, she heard the very voice ask, “She volunteered for this...?”

“She is a very valuable asset to our mission. Like yourself, soldier. We think the two of you could partner up someday. Brains and muscle.” Zola gestured to them both excitedly. “We anticipate a fruitful partnership.” He cleared his throat. “But for now, you are both still training.”

A Few Days Prior

After another successful task, G-34 finally mustered up the courage to ask. “Dr. Zola. I was wondering…”

“What is it?” Zola muttered as he typed away on his computer.

She wiped her sweaty palms on her uniform and cleared her throat. “What... or I suppose, who is the Winter Soldier?”

Zola instantly stopped what he was doing.

A dreadful feeling of instant regret crept over her. One day, her curiosity would surely get her killed.

“How does she know about the Winter Soldier?” Zola’s mind raced.

She licked her lips. “It was something I overheard the other day. During a test with Dr. Braun.”

Zola bit the inside of his cheek while his mind ran; browsing through options, plans, and contingencies. At last, he folded his arms, leaning back against his chair. “‘The Winter Soldier’ is a program we use for our protection.”

“This can go one of two ways.” Zola thought. “No one other than cleared personnel knows about the program's existence. So either she keeps this a secret or she tells someone…”

“I will not.” She insisted “Tell anyone, that is. I was just curious.”

Zola eyed her for a long moment. “She's too valuable an asset to waste.”

Waste? In what way? Alarm bells rang in her mind. “I will keep this a secret, Doctor.” She insisted. “I swear on my life.”

He shushed her then. “Your life is a gift, child. Do not say such things. I know you will not tell.”

She sighed in relief.

“But I need to think about some things. Let's end the session here.” He clicked off the recording device and got up before leaving the room. Before he let the door close, he turned back to her with a smile. “Good work today.”

Present

“And G-34, I do not need to tell you too much about Z-26.” Dr. Braun said, tapping his temple; a knowing grin plastered on his face. “You have shown us that you are perfectly capable of finding that all for yourself.”

Catching on to what the Doctor had implied, Z-26 aimed a glare her way. His brows drew together, nostrils flared. “Get out of my head, you witch.”

She gasped. Instinctively taking a step back.

“What is it, G-34?” Zola asked. His voice was strained, barely containing his excitement. “What is Z-26 thinking?”

Before she could respond, Braun gave an obnoxious chuckle. “It is the first time the poor bastard's seen a woman since the war.” He turned to give another scientist a mocking grin. “Besides you Mark.”

The research intern shook his head, giving Braun a rude gesture as the men around them broke into laughter.

“The dog is probably imagining all kinds of depraved shit.” Braun jeered, eyeing Z-26 with disgust. Reading Braun’s mind, G-34 felt a wave of hatred rolling off Braun, aimed at Z-26. No, not just. Aimed at all Americans. He enjoyed humiliating Z-26 because he knew the soldier couldn't fight back without orders. He felt safe, but at the same time, on edge.

She looked back at Z-26, his glare was now aimed at Braun. “Idiot.”

She couldn't help her curiosity. Or her fascination. Why was he thinking in English? Why had he spoken Russian that other time? She wondered if Z-26's identity is still tied to his American past, while the Winter Soldier was shaped by Hydra’s programming.

Regardless, she did not get a chance to find out, as the meeting adjourned shortly and both subjects were led back to their cells. The session was deemed a success, if Zola's thoughts were any indication.

A Week Later

She caught the creak of leather boots pressing against the floor, and suddenly, she knew she wasn’t alone in the lab.

Then came his voice, low and indifferent.

“Ah. The volunteer.” Z-26 thought as his gaze fell on her seated at the metal lab table.

He walked in carrying a heavy box of supplies, putting it down at the corner of the room.

She tensed. Not at the words but the way they felt. Filled with disdain.

“I did not volunteer because I thought this would be fun,” she muttered, not looking up from her notebook

That was a mistake.

She knew it the second his body stilled.

When he turned to her, his movements were slow. His eyes were dark and meeting his gaze, she felt the way an animal feels the stare of a predator before an attack.

Unconsciously, she shrunk back against the cold metal desk where she was working.

“Stay out of my head.” Z-26’s words weren’t raised, or shouted. But they cut like a knife. “As if they haven't screwed me up enough,” he thought. “Now not even my thoughts are safe.”

She wanted to tell him that she had no intention of using his thoughts against him. But that would just reveal that she read his mind again.

Instead, she opted for the truth. “I hate it here as much as you do.”

“I doubt that.”

“It is true. Those of us who volunteered had no other choice. My family was starving, and now they are not. Thanks to my being here.”

“Choice.” He thought as his bitter, soundless laughter rang in the room. “My corpse was dragged and reanimated in a lab. My body was made into a tool. For my enemy to use as they please. And speaking of family, any memory I may have had of mine was wiped clean. I don’t even know what my fuckin’ name was.”

He didn’t say any of this out loud.

Patients reacted to trauma in different ways. Some screamed. Some bore it silently. She concluded that Z–26 fell under the latter category. Even if his mind was screaming the entire time.

She hesitated. Then, softly she spoke. “James.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t even breathe. For a long moment, she thought she had made another mistake. Then, slowly, his blue eyes narrowed.

“That is your American name,” she said, watching him carefully. “It is what people call you in your subconscious memories. Sometimes your friends call you ‘Bucky’.”

She braced for it. For the anger. The accusation.

Instead, his lips parted slightly. “James,” he murmured. Testing the sound. “Bucky.”

And for the first time since she met him, there was no coldness in his voice. Only a hollowed, broken sound.

Two Weeks Later

Taking her hand, Zola led her around the banquet hall.

Unused to wearing heels, and dressed, G-34 stumbled clumsily in her gown, relying on the scientist to keep her balance. Her gift was more of a curse when she could hear the other guests mocking her clumsiness in their minds.

The hall was full of impeccably dressed, wealthy, immoral, well-fed, greedy people. Arms dealers, oligarchs, oil tycoons. And her mission was to read their minds and report anything of interest back to Zola.

She looked around the room, searching for Z-26. He was in the car with them on the way here, but since they had entered the building he was nowhere to be found.

“Jean!” Zola greeted an elderly man dressed in a black suit.

Reading his mind, G-34 concluded he was a French biologist named Jean Armand.

“Ah, old friend.” The Frenchman greeted him. “Are we to expect your, how do they say ‘A-game’ at tonight's show?”

What show? G-34 blinked, looking between the two men.

Before either could speak again, two large doors opened at the far end of the hall and the crowd began to pour in with exciting murmurs and whispers.

What was happening? G-34 tensed. She turned to Zola with a look of confusion.

“It’s time to find out.” Zola said to Jean, before offering her his arm once again. “Shall we, my dear?”

She let him lead her into an adjoining room.

The room was filled with seats at all sides. With a boxing ring in the center.

Once everyone took their seats, all of the lights shut off to a chorus of delightful laughter and awe. Only the boxing ring was left illuminated.

The crowd clapped as a well-dressed man walked onto the middle of the ring holding a microphone in his hand.

“Ladies, and gentlemen.” He raised the microphone to his lips. “The moment you have all been waiting for!”

She looked around nervously. Where the hell was Z-26?

“Please, give a warm welcome to our returning champion, The Frenchman we all know and fear, Vincent 'Unbreakable' Seine!” The announcer gestured to the left of the ring.

The crowd roared with excitement as a burly, hulking man strutted around with his arms raised, encouraging more cheers. Like Z-26, one of the Frenchman's arms was entirely made of metal.

“And now.” The announcer spoke again. “We have a newcomer, he is young and inexperienced, but he may blow us away just yet. Please welcome, The Winter Soldier!”

G-34 froze. Her eyes widened as she slowly turned to the ring. On the opposite side of the giant frenchman, stood Z-26. He had discarded his suit for his uniform combat boots and cargo pants. He was lean and on the thinner side in comparison to the Frenchman, and despite his height, was shorter. His lab dog tags hung loosely over his muscular, bare chest.

“Isn’t he pretty, ladies?” The announcer joked. The crowd cheered in response.

Z-26 was glaring at his opponent. G-34 recognized that look. The same one that was aimed at her the first time they met. Her hands shook nervously.

So this was what Jean Armand had meant by ‘tonight’s show’. She looked to him sitting giddy beside her. Sick man.

“Gentlemen. I wish to be entertained tonight.” The announcer said in a serious tone, looking from the left to the right. “So whatever you do in the next five rounds. You better keep it dirty.” He cackled after the last word.

The bell rang as the crowd roared, the two men took their first swings.

The Frenchman was growing tired after the third round had ended.

His moves were less sharp. His face was covered in fresh cuts and bruises. His breathing labored.

In contrast, Z-26 remained agile, circling the Frenchmen and dodging his blows, much to the crowd's amusement.

Suddenly, the large man landed a punch with his metal arm. Hard too. A cruel sound echoed as metal connected with Z-26’s lip.

Her hand shot up to her mouth. The crowd roared as Z-26 lost his balance, landing hard on his back before quickly rolling back and onto his hands and knees.

“Your boy is good, Arnim.” Pierre turned to give Zola a smug look. “But we shall see if conditioning can beat experience.”

Zola was undeterred. “We shall.”

Z-26 looked up slowly. His mouth dripped with hot blood.

Then he did something that made his opponent, and everyone in the room, falter.

He grinned.

The crowd erupted in cheers and roars, chanting. “Soldier! Soldier! Soldier!”

Sizing up his opponent. Z-26’s chest rose and fell in increasing speed. Reading his mind, she felt his adrenaline spike.

He wiped a hand across his bloody lip, leaving a crimson residue like a mask across his face, and flicked it, splattering his blood in droplets on the floor. What was before stoic indifference was now animalistic intimidation as he paced around his opponent in a slow circle.

The Frenchman lunged at him again, and Z-26 blocked his blow with impressive speed, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it hard behind his back. A loud crack was heard just as the opponent cried out in pain.

She shut her eyes. In Hydra’s lab she was exposed to many uncomfortable visuals - blood samples, sickness, pain. But nothing quite so depraved.

The hairs on her skin rose as she heard Z-26 cruel laughter ring out. Only, it sounded different. That wasn’t Z-26 anymore. That was the Winter Soldier.

She dared a glance, squinting as the soldier picked up his opponent by his throat with ease, before slamming him on the ground, then using his metal arm to pummel him with a volley of bone chilling punches.

She could hear his thoughts. “Break his jaw. Crush his throat. Tear him apart. Hurt him. Hurt him! HURT HIM!”

G-34 dared a glance at Dr. Zola. He watched with a look of pride, thinking: “My perfect creation, my masterpiece”

The winter soldier mercilessly threw punch after punch. His bloodstained dog tags swinging in front of his bare chest.

She desperately searched for the opponent’s thoughts, but there was nothing. No thoughts. No movement. No heartbeat.

Her breath caught in her throat. Incidentally, she hid her face in her hands and turned around, not wanting to see the kill. She didn't notice that she was leaning into Dr. Braun. She only understood that once his arms came to circle around her as a faux display of comfort and he cooed, “poor girl, this is no scene for such a lady.”

He didn't fool her.

Without having to read his mind, she knew he was terrified simply by the way his hands shook slightly. Peeking behind him, she also saw the rest of the audience was unsettled. The once-cheering spectators had gone silent, their faces pale.

She didn't feel bad for them. They paid to see a spectacle, and that's exactly what they got.

Four Months Later

“That song at the Gala yesterday... it was Glenn Miller, yes?” G-34 asked in a last ditch attempt to start up a conversation with Z-26.

Silence and a beat passed before she got his answer. “How do you know Glenn Miller?” He asked.

Sitting across from her, he was clad in a tweed suit - the counterpart to her long coat. The two looked the part of a body guard and a wealthy heiress.

Suppressing a satisfied smirk, she looked out the window of the train, watching the trees and snow covered fields pass them by. What a privilege it was to see the outside world, after having spent so long underground. “When the allied soldiers liberated our village, they had record player with them. And they played his music on V-day.”

Z-26’s gaze fell to his hands and he sighed. “I'm more of a Louis Armstrong man myself, but Miller's certainly better than the propaganda shit they listen to here.”

She liked him when he was like this. Sincere. When he let his guard down enough to engage in conversation. Offer his opinion. These moments were rare, and she suspected she was the only witness to them.

“Can I ask you something?” She rested her chin on her hand.

“You just did.”

Rolling her eyes, she gave him a look. “Do you still resent the fact that I volunteered as a test subject?”

“Do you?” He challenged, raising a brow.

“I do not know.” She admitted. “There was a clinic near our street. One day they put up a sign. 'Offering double rations in exchange for research.' I signed up and…” She lifted her hands, gesturing around herself as if to say, here we are.

His expression wasn't blank, but it still did not give much away.

“What are you thinking?” She prodded.

Pained blue eyes met her gaze. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“... I can't remember.”

But she knew. The person he was failing to remember. The one who she reminded him of was his best friend back in Brooklyn. A skinny blonde boy who had grown up on the same street as him. Who also volunteered for a sciencer experiment to defend his loved ones.

Some of the memories she'd seen of them in his subconscious were enough to fill her eyes with tears. Short, blurred fragments of laughter, scraped knees, joint bike rides, and sunny days.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The voice of the conductor came over the announcement microphone. “We will be arriving at our destination shortly. Please have your bags ready. We thank you for traveling with us.”

Z-26 got up, pulling up their suitcases from the overhead compartment. As the train came to a stop at Brussels station, G-34 gathered her things, securing a fashionable beret on her styled wig.

The two had completed their training. They were on their own mission for the third time. Hydra deemed them a good team and she tended to agree.

Her alias was that she was an heiress, who was representing her wealthy father in Europe's elite gatherings while he was busy conducting business abroad in Asia. Z-26 was her bodyguard.

The chauffeur met them out front. Another Hydra agent. He took the suitcases and placed them in the trunk of his buggy.

“How was your trip, Madame?” He asked.

She smiled at him as he opened the car door for her to sit down. “You know how I love the gala season.”

Hearing the code words, the chauffeur nodded before closing the door and taking a seat behind the wheel.

Z-26 stood outside her car, holding a cigarette lit in his gloved hand. He eyed their surroundings under the guise of someone taking in scenery during a smoke break.

A moment later, he walked around the car and took a seat beside her, addressing the driver. “Don’t take the main road. Take the alleyway and park at the back entrance of the hotel.”

G-34 eyed him. Had he seen someone suspicious? She opened her mouth to ask him a question, but nothing came out as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, giving her a squeeze. He turned and gave her a warning look. His favorite look. The ‘be quiet’ look. The meaning was clear. Not now.

That evening, the two of them had gone out for dinner, as they often did.

“It is beautiful at night,” she murmured, glancing up at the dimly lit street. Never having been to Brussels before, she wanted to take advantage of the rare free time they had to take in the city’s beauty.

“We should’ve taken a car,” He grumbled, but he let her pull him along.

“Hmm, is that why you are looking at me like you are Lenin I am bourgeoisie?”

He eyed you with a look of confusion. “I’ll never get used to your soviet expressions.”

She smirked. “Would you prefer I say ‘screwed the pooch’ like you Americans do?”

In a rare showcase of emotions, she saw the corner of his lips lift as he shook his head.

Then, he abruptly stopped walking. “Get behind me.”

Obeying instantly, G-34 looked out around them in alert as she grasped the back of his coat.

The cold evening was quiet. The air tense.

Then she saw what concerned him. The assassin suddenly moved - drawing a gun from his coat.

Z-26 moved before G-34 could react. A sharp twist, a sickening pop—the pistol clattered to the ground. The man barely had time to gasp before Z-26 shoved him down, his boot pressing hard against the attackers throat.

The assassin gasped, struggling.

She darted to Z-26’s side, breath shallow. “Who sent you?” She questioned the assassin.

Her mind latched onto his only to find nothing but pain as Z-26 applied more pressure. His boot pressing, relaxed, then pressing again, as he toyed with his victim.

She felt her own blood drain from her face. “That’s enough.”

Z-26 didn’t move. His grip remained steady, fingers twitching at his side as if deciding whether to finish it.

Eventually, the assassin stopped trashing. Stopped moving altogether.

Covering her mouth with her hand, she stammered. “He’s done.”

But her words fell on deaf ears. She read his mind to figure out why he wasn’t listening. Images of him crushing the enemy’s throat with his bare hands, or taking out his swiss army knife and twisting the blade deep into his side, continuing to strike even after the threat was gone.

“James!” She choked out his name.

G-34 finally released his hold. He wiped his boot on the rubble as if brushing off dirt and stepping away as the assassin lay limply, his body growing cold.

This was the part of the job she could never get used to. Though Z-26 seemed to have no problem with killing. What he did have a problem with was knowing when to stop.

She turned away from him, wiping away her tears as she clicked on her Hydra-issued communication hand radio. “We n-need a clean up crew on the Galeries Royale.”

“Copy. A crew is dispatched and heading to the location right now.”

“We need to go.” She said to her partner, swallowing down her bile as she eyed the dead man. Unaffected, he tugged at her until she finally began to move towards the road filled with taxis.

As they drove to the hotel, she couldn't help but glance at him sitting on the other side, a strange feeling settling in her stomach.

Even as they stepped into the grand ballroom the following Friday morning, the vision of Z-26’s bloodlust lingered on G-34’s mind.

Having just finished a conversation with a Chinese diplomat, she spotted a shiny movement to her right.

A striking woman in a sparkling flapper dress and headpiece to match, likely an homage to the prohibition era, was swaying close to Z-26. A half empty glass of champagne in her gloves hand couldn't have been her first drink of the day or even second.

With her telepathy, G-34 gathered that the woman, Rosa, was the wife of an arms dealer from Monaco. And that she was picturing Z-26 in all types of compromising positions.

The corner of our protagonist's mouth rose in distaste.

The woman stepped closer still, putting her glove on Z-26's arm. His jaw tensed as he looked down at her.

G-34 moved before she could fully calculate her plan. Putting herself between her partner and the Monegasque, she gave a light laugh to Z-26. “Darling, do you have room to breathe?” Before turning to give the woman who was touching him a forced smile. She wanted her gone. “Madam, please take a step back from my bodyguard.” She said with barely contained venom.

Something strange happened.

G-34 felt a pull in her chest like an invisible thread pulling her words out of her mouth.

As if she was pushed by an invisible force, the Monagasque took one full step back, her heels clicking the floor as she put distance between herself and the couple.

The drunken look of her eyes was replaced by one of surprise. As if she had not expected to move like that.

G-34 blinked in surprise as well, not expecting her requests to be taken so literally.

“No, not couldn’t be…” G-34’s stomach twisted with a realization. “I did that.”

She recalled the speculative discussions she had with the Hydra staff regarding her ability and its extent. Could it be that mind control was a component of her telepathic power?

She turned back to meet Z-26's gaze. He was eyeing her knowingly and she read the exact same question in his mind.

Her voice was odd when she said that to him. “I'd like to go home.”

He nodded and the two made their way out of the ballroom.

“Z-26, did you also see that back there?” She turned to him in the car. “That woman took exactly one step back like I told her–”

“Yes. I saw.”

“That was strange, right?”

“I suggest you drop it, G.” He gave a clipped response.

“But why did it happen?” She asked. “What caused it? Do you not think that it is worth testing?”

His gloved grip on the wheel tightened. “What part of the test process are you so eager to relive?” His voice was low, measured—dangerous. “The endless cycle of blood tests? The surveillance? The drug trials? Or maybe it's another puppet show?”

Ah yes, the ‘puppet show.’

Every time a test subject showed progress, they were brought to present their abilities in front of a crowd of Hydra’s biggest stakeholders.

Much like the time Z-26 was put in the boxing ring to show the effects of his super strength and conditioning to follow orders, the next year was G-34’s turn to showcase her telepathy.

No she wasn’t eager to relive that dread and embarrassment of being put on display.

She swallowed and turned back to look out the window.

A few minutes had passed when Z-26 spoke up. “I didn't need your protection back there. You could have exposed us.”

She turned to him in astonishment. “You did not know what that woman was thinking.”

In a rare showcase of emotion, Z-26 laughed quietly. “I knew exactly what she was thinking. I don't need you to keep women off me.”

She huffed and said nothing, turning back to watch the streets as they drove past.

When they returned to the hotel, she made a beeline for the shower, shutting the door behind her without a word. The heat washed away the tension of the day, but not the thoughts circling in her head.

By the time she emerged, towel-drying her hair, Z-26 had taken her place. He was quicker, stepping out minutes later, his waste wrapped in a towel as he ruffled a hand through damp locks.

Seated at the desk, she flipped open her notebook, pen scratching the pages as she recorded her findings from the gala—especially what happened with the woman. A single occurrence wasn't enough to confirm anything, but she wrote down ‘Mind control.’

The thought made her queasy. She needed more tests. Proof.

She glanced at Z-26, asleep on the bed, his bare chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.

She snapped the notebook shut and grabbed her coat.

By the time she returned, two oranges sat in her palm.

Z-26 stirred at the click of the door, messy hair falling over his forehead as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His gaze flicked to the fruit, brows knitting together.

Oranges were out of season.

His voice was still rough from sleep when he asked, “Where’d you get those?”

She moved to the table, setting them down before offering him a sliced one, which he ate. “The only place to get oranges here at this time of year is from a greenhouse thirty minutes away.”

Throwing on a pair of loose-fitting pants, Z-26 stood, walking closer, picking up the fruit. He rolled it between his fingers before bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent of citrus filled his nose. “What did you do?”

She swallowed, gripping the hem of her cardigan. “I asked a waiter in the café downstairs to bring me an orange.” A pause. “More accurately... I commanded him to.”

Z-26 said nothing, watching her.

She exhaled sharply. “And then he walked out of the café. Left the hotel entirely. It took him thirty-five minutes to return with these.”

The weight of her words settled between them.

When she met his gaze again, her heart was beating too fast. "I know. You said to drop it. But I think…" She hesitated, the words foreign even to her own ears. “I think I can harness mind control.”

The weight of her words settled. A realization, heavy and unspoken. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. "I can control people."

A humorless laugh escaped her. It sounded ridiculous.

But Z-26 wasn’t laughing. Instead, he was staring at her, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

“Say something,” she said.

He didn’t.

She took a breath, focusing on locating his thought-

“Don't read my mind." His voice was sharp.

She flinched. “I only wanted—”

“If you wanna know what I'm thinking, ask.”

She met his stare, lifting her chin. “Fine. What are you thinking?”

His response was immediate. “I'm disappointed in you for going off alone.”

She blinked, thrown off by the answer.

“Don't do that again.” He said.

She waved him off, knowing that’s not what he was mad about. “What about the power?” she asked. “Mind control. Do you think that—” she chose her words carefully, “that something good can come of this?”

His expression hardened. “Nothing good can come of this, G-34.”

She bristled. “What? Why not?”

“I don't wanna talk about this anymore.”

“Of course,” she muttered, frustrated. Asking herself rhetorically, “When do you ever?”

“Don't start,”

“You don’t let me read your mind, but you also refuse to talk to me.” Her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “How are we supposed to communicate as a team?”

His jaw tensed. The air in the room shifted.

She realized too late—she had pushed him too far.

Z-26 stepped forward.

Instinctively, she stepped back—her spine pressing against the cold wall.

The flicker of movement made something flash across his face. Not anger. Something else.

Her breath hitched. “Those f-fear tactics don’t work on me, Z-26.”

The rocky surface behind her felt rough through the soft fabric of her cardigan, but she barely noticed it.

“What?” His voice was lower now, unreadable. “What fear tactic-”

The question was genuine. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him that she might be afraid of him.

“I know what it means when you look at someone like that.” She swallowed hard. “It won’t work on me. I know you too well. So stop.”

His brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “Look at someone like what?”

She clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “Like you looked at the assassin the other day! Like, you would enjoy hurting me!”

His brows rose. “G-34,-”

“I know you enjoy hurting people, Z.” She exhaled shakily.

Silence.

She hesitated, then pushed forward. “I see it. It just... takes over your mind. I've seen how much you…”

“How much I…” He prodded.

Pressing her lips together, she spoke in a small voice. “How much you like it.”

He stiffened.

For a moment, she thought he would snap. But he didn’t. Instead, his next words were spoken calmly, but offered no less surprising value to her. “I can’t help but feel insulted that you think I’d be capable of hurting you of all people.”

The tension in the air was unbearable. He made another step towards her slowly. She pressed herself harder still against the wall.

Then, suddenly—he dropped to his knees.

Her breath hitched.

That was so unexpected, so unnatural, she froze, her body going rigid as he knelt before her.

His hands slid up her bare legs, fingers digging into her thighs. “I… feel a certain way about you. More protective than I’ve ever felt of anyone as far as I can remember.”

She gasped at the sharp press of his calloused—not gentle. Not soft.

Her pulse thundered. She had gone and done it again. Her and her big mouth. She knew that one day it would get her in real trouble.

Still, she couldn’t help herself. “Well you have a sadistic way of showing it.” Hissing at the way his fingers dug into her thigh, leaving marks.

Right. Super strength, he remembered. The fingers that dug into her flesh slightly let up, messaging the places they bruised. The sudden gentleness contrasted with the pain made her feel… twisted.

Under the heat of his hands holding her legs steady, she felt adrenaline rush through her own veins.

Slowly, he lifted her leg, resting it over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving her. Waiting. Not asking. Just giving her time to object. She didn’t.

His right hand, cold, metallic pressed into her thigh, and then she felt it—the barest graze of teeth. Her breath caught, her pulse hammering. She was at his mercy.

And then, he bit down.

A sharp sting bloomed through her nerves, deliberately cruel, but not enough to truly hurt.

A small, broken sound slipped from her lips, and his grip flexed against her skin.

His bite was deep enough to draw blood, and when he pulled back, he licked the sensitive skin where she now saw a fresh mark.

He assessed his work, allowing himself a small grin, before leaning back to plant another bite, this time, closer to her bare sex.

“You are a sadist, like I said. You enjoy hurting people.” She stuttered, breathless. “It is part of your conditioning.”

“I never said you were wrong.”

“And now when you’re angry. And you want to hurt me. It is like a reflex.”

His voice was low, even. “Did you get that by reading my mind?” His tone almost accusatory.

She shook her head. “You asked me not to.”

God was she tempted to though. She felt almost like she lost one of her senses. Exposed in a way she was unfamiliar with.

“Good.” He lowered his head under the hem of her cardigan.

She tensed, anticipating another painful bite on the most sensitive part of her body. Flattening herself against the wall when she felt his teeth grazed her folds, making her breath hitch.

She squeezed her eyes shut, she waited for the pain to come. He was slow and meticulous, his warm breath fanning her skin.

The pain didn't come. Instead, his tongue moved between her folds in a slow, torturous lick.

A choked gasp left her mouth. And her hand shot up to cover it.

His lip turned up in amusement as blue eyes challenged her. “You're drenched.”

She was. She didn't realize just how much this whole time he was teasing her had affected her.

Suddenly, there was a familiar, feminine voice echoing in his mind. Her voice. “He is clearly struggling to understand intimacy outside of his past trauma. That is why he behaves this way with me.”

Only she hadn’t spoken out loud.

It took him a moment to realize whose thoughts he was hearing. “If you won’t read my mind, why are you shoving your thoughts into it?”

She blinked. “huh?”

“I'm clearly struggling to understand intimacy outside of my past trauma?” He repeated her words, or rather, her thoughts, back to her. “So now your telepathy includes broadcasting your psych-evals?”

“I… I did not mean to!” Her eyes widened. “Are you saying you can hear my thoughts?”

He nodded.

She shook her head. “I did not even know I could do that.” Her voice was equal parts fascination and terror. “What triggered it? First, mind control, now this... is it heightened emotions? is it him?"

“You're still doing it.” He watched her with hidden amusement.

And then her thoughts turned paranoid.

“Oh no. Can anyone know what I'm thinking? Dr. Zola? Dr. Braun...?”

Z-26 was then witness to a series of moments from her point of view. Braun smirks at her, eyeing her inappropriately, calling her "pet", "dove", "kitten", and all other kinds of unwanted affectionate nicknames.

“No!” Her thoughts were panicked. “I have to learn to control this. No one can know about this–”

He growled in irritation. “Stop or I'll make you.”

“I cant!” She whined helplessly.

His finger drove into her entrance then, curling stroking the sensitive nerve endings inside.

She let out a gasp as her head rolled back against the wall and her hands grasped for his hair. Instantly, the paranoid thoughts stopped.

His finger was joined by another, along with his tongue and all three worked together to ‘distract’ her. A feeling deep in her belly rose and rose. She was squirming, straining herself to stay upright against the wall. “Gonna fall... Knees… weak.... Bed.”

He stood, picking her up with ease and carrying her to her bed. Feeling small and limp in his hold, she felt oddly safe in his arms, allowing herself to curl up into his warmth.

He lowered her onto her back on the bed covers. The mattress springs squeaking underneath their combined weight and he crawled on top of her, towering over her under his large, muscular frame. Before she could say anything, his hand wrapped around her neck and pulled her up to meet his lips in an harsh, merciless kiss. He bit down on her bottom lip, enough to draw blood again.

“Be gentle!” She choked out with quiet defiance when they pulled apart. “I am not as strong as you are.”

Her mind betrayed her though. "... the way you handle me... it shouldn't make me feel like this..."

“Do you feel guilty for enjoying yourself?” He asked, eyeing the glossy redness covering her bottom lip. He wanted to bite her again.

Then he realized. She was right. He was sadistic. He was conditioned to enjoy pain. And he enjoyed hers.

She pressed her lips together, hesitating to give him a response.

“I do.” her mind betrayed her again.

Something in her confirmation made him content. She was just as messed up as he was. They were the products of their reality. But that didn’t have to be a bad thing.

“Do you realize I want you to enjoy it?” He challenged.

The words made her freeze. She eyed him wearily. Not eager to believe his words.

“Read my mind. I give you permission.”

“Are you sure?” She whispered.

His hand wrapped around her calve squeezed hard, conveying the meaning clearly. Don't make me repeat myself.

“Okay,” she nodded, closing her eyes and focusing on reaching his mind.

“Intoxicating,” He thought. “Watching her dissolve under my hands. The way she tries to push back, only to collapse when I push her further. What I wouldn’t do to keep her safe. To keep her mine. Mine. Mine!” There was something raw, possessive in his voice. A part of him wanted to see how far she would let him go.

Her brows furrowed. “You want me to enjoy it? Or do you want to hurt me?” She blurted out. “Which is it?”

A sad smile appeared on his face. She couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or pitying her. “Naïve little thing. Why choose?”

With his metal arm, he easily flipped her onto her hands and knees, his hand curling around her throat to pull her up until she was flush against his chest. Her cardigan was unbuttoned and hanging loosely off her shoulders, exposing the peaks of her breasts. His fingers found her nipples and gave them a painful squeeze. She flinched and arched against him, pushing her breasts into his hold.

Her sleeves fell down to the tips of her fingers as her hands grasped to hold him.

He lined himself up at her entrance and slowly pushed in.

They both gasped at the deliciously painful sensation. He reached his other hand to her sex, finding her clit and rubbing it in circles in time with his gradual pumping.

Every brush of his fingers, every thrust, had her tensing. Her vision blurred as he pressed a particular spot on her throat with his thumb.

Overwhelming—too strong, too fast, too much—but she never felt safer than in his arms. He handled her like she was his, like she could take it, and she found herself sinking into that certainty. Handing over control.

"Z-26–" she grasped for him, her fingernails scratching the scarred skin of his forearms.

She turned her head and saw that his facial expression was one of agony. Furrowed brows and shut eyes. His hands gripped her as if he was afraid she’d disappear.

The sharp angles of his cheeks were dusted pink as he panted into her tasting faintly of oranges, before sinking his teeth into her skin. Every rough tug, everywhere his body pressed against hers, sent another shiver down her spine. Thought slipped away, leaving only the dizzying sensation of being handled by him.

The warmth built up in the core of her stomach and only grew stronger as his hips sped up against her.

The climax rolled over both of them – leaving her shaking and reaching for him desperately. “J-james!” she whimpered.

“’m here, darlin’” He rasped, laying kisses along her neck and shoulders as he continued fucking her into her orgasm.

It hit her all at once, making her shake and ride it out like a wave. Panting, she still maintained a steel grip on him, afraid to let him go.

He wasn't stopping. Wasn't slowing down either.

Her pulse thumped in her ears, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. He had her caged in, his body a wall of heat and strength, and her own was betraying her—arching into him again.

Breath hitching. Back arching. A slow, insistent ache built deep in her core again, curling low in her core, spreading warmth through her veins. Every touch, every squeeze, every press of his body against hers only increased the heat, making it harder to breathe. She felt vulnerable, exposed, every inch of her skin burning under his hands, desperate for more. “I can’t… it’s too much!”

“You can.” He responded to her out loud. “You and I are the same. We had no say in our own bodies for years, no control. But here we are, sweetheart. You, obedient, giving yourself over to me completely. Because you know I could take care of you. Because I know how to make you feel good. Because no one else knows what we’ve been through.”

“Yes!” She couldn’t help but moan.

“Read my mind, G-34.” He said. “Read how you make me feel.”

She read his mind.

“I have nothing.” He thought. “No past, no future, nothing that was really mine. But this? This is real. She’s mine. The way her body reacts to me without hesitation. The way we are at this moment. No one could take this from us.”

“Ah,” Her head rolled back as she felt her pleasure grow stronger and stronger. “James!"”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. They froze. Panting.

The insistent knocking returned. “Miss?” A muffled male voice called behind the door. Likely belonging to a staff member

She called back breathily. "J-just a second!" before gathering her clothes and limping her way to the door on weak legs. She gathered the material around her, hoping to cover the marks and bruises and marks. Brushing her hair back, she got ready to open the door. Z-26 was behind the door in an instant, standing with a gun in his hand, and quiet anticipation.

Still flushed, she waited for his green light. He cocked his pistol and nodded. She twisted the door handle and cracked open the door an inch.

“A telegram for you, miss.” The bell boy standing outside of her door handed her a letter. “Mr. Zola is waiting for you at the restaurant downstairs.”

End of Part 1/2.

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hotvintagepoll · 3 months ago

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Donald O'Connor (Singin' in the Rain, Francis, Call Me Madam)— LOOK AT HIM. Those giant blue peepers. Those tappy tappy little feet that don't quit. The ears that stick out like little wings, ready to lift him up to goofy heaven. The way his face contorts into the strangest yet most endearing expressions. His ability to sing and dance alongside the hunk that is Gene Kelly and yet pull all attention away with his big-eyed buffoonery. The way his energy is unmatched in songs like "Make 'em laugh" - bouncing off the walls and tumbling through the air straight into my cold cold heart. Who else but a true scrungly lil guy would sit upon the witness stand and defend a talking mule with all the love and affection in the world - staring out into the court room with his bright wide eyes and eternally mouse-like expression, openly admitting that the mule is his best friend?!??! I see him and I want to pull him from the screen into my hand and just squiiiiiiiiiiiiish with all my might. I want to pinch his cheeks and have him bat those eyes at me. He just makes me go "eeehehehehehe" every time I see him and his silly little self. He is pure chaotic, ridiculous, scrungly perfection!

Mantan Moreland (Mr. Washington Goes to Town, Cabin in the Sky)—i love mantan moreland SO. MUCH. and he is the pERFECT scrungly little guy!!!!! like a lot of black actors at the time he was always getting sidelined into small parts, but unusually he also managed to become a star in his own right and was almost one of the three stooges! he was a groundbreaking comedic actor known for his distinctive stare (very good for the horror movies he did), and he always is way more fun to watch on screen than anyone else. he had a famous double-act where he perfected this technique of non-conversations (where both people keep finishing each other's sentences before any actual information is conveyed). a lot of his movies are free on youtube and i really enjoy seeing him do his silly little guy thing in all of them!!! anyways yeah please include mantan he deserves some recognition as peak scrungle

This is round 3 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you’re confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Donald O'Connor:

youtube

My silliest little guy. My funnyman. My horsie. I have watched many a bad movie for this man. The scrungliest fact I know about him is that he was supposed to star as Danny Kaye's role in the iconic White Christmas (1954), as he had known Bing Crosby since he was a child, but couldn't because he caught a mule disease while working on those Francis the Talking Mule films Universal endlessly made him do. I wouldn't exactly recommend those movies, but Don's character getting psychologically tormented by a sardonic mule does make for quite a good movie night, if you know what you're getting into. Are You With It? is another one I don't exactly recommend, but it does open with Donald as a math genius actuary who is about to kill himself over a displaced decimal point before getting taken in by a traveling carny instead. His more well-known and beloved roles have plenty of scrungliness too, in my opinion. This man slapsticked so hard he wound up bedridden for his physical exertion! Rather than submitting Make 'Em Laugh, which the electorate has likely already seen (I hope), I'm submitting an underrated dance number of his, where he explains maths through tap dance. That movie is Not good, but god do I love him in that role.

youtube

I think it's arguably very scrungly to seemingly be a real life cartoon character made out of rubber, as proven by how slapsticky the list of scrunglies is so far. In which case, Donald O'Connor? He scrungles supremely. He even played Buster Keaton in a movie (that apparently can't be recommended, but still).

youtube

Mantan Moreland:

here's his double act in action!! [editor's note: Benson Fong cameo too!]

youtube

He just had a scrungly look about him and he played big with his roles so any of it became especially scrungly. Plus he was very funny in the way only scrungly people can be.

the FUNNEST GUY TO WATCH ON SCREEN. he was an immensely gifted physical comedian, able to convey loads with his eyes, and while some of his parts are so sad and cringeworthy, I feel like he always brought a humanity and humor that lifted them beyond cheap stereotype.

#mantan moreland #donald o'connor #hotvintagepoll #scrungly 3 #Youtube

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mvrdermeharder · 2 months ago

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So in the wake of ch 294, i’ve been thinking about what’s left for Kaiser’s development…

Unfortunately, as i had expressed in one of my prev posts, i think his story has a very high chance of ending in tragedy (by which i mean death).

BUT, as he’s my fav trash boy, i’m not willing to give up on hope just yet. So i kinda want to ramble a bit about Archangel Michael’s history and iconography to find a leeway towards a better ending… and i’ll possibly do a deep dive in another post.

As i’m in the midst of editing… “deep dive” lmao as if this post didn’t end up as long as it did.

So basically, it’s a fact that bllk is full of christian symbology and references (mainly when it comes to kainess, to be specific), and it’s obvious that not only Kaiser’s given name, but also his appearance is inspired by how Saint Michael is represented in the most famous paintings:

Long(er) blond hair, androgynous facial features, wearing a blue tunic + often a red piece of cloth floating around him (Kaiser is permanently wearing these two colors on his body: red eyeliner tattoo, blue rose tattoo. Blue is also just his signature color in general.)

But here’s what i find even more interesting: Kaiser’s character is not only based on Archangel Michael, but it also incorpores a lot of visual elements that Lucifer is represented with (Lucifer is God’s ex-favorite angel, who CHALLENGED AND REBELLED AGAINST GOD, so then God kicked him out of heaven basically… you’ll likely know this angel by the name of Satan)

Now, the representations of Lucifer/Satan vary throughout history, with the earliest representations being in Egypt… so i won’t mention everything bc we’d be here for hours, instead i’ll just boil it down to only those characteristics that Kaiser and Lucifer have in common in SOME representations.

So, Lucifer/Satan is often represented as the most beautiful angel of all, sometimes in blue/red clothing, completely nude, OR in a demon like form: a goat-man with hooves, horns, and bat like wings. In the panel below, Kaiser takes up an anthropomorphic form (humanlike traits mixed with animalistic traits) as he immerses himself in his own malice: his legs and feet remind me of the hooves of a goat-man, aka Lucifer.

So despite Kaiser being a sort of reincarnation of Archangel Michael, his personality morphs into that of the cruel and sadistic Lucifer. He wants to rebel against God, he longs to cast his malice on the world’s football players to feel joy (just like how Satan finds enjoyment in tormenting humans), and in the latest chapter he claims that it was wrong to let go of his malice towards Yoichi, and that he should rely on his malicious urges to steal…

(For context, i’m using panels w the official translations, NOT the more widespread PO2 ones)

So now that i’ve explained how Kaiser takes on the characteristics of both of these angels, i want you to scroll back a bit to the paintings of St. Michael.

What we see in these paintings is the battle between St. Michael and Lucifer. We see Michael stepping down on Lucifer, in a complete victory. (The sword in his hands represents rightful justice, but that’s not very important rn)

And the way i see it, the manga might follow this story. But not in the traditional way of physical conflict between two bodies, instead, it’s an incredible internal and psychological conflict!

The great battle takes place in Kaiser’s mind, and if Kaneshiro intends to follow the famous biblical story, this conflict will end with the “defeat” of Kaiser’s unhealthy mentality (=defeat of his satan-like qualities).

Or at least that’s what I’m hoping for w this theory. I really don’t want to see my boy dead due to his fucked up mentality (Mick Moon theory… oh how i loathe u)

Paintings that i’ve used for reference:

Guido Reni - Archangel Michael defeats Satan

Luca Giordano - Saint Michael

Antonio Maria Esquivel - The Fall of Lucifer

Luca Giordano - The Fall of the Rebel Angels

Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino - (Little) Saint Michael

Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino - Saint Michael Vanquishing Satan

Francisco Goya - Witches' Sabbath

#ch 294 drives me crazy and i have to distract myself from how much i wanna shoot isagi rn #so.#here i am.#anyway #i’ll drop a second post today/tomorrow bc ness also has a lot to do w all of this…#but quite frankly i’m hungry af so i need to put down the damn phone and go grocery shopping #oh and #if anyone’s wondering i’m not religious btw #just majoring in history of art lol #so i’m required to study a lot abt christianity and all that #but i actually find these stories and characters quite fascinating tbh #bllk #blue lock #michael kaiser #bllk theories #bllk 294 #blue lock 294 #thoughts/theories on kaiser

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becauseicantthinkwritings · 1 year ago

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An Altar For Our Sins

Part 8 // Masterlist

Demon!Billy Russo x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral (both f and m receiving), fingering, edging, bondage, cum swallowing, heavy angst, talks of murder and (mild) decapitation, mind control, psychological torment, mentions of toxic and manipulative friendships.

Your arousal burns through him.

It’s not like your pain, it doesn’t slide like a needle between the layers of his skin, awakening discomfort that makes his heart beat in a worrisome rhythm.

Your arousal is different. New to him, and still a little unfamiliar, but he knows it when he feels it. It’s like a soft hand on his skin, the ghost of your touch trailing from his ear down his neck. It’s the sensation of your fingers drifting into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and makes the hairs on his arms stand on end.

That’s how he knows you’re aroused, when it feels like you’re touching him all over all at once, when realistically, you’re currently just holding his hand.

He finds great appreciation for the feeling, as you tug him through the busy streets. He doesn’t know what you’re looking for, too caught up in your emotions to focus on the destination.

It’s odd, he’s never felt someone else like this before, never given anyone the opportunity to.

A strange pleasure courses through him, that he’s the one responsible for your arousal, that his earlier actions have made you excited, and desperate for him.

His mistress wants him.

He’d do anything to please her.

TEN MINUTES AGO.

Billy has seen his fair share of assholes to know when he’s looking at one.

He’d almost wiped the six-foot tall man clean off the face of the earth for trying to hug you, before absently remembering he was in a public place.

If that wasn’t enough of a reason, he could see the way you were discomforted by the brunette’s appearance, the faux pleasantness of your smile, the stiffness of your shoulders. Billy was aching for blood just at the idea that you might not want to interact with this human at all.

When the man had asked about him, you’d glanced back with that same forced smile.

“Oh, this,” you'd said with barely any hesitation, “This is Billy, my boyfriend.”

The words echo in his head. He looks down at you, feeling his mind rage with the desire to take you. He’s surprised he’s still able to formulate a thought with the way he wants to drop to his knees and sink his tongue into your cunt.

He feels something expand in his chest. His mistress, claiming him in front of others so easily, so readily, made him into a beast of a man, filled with so much want for just a few moments.

The man extends his hand to Billy, and Billy at least musters the courtesy to shake his hand without shattering all the fragile bones beneath the skin, introducing himself.

“Dimitri, I’m the former best friend.”

He nods in acknowledgement, thinking that it’s a little odd to go around introducing yourself like that.

He looks at you, takes a deep breath.

“Wow, you look amazing.” Dimitri says, and Billy wants to rip his eyeballs out of his skull for even daring to look at you.

Your skin crawls at his comment. You swallow, smiling and try to accept it, wishing for this interaction to be over with.

“Thanks, Dima.” You whisper softly, using his nickname accidentally.

His smile widens.

“We should hang out sometime, catch up, you wouldn’t believe the things I have to tell you.”

You blink, wondering why he was so friendly to you, as if the last time you’d spoken had never happened.

You try not to think about it.

“That might be nice,” You say politely, “But, I’m so swamped with things I have to do, and I might be travelling soon too.”

“Really? Where do you work now?”

Fuck, how do you get out of this one?

“I’m not really working anymore, just sort of… freelance.” You hoped it was enough to deter him from asking any more questions.

Dimitri only tilts his head in confusion.

“Really? That’s a bold move. I remember how much you used to struggle with being independent back in college.”

You swallow forcefully.

“Yeah, well, not anymore.” You say softly, feeling smaller and smaller under his gaze. You take a small step back, and you feel Billy’s hand find a spot on your back to remind you that he’s here.

Dimitri looks up at Billy, and you can almost tell that something awful is about to be said.

At the same time, you notice the woman helping you from before approaches, and it somehow helps to see her coming your way.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says with an easy smile, “I just need confirmation of a contact number?”

You nod at her, knowing that Billy doesn’t have that information.

“I can help,” You offer, following when she angles her body to head back to her customer help desk.

“Bye, Dimitri.” You say quickly, hoping he takes the hint and leaves.

Dimitri doesn’t leave.

Instead, he turns to Billy.

“I don’t know how long you’ve been with her, but I have to warn you. Honestly, I wish someone had warned me before I put so much effort into getting to know her.”

Billy sucks in a deep breath, glancing at you, before looking back at the man in question.

“Warn me about what?”

“She’s got… issues, big ones, and she leads people on and then gets upset when they… respond… if you know what I mean.” Dimitri says.

Billy’s trying hard not to lose his cool.

“I thought you were just her friend.” He says easily.

“I was,” the other man states, “but she’s got some problems and I just wanted to give you a heads up, man to man.”

You’re waiting patiently for the woman to enter your number into the system when you feel uninhibited rage swell in the back of your throat.

Your mouth falls open in surprise, breath halting in your chest as raw anger claws its way into your head.

You turn your head quickly to glance at Billy, who’s got his eyes fixed on the shorter man, the look on his face is calm rage, like a snake, coiling tight before an attack.

The woman at the counter, having no idea of the rage swarming your system, smiles at you and thanks you for your time.

You can only give her a distracted nod, walking back to Billy quickly. He looks down at Dimitri, raising an eyebrow casually.

“I don’t see much of a man.” Billy says, and you blink in surprise, wondering what was said when you weren’t there.

Dimitri, not one to swallow insults easily, straightens, squares his shoulders angrily trying to make himself look bigger, more intimidating. You stand a small distance away, too stunned to interrupt the conversation fully.

“Go to hell. I was only trying to give you a heads up. She’s going to smile at you, and beg for comfort and make you think that she’s in love with you, and the minute you take her seriously, she’s going to push you away.”

You blink, looking away, a sharp spear in your chest at the reminder of the things he’d said all those years ago.

It’s the look on Billy’s face that holds you transfixed. He’s angry, his body completely still and for the first time you’re not sure about what he’s going to do next.

Shamefully, the look in his eyes goes right down to your core. This was the man that was capable of taking lives, and though you had somewhat domesticated him, this was what lay beneath the surface at every waking moment. This was the oncoming devastation, and you could feel the rage, his rage, hit a breaking point inside of you.

“Go home and cut your arm off.” Billy says, watching the man’s eyes widen in shock.

“Billy, no.” You murmur, finally finding the words to interrupt him.

He huffs, looking down at you for a second.

“One hand?” Billy offers, and receives a shake of your head.

“Two fingers?” he tries again with the same reaction.

“Fine,” Billy sighs, “One finger, but that’s as low as I’m going.”

“Billy.” You admonish.

He looks back at Dimitri angrily.

“You have no idea how amazing she is.” he says, anger rolling heavily in his words, the colour of his influence cloudy in Dimitri’s eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with her. There never was, and there never will be and you’re lucky that she’s so kind cause I’m ready to make you eat your leg off for her entertainment.” He watches Dimitri swallow.

“So go home, cut your finger off, wrap it, and go to a hospital, and you better thank whatever god there is, that she doesn’t hold grudges.”

When Dimitri is two steps away, Billy speaks again.

“Oh, and Dima?” Billy says mockingly, watching the man turn back with a terrified expression on his face.

“Let’s forget about this, yeah?”

He only nods before scurrying away.

Perhaps you should have been angry with him.

But there was something about the coolness of his anger now, the way you could almost feel the fire burning inside of him, like red hot steel being plunged into frigid water.

The way he’d acknowledged your protests, but still finding some way to punish your old friend, like a balance being struck between your disposition and his.

In truth, you knew it was a very wrong thing, but you also found yourself barely caring as you reached for his hand, and pulled him out of the store.

You try to be reasonable in your head about it, Billy could have killed him out of your sight and you would never know, so this had to be a better alternative…

…right?

Or was this just you trying to excuse your involvement in Dimitri’s punishment?

Regardless, you couldn’t feel your morality at the moment, all you could feel was the empty space inside you, begging to be filled, to be used by him.

And you needed it now.

You tug him into the first cafe you find.

With a lovely outdoor theme to the interior, earth tones and the smell of coffee in the air, you definitely make a little note in your head to come back later.

You’re not thinking too much about anything though, simply following the signs that point to the bathroom.

Billy doesn’t even question when you tug him into the ladies’ room and then into a spacious stall with a door that goes all the way down to the floor.

The stall door barely has any time to close, before you’re pressing your body against his, rising onto your toes and holding on to the back of his neck to bring his face down.

Your eyes close as your mouths mesh together. You hear a little groan slip from the back of his throat.

His hands grip your hips, and when it’s not enough, his arms encircle your waist, crushing your body to his in one swift move.

You can't help the little laugh of surprise that leaves your mouth at his display of enthusiasm, grinning against his eager mouth for a moment. He returns your amusement with a smile of his own, and a dark promise in his eyes that reminds you of who he is, and what he's capable of.

It happens like a switch flipping inside of you, in one second you’re eager to kiss him, blissful with the idea of finally getting his mouth on yours. But it’s the way his mouth feels, the way his hair catches on your fingertips and his beard scratches your cheek that turns gentle need into something indescribable.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, leaning into him, little whines slip from your mouth when you feel like he’s too far away.

Like a burning in your head that demands him, in every way possible.

As high on your toes as you can get, you wobble a little when you try to get even higher, feeling his tail reach out in response to that, wrapping around your leg in an attempt to keep you steady. You groan when his tail brushes between the apex of your thighs. Pulling back for a quick breath, you raise one leg to wrap it around his hip, his hand sliding under your rear smoothly to support you.

His mouth is hot against yours, matching your fervour, an amused chuckle against your mouth when you whine.

He moves so passionately, fingers on your chin to tilt your head up so you can feel the searing heat of his desire for you.

You finally build up the courage, gripping his jaw tightly, encouraging his mouth to open so that you can press your tongue into his mouth teasingly.

He lets out another low groan that goes right to your core, shredding at your sanity when he pulls you even closer.

"Mistress-" Billy attempts to speak, trying to inquire about doing this in a more comfortable spot, instead of the bathroom stall of the cafe you'd just tugged him into.

You're not having any of it though, hands gripping the back of his neck roughly, tongue delving into his mouth with so much wanton need that he can't think to deny you.

You can't seem to stop, or focus, your only desire is to show your appreciation, despite how empty your cunt feels.

You move from his mouth, kissing over his cheek and over to his neck, delivering open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin, hearing the heavy labour of his breath increase.

“Does that feel good?” You ask, teasing him, daring to press your teeth into the column of his neck.

His hiss delights you, hands tightening their grip on you, showing you how much he really likes what you’re doing to him.

When the edge of his shirt gets in the way, you huff angrily, tugging at it so that you can bite down on his collarbone.

"Take this off." You command , tugging at his shirt.

“Mistress,” He tries to protest again.

“Billy,” You hiss, “Now.”

His shirt disappears in a puff of purple.

You drag your short fingernails against his skin, groaning in delight at the opportunity to have him, rubbing your face into his chest, appreciating the feel of his hot skin on your cheek, touching his body the way you always dream of. When you want more balance, you drop your leg from around his hip so that you’re on your own two feet.

You reach for his belt next, tugging at the leather, before reaching a hand down to cup at his erection through his pants.

“Wait.” He sighs, and it stops all your movement. You look up at him with wide eyes.

It takes you back into your head for a moment. Were you going too far?

He’s leaned back against the door, breathing in large heaves of air.

His hands cup your face, fingers tingling against your cheek, you wait patiently for his words.

“Are you sure?” He asks, dark eyes studying you.

Oh. Oh.

“Very.” You reply, “Are you?”

He inclines his head.

“Good.” You utter, keeping your eyes on his as you drop to your knees in one swift movement.

His eyes go red.

You reach for his belt again, and this time he doesn’t stop you. You undo his button and zipper in record time and gently tug his boxers down, salivating at the first sight of his cock.

Billy groans, he senses the increase in your arousal, feels it like you’ve got your tongue dragging on his neck while you’re eye level with his cock.

His breath stutters when your mouth seals over the head of his cock.

“Mistress.” He shivers, head hitting the door as he drops his head back.

You take your time, moving slowly, remembering the way his cum makes you feel, thinking about pleasing him this way, your cunt sticky under all your clothes.

Jaw open wide to accommodate his girth, you hum, taking him down as far as comfortable, listening with delighted ears at the sounds he makes in response.

He’s perfection, you acknowledge, he’s yours.

You take your time, bobbing your head slowly to a quiet drumming inside you, keeping a steady rhythm that you hope he likes.

You raise a hand to pump the rest of him slowly, as you angle your head to slide your tongue along the underside of his cock.

A soft sound leaves his mouth, and you keep looking up at him when your tongue dips even further to touch his balls.

He looks down suddenly, hair askew with the sudden movement, eyes shining red as you sway your tongue from side to side at the base of his cock.

Billy reaches down, and grips the back of your head harshly.

“Mistress.” He utters breathlessly, bending down, he tugs a little painfully on your hair to bring your mouth to his.

Your lips against his feels so sinful, you straighten as much as you can from your position on the floor, humming, delighted that he’s interested in kissing you like this.

You keep pumping your hand on his cock, eager to keep him in that blissed out state, but you realise he might be stalling you when he refuses to release your hair.

You pull away from him, and when he tries to bring you back for a kiss by tightening his grip on the back of your head, you raise your free hand to uncurl his fingers from your hair.

“You’re distracting me.” You complain, looking between his cock and his face.

“Let me take you home. I’ll let you ride my face till you can’t breathe.”

“Later,” you hum, “I want your cum on my tongue.”

He grunts, straightening to allow you more access to his cock.

You immediately take him into your mouth, more eager than ever, need pulsing inside of you, pumping the rest of his cock that you can’t get your mouth on with your hand.

He groans, and it goes straight to that spot inside of you that aches for him.

Something shifts inside of you, and acutely, you’re aware of something else you can feel.

It glides through your body, like two fingers tracing itself over your skin, beginning at your core, it slips over your clit and upward to your ribs. You moan around his cock at the phantom sensation, pushing your head down until he’s at the back of your throat.

Up, over your breast, to your neck and over your cheek, you hum around his cock, as the touch tingles over your scalp.

You don’t know what you’re feeling, not sure what caused the sensation of this invisible touch so you pull back for a moment, looking around for his tail.

When you don’t see any presence of his tail, you look up, searching his eyes for an explanation.

“I feel… what is that?” You ask.

He tilts his head, red eyes flashing purple for a second.

You watch him swallow.

“My pleasure, mistress, you can feel it.”

Your lips part in surprise. The ghost sensation traces its way down your back.

A small smile graces your lips, before you kiss the tip of his cock.

“I like it.” you say to him, licking teasingly at the head of his cock and feeling the way the sensation travelling along your skin heightens.

You close your eyes, and hasten your rhythm, the smooth head of his cock gliding along your tongue and you think you’ve found a little bit of heaven at his feet.

“Mistress.” He groans, a little too loud for the space you’re in, and you think that might be his way of warning you that he’s on edge.

You only hum on his cock, hearing his breath stutter as you hollow your cheeks while taking him down as deep as you can.

You feel his body tense, the muscle of his thighs hardening until it’s stiff as a rock, and then his cock twitches, a small movement, before he begins to spill into your mouth.

You feel it, his orgasm, it rattles through you, makes your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation. It’s like the rush of a heated wave, originating from the deepest spot inside of you, unfurling all the way down to your fingers, and the very tips of your ears.

He moans, it’s a low, euphoric sound, that makes your body tingle from the experience of it.

You swallow his cum eagerly, milking every drop from him, making sure he’s got nothing left to give you before you release him from your mouth.

You can still feel his pleasure, the aftermath of it is just as strong as it was during, and as it settles inside of you, you can’t help the little giggle that leaves your lips.

His eyes still red, your legs wobble as you do your best to stand. He extends his hands to help you, and you grip his forearms tightly for balance.

“Did my lovely demon like that?” You ask, feeling your head begin to swim peacefully, the effects of his release beginning to affect you.

He studies you closely, hands cupping your cheeks to look into your eyes. You can only chuckle more.

Absentmindedly, you lick your lips, savouring the taste of him on your tongue, closing your eyes in bliss, swaying in his arms.

With your eyes closed, you feel him guide you into a very deep sway, and the next thing you feel is your back being pressed against cool, soft sheets.

You sigh happily, your skin sensitive, head lost in a daze.

“Mistress?” Billy whispers softly into your ear.

You smile, eyes still closed, raising a hand to cup his bearded cheek, the wiry hairs tingling along the palm of your hand.

“Yes, Billy?” You hum easily.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to lick your little cunt now.”

Your eyes peek open in confusion, feeling something smooth wind its way around your wrists, pulling slowly at your arms until they’re pinned beside your head.

“What?” you ask in surprise, not fully understanding where this is going in your semi-inebriated state.

“And I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stop until I’m satisfied.” He continues, as if you haven’t spoken.

You can’t do much in your state, relaxed as you feel him carefully tear your shirt in two, exposing your warm skin to him. He snips the straps of your bra, tugging the material down so that your nipples are exposed to the cool air.

You gasp, whining as you pull a little on your restraints, a muted fire burning inside of you from the way he treats you as if you’re his plaything.

His hands are on your pants next, and he at least takes his time to unbutton them, peeling them off your legs, before something begins winding around your ankles too.

“What're you doing to me?” You whine, body aching more and more for each touch.

You turn your head to the side, noticing that the things holding your arms in place are just soft purple ropes. You give another tug, you feel your desire increase as you become aware of your inability to move.

You pant as your legs are pulled apart, you whine pitifully as you realise how exposed, open, and vulnerable you are to him. There’s a sweetness to it, something that makes your body yearn. It’s the thought that he could do anything he wanted to you at the very moment, and you would be helpless to stop him.

Usually that would scare you, but with your demon, you trusted him, wholly, maybe more than you should have.

Finally, you look up at him. His large frame hovers over you, between your legs, looking down at you with something fierce behind his eyes.

He takes a deep breath, and a pleased smile rises to his lips.

“Poor mistress,” Billy hums, raising a hand to flick gently at your nipple, making you gasp in response, “All wet and helpless and at my mercy. Do you want me to stop?”

Your head shouts the answer, but your mouth can only whisper.

“N-no.” You reply.

His other hand raises to touch your next breast, both hands toying with your nipples easily. You hiss, dropping your head back in bliss.

“No?” He mocks, “You want me to keep going?”

“Yes, please.” You breathe.

His grin deepens.

“You really trust a demon like me that much? Do you have any idea how badly I want to ruin you?”

“I want you.” You whine, closing your eyes eagerly when he brings his face in close, hoping that he’s going to kiss you.

“I’d let you ruin me.” You continue, hearing a little grunt leave his throat in response.

“Open your mouth, mistress.” He says darkly, and you obey, parting your lips for him.

He hums, before sealing his mouth over yours, his tongue immediately meeting your own.

You moan, flicking your tongue upwards, delightfully rubbing your tongue eagerly on his, unable to move in any way.

Your head fills with the worst ideas, that if he wanted, he could keep you here, bound, and still somehow you find that appealing.

There’s a drumming in your head, a heat on your skin, the taunting ghost of a phantom touch as his pleasure swells within you.

He begins kissing you softly, his mouth fixed to yours as one hand flicks at your nipples, the other hand supporting his weight so that he doesn’t crush you.

He drops his hips, so that he can press his stiff erection between your thighs. You clench involuntarily, angling your hips as best as possible to feel him.

When you whine against his mouth, raising your head to increase the pressure of his lips on yours, he stops touching your breast to grip your jaw harshly. He squeezes, keeping your head still as he kisses you hard, his rough tongue delving into your mouth easily.

He pulls back with a grin, looking at you with red eyes as you pant.

“Are you still cum drunk, mistress?” He asks.

You swallow, nodding your head.

“Good.”

Without any further words, he kisses your neck.

You hum, tilting your head to the side in a silent plea for him to keep going, a sharp gasp when his teeth drag along your sensitive skin.

You wriggle, but you’re unable to move, your bra is uncomfortable on your skin, and you hope he tugs the material off of your body soon.

His tongue is wicked, sliding over each collarbone, before they connect with the stiff peak of your nipple.

Billy moans, the flat of his tongue gliding over the underside of your nipple, before being flicked meaningfully by the tip of his tongue.

He repeats the motion several times, before tearing the ruined fabric of your bra off your skin, and circling his tongue around your other nipple.

You cry out, blubbering, his arms sliding under you to encourage your back to arch, making it that much harder to move as he circles his tongue around each nipple.

“Mine.” Billy growls, and you feel your eyes almost roll back in your head at the way you feel- debauched and desperate, for him and all the wicked things he does.

He’s not very nice, his tail sliding around your thigh and pressing gently against your panties, rolling in gentle waves over your core, tormenting you, making sure you feel each caress.

You feel his pleasure increase, like a breath over your skin, telling you that he enjoys this, having you helpless at his mercy below him and you crave the feeling of that like never before.

You know from past experience that if he wanted to ease your ache, he could easily increase his pressure to help alleviate your need, instead he only makes it worse.

After a moment, you gasp in surprise as you feel his tail work its way under the fabric covering your cunt.

You whimper, tossing your head from side to side, trying to find a way to get him to touch you where you need it most, but being unable to do much with the way you’re bound.

When you try to close your legs, you feel his ropes snake higher up your ankles, and loop over your calves, stopping right above your knees.

“Billy.” You beg, “Please, I need you.”

“Shhh, mistress,” He soothes, “This is what you get for riling me up so badly.”

“I didn’t-” You try to argue.

“No?” he asks, his tail skirting your slit, offering only a small amount of friction, “Getting down on your knees, licking my cock like that, swallowing every drop of my cum- that wasn’t supposed to make me feverish with desire for you?”

“I only wanted to thank you for sticking up for me.” You whine, trying to argue as he presses his face to the plush underside of your breast, beard scratching deliciously over your soft skin.

“Thank me? Do you have any idea what seeing you like that does to me?” His hands cup your face, and you part your lips as he kisses you softly, “On your knees, looking up, that sweet mouth sucking on my cock like you need me?”

When you don’t answer him, he hums, biting softly on your bottom lip.

You groan, struggling against his bindings for show, knowing that you’re not getting free unless he wills it.

“I’ll show you what it does to me.” He says softly, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You feel his tail drag upwards under your panties, hovering over your clit, and you sob desperately, yearning for him to touch you where it hurts.

Your thigh twitches involuntarily, body shuddering at how close he is.

“Please.” You gasp, tilting your hips up, sobbing as he moves his tail back too.

“Aw mistress, am I being mean?” He teases rhetorically.

You open your eyes, looking at him, his eyes have remained red the entire time. You think about what you could possibly say to get any semblance of relief.

“I loved sucking your cock, Billy,” You mumble, watching the red in his eyes darken, “I’d do it every day if you let me.”

His mouth parts, and you note the sharpening of his teeth for a brief moment.

Before you can even focus on any one thing in particular, his tail begins to slide easily between your thighs.

Your breath catches in your throat, feeling the appendage slide up and down, catching on your clothed clit, using the slickness of your arousal to move. You clench around nothing, gasping, aching for more, aching for it faster, and getting nothing but his slow, steady pace in return.

Suddenly his tail pauses, and you almost want to cry, only having a moment to open your mouth to beg when you feel his tail wrap around the waistline of your underwear, and pull it harshly till it rips.

“That’s better.” He murmurs, ridding you of the flimsy material, keeping his eyes locked to yours as his tail goes right back between your legs, grinding more purposefully on your cunt.

You drop your head back temporarily in defeat, arms and legs bound, unable to do much moving, all you can do is try your best not to squirm while his tail makes a mess of you.

You’re forced into looking at his gorgeous visage, his arms braced on either side of your head, he looks at all the expressions on your face as you struggle against his bindings, failing miserably at your attempt to stay still.

He speeds up, and your mouth falls open at the delicious feeling, the steady touch on your swollen clit.

Your pleasure swims in his head, drunk on the power he has over you, enjoying every moment of watching you. There is nowhere he'd rather be right now than right here, not even the promise of Heaven could tear him from you.

He slows his tail not long after, watching the torment cross your face, feeling delighted that he can do this to you, that he can make you want like this.

“I should’ve left you hard,” You grit out angrily, groaning inwardly when his only answer is an amused chuckle.

“You talk too much, mistress,” He taunts, before taking his tail away from your dripping core to press it against your lips.

You only hesitate for a moment, opening your mouth easily, and letting his tail, wet with your own arousal into your mouth.

The taste of you is tart on his tail, and you wrap your lips around the leathery appendage, giving it the same treatment that you gave his cock not too long ago.

“You look beautiful like this,” He breathes, red eyes memorising you, “Mouth full like a good mistress.”

Your chest flutters, but you can’t say or do anything except continue sucking on the tip of his tail. It helps distract you from the raging firestorm of desire inside of you.

He drops his head once more, and you gasp around your mouthful of tail as his rough tongue ambles over your sensitive nipples.

You feel the vibration of his groan against your breast, and suddenly you let out a sound of surprise when the rope wrapped around your legs begin to pull them up and further apart.

He raises up, pulling away, his tail leaving your mouth empty as he leans back to look at you. The remnants of his saliva cooling on your breast, the lips of your cunt spread with the further parting of your legs.

Vaguely, you’re aware that he can see every intimate inch of you, and you think you love that. You keep your eyes on his face, making sure he’s looking at your centre when you clench your inner walls.

He looks up at you, his gaze is full of something familiar, something you’re acquainted with intimately at the back of your head, where all your sacred thoughts lie. It’s a look that promises pleasure, above all else.

He leans in slowly, and you watch carefully as the six-foot tall demon bound to you for eternity, dips his head to place a gentle kiss between your breasts.

Your mouth parts in surprise.

He kisses over your stomach, over your belly button, scratching his beard along your skin, teasing you with the sharpness of his teeth.

It feels like nothing before, the careful attention he pays to each inch of your skin, feels like nothing short of worship to you.

You shake, gasping, desperate, tears pooling in your eyes on the brink of crying.

He trails a line of kisses between your hip bones, your body screaming with need and your inability to touch him. When he's not satisfied, his rough tongue retraces the path, your stomach tightening as he leaves pleasure in his wake.

How was he doing this so easily? Playing with you? Toying with your body as if he'd been doing it for all his life?

You make a little sound when he kisses the inside of your thighs.

He hums, drawing away from your thigh to press his lips to the seam of your cunt, staying like that for long, torturous moments.

“Billy please.” You beg on a meaningful breath, desperate for him to do something after he continues to place soft kisses on your pussy for longer than you like.

“I love hearing you beg.” He hums, kissing over your mound gently, slowly, as if there is no rush. You can feel the truth of his statement through your connection, feel the way his pleasure heightens when you make any kind of sound.

Your breath catches in your throat, unable to form a coherent thought in your head that would be enough to push him into pleasuring you the way you’re desperate for. All you can do is lie here, with your arms and legs bound while he places delicate kisses onto your wet pussy.

Your body burns with desire, something dangerously hot, that can only be soothed by his touch. You can feel yourself clench, feel the breath of his laughter on your skin, the way your demon loves tormenting you.

You close your eyes, and you focus on him, you think about all the things you want him to do, all the ways you need him, you hope that the bond between you will help persuade him to have mercy on you.

You imagine him over you, cock pumping between your thick thighs while his tail fills you up. You think about the way you’d kiss his beautiful form. You think about exploring his broad chest with your mouth, tracing the veins on his hands, the way his cock feels, heavy and unapologetic on your tongue.

Between your legs, he lets out a low groan. His skin is hot with your desire, he feels it, the way you need him, the way you ache for him, and he can’t get enough of it.

He’s never felt anything like it, in his centuries of existing, he’s never felt someone as much as he feels you. He knows that he never wants to feel anyone else like this, like he can’t tell where the essence of your soul ends and his begins, or maybe there’s an overlap, a blending of the two of you.

He darts his tongue out, sinks it into your cunt, trails upwards until he meets your clit, savouring the way you taste, your arousal on his tongue, all for him.

You gasp, tugging on your restraints, fighting his hold, and wanting to fight the featherlight touch of his tongue as well. Delight explodes behind your eyes, but it’s not yours you realise, it’s his. He gets enjoyment from tasting you. It makes you whimper, makes you need.

He torments you with his coarse tongue, like the demon you know him to be, gently moving across your clit, exciting your senses, winding you up like an object for his play.

You whine at the very idea of it, being used like this, giving yourself into the reality that he’s in total control of you, that it doesn’t matter what you want, your only purpose is to please him, to let him lick your cunt for however long, however roughly he wants.

It makes you that much wetter.

He takes his time, tongue slowly increasing its speed, moving in every angle over your clit, his careful precision to working you up, ensuring that your body feels good but not too good, a desperation being seared into your bones, or maybe even deeper, a place inside of you that belongs to only him.

His hands trail up from gripping your hips to explore the space beneath your breasts.

You gasp, feeling the tips of his long fingers tease the underside of your breasts, roaming even higher till he can roll your nipples between his fingers.

You say his name, pulling half-heartedly at your restraints, skin searing with open desire, gasping at the way he trails his hands lower once more, his fingertips ghosting over your skin, savouring the way you feel.

The phantom touch of his pleasure is all around you, trailing over your bound hands, up to your shoulders and neck, lingering on your lips.

You gasp, eyes rolled back in your head, lost in the feeling of his tongue when you realise you’re experiencing a clarity that you weren’t before.

You groan sadly, registering that while you’ve been captured in endless bliss, the effects of his cum had worn off.

You try to think about what it means, and what you want Billy to do about it, but it’s hard to focus when his tongue licks over your clit so often. It’s like he’s found the spot on your body that scrambles your thoughts and he’s been abusing that knowledge.

“Billy.” You sigh, calling for your demon, in hopes that he can pull himself from your dripping cunt for long enough to allow you any semblance of thought.

He only moans, rough tongue continuing its constant pace.

You shiver, raising your head, trying to get his attention away from your centre. You watch his head move down, the flat of his tongue connecting with your entrance before his head glides upward, pulling his tongue to meet your clit. He glances up at you with half-lidded red eyes, and as you look down at him between your thighs, he pauses, sliding his tongue slowly from side to side over your clit.

He looks lost in you, nothing registering behind his eyes except the taste of your cunt. You bite down on your lips at the sight of him like that.

You forget what you were thinking about, pulling your restraints taut in desperation, keeping you eyes locked on his as he continues to work his tongue sideways over your clit. A tilt of his head, and you watch his eyes close momentarily as he focuses solely on your clit, giving it soft attention, the perfect combination of right there and not enough.

You make a sharp cry of desperation, and he still doesn’t stop, his tongue speeding up, your toes curling as you begin to feel the burn of a slow oncoming orgasm.

He feels it, because he can feel everything you do, feels how badly you want him and he’s incapable of denying you anymore. He’s eager to taste your orgasm, feel you shiver on his tongue, he can’t stop thinking about it now, but he knows he has a point to make and he’s not stopping until you understand.

His pace doesn’t slow, licking you effortlessly, plump lips pressed together to trap your clit between them, using not just his tongue, but his lips as well to heighten your pleasure.

You shudder out a gasp, and then a little sob, dropping your head back, unable to think anymore. You take what he gives happily, because you have no choice in the matter, you’re at his mercy, despite how badly you yearn for release.

He hums, lips pressed to your clit, your body pulls tight in warning, mouth dropping open.

You only feel a puff of air on your mound, as if he just let out a little breath of amusement, at the way your body begs for him.

He flattens his tongue harshly to your clit, rolls his tongue quickly from side to side, listening to the sound of your whimpers increase.

You want to tell him how close you are, how desperate you are to come all over his tongue, almost ready to cry if he stops. The only thing that leaves your mouth is unintelligible sounds of insanity.

He knows though, he wants it too. To please you, to be owned by you.

Your toes curl, back bowing off the bed, everything held taught by the whims of your demon’s tongue.

And then he stops, detaches his mouth from your dripping heat and listens to you cry out in denial.

You open your mouth to beg him, but he’s already hovering above you, blunt fingers pressed into your jaw to turn your head to the side so he can whisper in your ear.

“Do you feel that?” He hisses, his lips right against the shell of your ear, “Do you feel how desperate you are? How bad it burns in your chest? That’s how I feel every second I’m not touching you, mistress.”

You gasp, trying to wrap your head around his words.

“That’s how I feel when you look at me, that’s how I feel when you kneel for me.”

He leans in even closer, till his nose is pressed to your temple, his lips right in your ear, his voice is a low grovel that thrums against your skin.

“Every time you wrap those perfect lips around my cock, you make me burn.”

“I’m sorry.” You finally say.

He raises his head, turning your face back to his.

“You are?” He asks.

You nod, trembling.

“I d-don’t mean to torment you.” You whisper.

The corner of his mouth lifts, you can see some semblance of sanity reappear.

“You don’t.” he states, as if this is news to him.

“I don’t.” You confirm, “I just want to make you happy.”

He grips your jaw tighter, leaning in.

“Why?”

Was that what this was? Insecurity?

“You do so much for me, Billy, and I like doing things for you too.”

“And if I couldn’t give you anything. Would you still…” His voice trails off, looking away.

“Yes.” You say swiftly, confidently, not letting the fear inside of him take root. “I’d want you even if you had nothing to give.”

Obsidian- the colour his eyes go next. You swallow, a tightness in your throat at the way he looks.

He looks back at you, eyes fixed on yours, dark veins spreading out from around his eyes as he tilts his head slowly.

He looks a little scary, the darkness of his eyes spreading out over his face, but like before, your body holds no real fear of him.

You don’t get a chance to say anything, before he’s leaning forward to kiss you hard.

You tilt your chin up, returning his fervour with need of your own, desperate to show him that you were his, just as much as he was yours. When you can see his face again, the black veins framing his eyes have receded, leaving just his dark eyes.

You wanted to touch him, you pull at the ropes with all your strength.

You don’t get a chance, he moves down your body once more, his head buried between your thighs in seconds.

You gasp when you feel his tongue again, you want to cry with relief.

“Oh god, Billy yes.” You moan mindlessly, tossing your head from side to side.

You tremble, hot tears spilling from the corners of your eyes, every nerve in your body on overdrive, trying to process how one person's mouth could have so much of an effect. He licks over you slowly, kissing your clit, wet sounds of his dextrous tongue filling the room.

What’s worse is the physical need for him, to touch every inch of his skin, to feel him, really feel him, and try to wrap your head around having a person to call your own.

He grips your thighs, squeezes your hips, makes you look up at the ceiling and feel the thoughts drain from your head like it’s a real, physical sensation.

He delves lower, tongue against your entrance a low groan from him as you endure the slow glide of his wet tongue against your walls, shallow, and yet desperate to get as deep into you as possible.

Your hands curl into fists, your eyes screwed shut as your shallow breaths grow loud in your ears.

You say his name but you don’t think he’s capable of hearing you, of pausing the motions of his tongue on your wet cunt.

He holds your pleasure hostage, and once more you feel the fight build inside of you.

You pull at your restraints, crying out when his tongue punishes your sensitive clit with a harsh lick, followed by tender kisses, right on your aching bud.

“I’m sorry.” You gasp, wriggling on the bed, “I’ve learnt my lesson I swear.” You say, trying to bargain with him.

He doesn’t answer, he just keeps going, hot tongue swiping over your clit, again and again, plump lips both a blessing and a curse.

He licks you for long minutes, until you lose control of your limbs, until they ache from being still, until you tremble, desperate to come.

“Pl-ease.” You draw out, voice shaking, your body begging, a roaring in your head that aches so badly you could almost cry.

Your mouth drops open when you feel two of his thick fingers press against your entrance. It hits you like lightning, and all of a sudden, you’re no longer in burning desire, but in a hazy rapture.

“Billy.” You cry, as he takes his time, working his fingers into you. You can hear and feel how wet you are, your head filling with absolute bliss, washing away any semblance of need you once had, any frustration that was being nurtured inside of you.

He keeps his strokes short, drawing out the pleasure you feel each time the thickest part of his fingers threaten to stretch the rim of your cunt, moving so rhythmically, lulling your body into a placid state. He gives you exactly what you need, filling you, licking you, delivering absolution from your burning.

You can’t feel anything except this pleasure, and a connection somewhere deep inside of you, that pulls you to him, draws you near, begs to be each beat of his heart, yearns to be each breath he takes, all paired with the feeling of his tongue lapping softly at your aching clit.

There’s a stuttering in your chest, one that you can feel pulsing in your nether regions as his pace increases. Your body gives no resistance to him, accepting him greedily, wanting more and more and more.

He’s there, giving it all to you, licking you to his heart’s content, pressing his fingers ever deeper, curling them a little, massaging the deepest parts of you, making sure you know that no one will ever make you feel like this.

You gasp in a big breath of air, pulling on the ropes still holding you firm, he lets out a low groan below you and you raise your head to look down at him.

His eyes are still wholly black, a void that pulls you in, the longer he holds eye contact with you.

Billy’s fingers hasten, and all of a sudden you’re right there, on edge again, losing any approximation of time, little whimpers leaving your mouth as you lose all semblance of sanity.

“I- I’m-” You whimper, trying to warn him that it’s all too much, that his touch is unravelling you in the best way possible.

Eyes rolling back into your head, unable to think or breathe for a few seconds, locked in a sharp stasis, balancing right on the brink of euphoria.

And then on your next breath, a release like no other. You hadn’t even realised how tightly you were wound until your orgasm washes over you. You can’t stop the sounds that leave your lips, or the very first squeeze of your cunt around his thick fingers.

One wave of bliss triggers another, and another, until you fall apart completely against his perfect, rough tongue, no hope of keeping your sanity amidst the oncoming flood of pleasure.

It takes you a moment of floating, before you can come back into your body again, only to realise that he hasn’t stopped licking you. You’re almost obsessed with the sensation of his touch, the deep press of his fingers inside of you, soft and languid, bringing you down almost as slowly as he’d lifted you up.

And then there’s the feeling in your head, pleasure swimming through your brain, tingling deep in your bloodstream, wave after wave of mindless, hazy bliss.

The ropes from around your arms and legs loosen, withdrawing, giving back the autonomy it had taken. You sigh with ease, squeezing your hands into fists, to remember how to move once more.

You can’t do much more than little flexes of your muscle, your body is too relaxed, unwilling to move.

He licks you one last time, before you feel his fingers withdraw, his mouth departing from the apex of your thighs.

His eyes are back to their regular red, and you sigh happily as he moves his way up your body.

“How was that, mistress?” Billy asks softly, his body over yours, his fingers sinking into your hair.

“Amazing, Billy, thank you.” You respond in a soft whisper.

He smiles, brings his head down to meet your lips with his.

You get a taste of yourself on his lips, and you make a sound of discomfort when his wet chin touches yours.

You press against his shoulder, breaking the kiss.

“Gosh Billy, your chin is so wet,” You complain, wiping what you assume is a mixture of your arousal and his saliva off your own chin, “We could really use a bath.”

He gives you a slow smile, a potent delight in his eyes that makes you so happy in return.

“Yes, mistress,” He agrees, sliding his other hand below your body, beginning to apply a little force to pull you up toward him.

“One bath coming right up.” Is the last thing he says before he pulls your face up to his.

His kiss distracts you, enraptures you, you hum happily against him, eyes closed and trying to ignore his sticky chin.

He dips you again with a smile against your mouth and the next thing you know is that your bodies are submerged in tepid water.

You don't startle, continuing to kiss him under the water, hands raising to grip his shoulders automatically.

You gasp when he pulls you up, and right into a sitting position on his lap.

He keeps the back of your head gripped in his palm, kissing at your cheek and jaw while you turn your head to the side with a little laugh.

You blink in surprise when you notice unfamiliar surroundings. You're seated in a moderately sized pool, right beside a beautiful open concept house. You turn your head the other way, feeling Billy's lips adapt to kiss your other cheek, noticing that the house is surrounded by thick jungle vegetation.

“Billy?” You ask, feeling his mouth kiss its way down your neck. His only acknowledgement that you've spoken is a curious hum.

“Where are we?”

“Phuket.” He says, voice muffled against your chest.

“Thailand?” You say in surprise.

His only response is another hum.

You grip his face between both your hands, tilting his head up to meet your eyes. He gives you almost the same look that he was giving you before- when he was looking up at you from between your thighs- half lidded, calm.

“Why are we here?” You inquire softly.

“Bath.” Is all he answers, leaning in to kiss your chest again.

“Are you okay?” You whisper, looking down at him, trying to figure out why there was such a spaced out feeling in the back of your head.

“Mhmm.” He replies, lips on your breast, kissing your nipple gently, “Happy.”

Happy. That’s what it was. Like a flutter in the back of your head, behind your eyes, you could tell he was drunk on his contentment.

“Why happy?” You whisper, hoping not to break into his haze.

“Happy to… provide, mistress.”

You feel a tightness in your throat, an inundation of emotion, threatening to choke you with the fierceness of it.

You tilt his head up again, looking into his glassy eyes, before kissing him with all the fire you have inside of you.

You know if you could, if you weren’t afraid of the pain of it, you would slide onto his cock right then and there.

He moans against your mouth, probably receiving some indication of where your thoughts have taken you.

Your hands smooth over his neck, down to his shoulders, fingers feeling over his collarbones.

“I’ve never swam naked before.” You say against his lips, feeling him laugh in response.

“Me neither.” He answers.

You push away from him playfully, smiling as you turn around to dip your entire body below the water, feeling the way the water moves around you. When you break the surface of the water for a breath, pushing your hair out of your face, you look back over your shoulder at him.

He’s in the same spot for just a second, before he’s in front of you, moving at speeds beyond your understanding.

You gasp in surprise, his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you against him. He lowers himself, pulling your legs around his hips, you let out a surprised gasp when his cock slots right between your thighs, tapping against your sensitive clit.

He kisses you again, mouth eager on your own, turning you and walking you to a place you can’t see, his hand gripping your damp hair, angling his head to deepen your kiss and leaving you struggling to catch up with his fervour.

He lifts you, resting your naked body on the edge of the pool, your bare ass warmed by the sun-heated wooden deck.

“Need another taste.” He says against your mouth, his tail wrapped around your thigh, gliding gently along the seam of your cunt. You gasp in amazement at his desperate display.

“What?” You ask, not understanding what he’s saying with the way you’re exposed, naked in the open air. The only thing stopping the sun from hitting you directly in the eyes is an overhead umbrella.

He pulls you forward a little, tossing your legs over each of his shoulders, muttering something that you can’t make sense of.

A quick kiss to your inner thigh and then his rough tongue sinks into the seam of your cunt once more.

His tongue moves a lot more meaningfully this time, no attempt to torment you, his only goal is tasting you.

You gasp, arms buckling from where you’re trying to hold yourself up, his tongue once more attempting to make quick work of you out in the open beside the pool.

You don’t try to stop him, or resist him, simply keeping your thighs parted so that he can have his fill of you, willing to give your demon anything he desired.

He hadn’t stopped until you were boneless, barely able to keep your head up, almost on the brink of passing out.

It had been a really long day, and at the end of it, after he’d cleaned you up and tucked you into bed beside him, he’d hand fed you fruits while you were close to sleep.

“Thank you,” You breathe, face tucked into his chest while you chew on a grape, the sweetness of it is delicious.

His tail flicks happily against your thigh, swaying while your legs are tangled in the sheets of the bed.

“You’re welcome, mistress.” He says softly, kissing the top of your head.

You sigh, closing your eyes. You want to tell him about Dimitri, but you decide that maybe tomorrow would be better. You didn’t want to interrupt the peace right now with those stories.

Sleep comes easy, when you don’t know exactly where you are, and you don’t even have to worry about it.

You're not sure what wakes you. If it's the lack of his heartbeat, or the coldness that seeps into your skin.

Maybe it's something else, a feeling, deep in your chest that something is not quite right.

You're immediately alert, blinking and looking around as if you hadn't been asleep at all.

You take a deep breath, let out a little hum, checking the time.

A little after one in the morning.

You look around for your demon, unable to find him.

You want to call out for him, but something in your head says not to do it.

He’s nearby, you can feel that too, in some kind of distress.

You look around for something to pull on, sighing when you can only get a hold of a satin robe, tugging it on quickly and also grabbing the folded blanket at the base of the bed and throwing it over you.

As expected, outside is cold, and you tug the blanket tighter to you, making sure it’s not dragging on the floor as you try to quietly look for Billy.

He’s not in the immediate vicinity, so you close your eyes, and you reach for him in your head.

Suddenly you feel a connection, like a tether in the air that guides you in his direction. You follow where it leads, taking you down a flight of wooden stairs, illuminated only by the light of the moon.

With the forest on either side of you, you try not to focus on the possibility of any critters showing up, not wanting to think about what you’d do if you saw a lizard.

Or worse yet, a snake.

You take a deep breath, squashing your fears, determined to find him.

The stairs take you down to a little beach, with soft blue lamps at the end of the stairs. It’s so dark here that the stars shine brighter than you’ve ever seen.

There’s a jetty, stretching out onto the open sea, and a small open air hut at the very end, with a roof of something you think is straw above.

You take your time, stepping onto it, appreciating how sturdy it is, watching a little crab skitter away as you approach.

You can see him now, his hunched figure seated on a wooden bench looking out at the dark sea.

He doesn’t turn his head when you approach, and you worry that you’re encroaching on his personal space.

“It’s cold out here.” You whisper, referring to the chilly ocean breeze that washes over you both, you sit beside him, raising the blanket to rest one side of it on his shoulder, hoping to warm him up.

He doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t say anything.

You want to speak, to say something to comfort him, but you're so caught up in saying the wrong thing that you say nothing at all.

Instead, you rest your head against his arm, breathing in the dark sea air with him.

The crash of waves calm you, rids you of any lingering worry and fear you once had.

You can feel his though, something whirring like a broken clock inside of his head, a fear he's too scared to talk about.

You take slow calming breaths beside him, pressing on that connection in your head, soothing over it like it's a knot in a muscle that you're trying to unravel.

“Hell,” Billy finally says with his voice shaking imperceptibly, “Is not hot.”

You smile thinking that this was an odd way to begin a story.

But you don't speak, you don't want to distract him, or break the cadence of his thinking or his words.

“From the second I died, I woke up in the same spot Frank had killed me in, except I wasn't really there.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I went straight to Hell, and I stayed there for a long time.”

You raise your head to look at him, to watch him as he stares out at the dark ocean.

“My punishment was, understanding exactly what I had done, from every point of view that I had wronged. I lived through all of their lives, I felt their pain, their fear- so much fear, I watched myself kill them, I felt the helplessness of each life I’d taken. Maria, Frank Jr., Lisa, and the countless other people I’d killed- I relived their deaths, over and over again until I could only see a monster where I once saw my face.”

“I guess that’s how it starts, Hell shows you who you are, and by the time the punishment comes around, you know you deserve it with every atom in your body.”

Your lower lip trembles, sad, for your demon.

“They made me relive that night so many times, I can still feel the fear in Lisa when I found her, like lightning running down my spine, freezing my limbs in place. She was just a little girl, and I took the rest of her life from her without a second thought.”

It gets hard for you to breathe at the very thought of it, your heart breaks for the people he’s hurt.

“Maria had only ever been kind to me. She’d taken me in like her own brother without a second thought, she’d given me a home, and I’d torn hers to pieces.”

You feel hot tears slip down your cheeks, unable to speak now, listening to him.

“What would you do to a person like that? A traitor, in every sense of the word. Frank was the closest thing I’d ever had to family, my brother, my best friend, he would have died for me. How would you punish me?”

You don’t want to say it, you don’t want to speak it into existence.

You stay silent.

“I’d tell you how I’d do it. I’d give that monster hope. I’d make him believe in something, believe that he could be better, that he could change. I’d show him what being wanted could feel like, and then when he was at his highest point, just as he believes that everything he’s ever wanted could be his, I’d take it all away.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pain of his words is almost too much to bear.

“Is that what you think I am?” You ask softly, “A lesson to be learned? Something to be taken away from you?”

“What if you are? What if I’m still in Hell?”

“Which one are you more afraid of? That you are… Or that you aren’t?”

He shudders out a breath, unable to answer.

You wipe at your tears suddenly, sitting up.

“Billy, I can promise you that I’m a real person. I’ve lived through so much pain, and heartbreak, and loss and betrayal. It haunts me all the time. I don’t know if I’m a good person, but I definitely think I’d know if I was being used to punish you.”

“This is real, those stars up there are real, that moon, the ocean, the wind, the island- all of it is real and I’m real too, so are you and I know that because when I touch you,” You move your hand, reaching for his, “When I put my hand in yours I can feel you-” You suck in a breath, your watery vision meeting his.

“-I can feel you in my head, in my chest, under my skin and I know that you’re real because I know you can feel me the same way I feel you.”

He blinks, his hand tightening its grip on yours before he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours harshly.

A cascading ripple of desire in your head, you raise your hand to cup his cheek.

“You have to remind me.” He says in between kisses, “That I’m real, and this is too.”

You smile into his mouth, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck.

“Of course, Billy. I will.”

He sighs, pulling you tight against his chest, his cheek pressed to the top of your head.

“My mistress.” He sighs.

My demon, you think.

You lie beside him, fingers tangled together while you look up at the stars.

He'd used his influence to get a cozy mattress onto the jetty, and you'd taken up a space in it easily after sitting on the wooden bench for so long.

The ocean makes its relaxing sound below you, rhythmic and soft, daring you to have any bad thoughts here.

“Will you tell me about… Dimitri?”

A sad smile pulls onto your face, you nod, knowing that at least your bad experiences will help ground him.

“We met at the start of college. He was a friend of my roommate, so he was kind of always around, and we just became good friends over time. I never really… liked him like that, but I guess he must have seen things a different way. He was really interested in the fact that I'd never had sex, and he always asked me about it… about my plans for losing my virginity. I didn't know at the time, but I guess looking back at it now, there were a lot of conversations we'd had that had made me super uncomfortable. I thought I was uncomfortable because I was inexperienced, but I think that those were uncomfortable situations to begin with.”

“What do you mean?” Billy interrupts.

“Well, he asked about porn preferences, and odd things like if I'd ever used my fingers- and we've spoken about the same things, you and I- but the context, the situations were totally different. I just wasn't interested in him like that, and he would just keep pushing me more and more each time.”

You shudder, remembering some of the ways Dimitri had made you uncomfortable.

“It wasn't… all bad, he really was a good friend at times, helping me out, being a real friend when I was sad, he even brought medicine for me once when I was too sick to move. But… one night we'd been hanging out, and he leaned over and he'd kissed me. I was so shocked, and I didn't really know if I'd wanted to do this with him or not, and it took me a little too long to figure it out. He was, on top of me, reaching for my jeans when I'd made up my mind.”

You pause, blinking, trying to stop the tightness in your throat.

“He got angry. He told me that I'd just been stringing him along this whole time and that I was a shitty person for making him try so hard to be my friend to get nothing in return.”

You take another slow breath, running your thumb over the back of Billy’s hand.

“It wasn't a scary kind of angry, he was just talking loudly. I just kept saying I was sorry, but I wasn't interested like that. Eventually he stormed off. But… in the aftermath, he'd made it seem to all our friends like I was some girl that enjoyed getting attention from boys, and enjoyed hurting them by making them invest time into getting to know me, only to reject them. Some of them didn't believe him, but the ones that did convinced the others to stay away from me and my roommate got so hostile that I ended up finding another place in the middle of the semester just to get away.”

Your stomach twists, not enjoying having to relive this.

“We'd been such good friends too. I could tell him anything at one point and he'd understand me, that just became another weapon used to alienate me.”

“I should have killed him.” Billy finally says, and when you finally meet his eyes, you see them red, angry on your behalf.

You let out an amused breath, followed by a little laugh. You lean in to press your face into his chest.

“Nah, killing him would be too easy. Having him live to see me happy would be way worse outcome for him. People with those kind of mindsets, well, they have ways of making their lives worse all on their own.”

He cups your cheek, his hands are warm, holding you so gently, tender in a way you've only ever dreamed of. He tilts your head up, so that you can look into his eyes.

“I'm sorry this happened to you.” He murmurs.

“Thank you, Billy.” You lean up to place a little kiss on his lips.

“And I'm so angry on your behalf, mistress. Believe me when I say that you're the only thing keeping him alive right now.”

You laugh, leaning in to kiss him again.

You toss an arm over his body, pulling yourself closer to him, his tail adjusts itself around your thigh as you move.

“Tell me something nice.” You murmur into his chest, breathing in his scent, wishing it would stick to your skin, “Tell me about your childhood.”

It's uncomfortably silent for a long moment, you get the feeling that maybe you've said something wrong.

“You can have something nice, or something about my childhood,” he makes an amused sound, “Not both.”

You groan, squeezing him tightly.

“That bad?”

“I'll put it like this, Hell could have punished me by making me relive my childhood and it didn't.”

“Oh.” You hum sadly, “I'm sorry.”

He sighs, reaching to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back so that he can place a soft kiss on your lips.

“Don't be sorry. I'll tell you about it another time. But right now I have a surprise for you.”

“Yeah?” You ask, smiling as he kisses your mouth again.

“Of course. Look.” He says, angling his head in the direction of the ocean.

It's dark, and you have to squint your eyes to focus on anything. You wait for a moment, seeing absolutely nothing.

It's just the dark ocean, and the pretty stars in the sky. You feel your eyes adjust to the almost pure darkness that you were looking at, you swear you could almost see a very subtle cloud of light in the sky that you think might be the milky way.

“It's very beautiful, Billy, I love the stars.” You state, studying them as best as you could.

He chuckles beside you, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

“So cute, mistress, but I meant the water.”

You blink, confused, you look down.

Suddenly, a streak of blue lights up in the ocean quickly.

What the hell was that? You think, pushing the sheets off your shoulders to stand, walking to the edge of the jetty and looking over.

Your mouth drops open.

Like the sky, the ocean is filled with twinkling light, but it's not a reflection of the stars, but the presence of something bioluminescent in the water.

“Oh my god.” You say excitedly, kneeling on the cold wood, leaning over to see as much as possible.

Any kind of disturbance in the water makes the organisms light up for a small moment. There's a ring of cerulean around the pillars of the jetty, glittering like living stars in front of your eyes.

Another streak of blue illuminates, and you gasp in surprise. You realize that they're fish, lighting up the water as they pass by.

You sit there, hypnotized by the look of the water for a long moment. Billy steps up beside you, and drops a pebble into the water, disturbing the surface so that it glows for you.

You giggle, looking up at him, extending your hands for pebbles as well so that you can toss them in.

He uses his influence to manifest a bag of pebbles that fit perfectly into the palm of your hand.

You feel like a child, transfixed with wonder as you dig into the bag for a few stones to toss into the water.

The ocean ripples with blue light whenever you drop a stone in.

The waves look alive with lustre, and you feel so small under the stars, staring out at all of it, feeling something deep in your chest that you've never ever felt before.

You finally find a way to ask a question that has been on your mind for a while.

“Matt… said that you were trying to corrupt me. Is that still true?”

“Yes.” He says with no hesitation, making something deep inside of you pulse.

“Why?” You ask softly.

“I told you before, I want to own you, the way you own me.”

You find that your arousal is more potent than your fear.

Your lips part, hesitant to ask.

“So, h-how do you intend to do that?”

You feel amusement cascade through your bond.

He leans in, his mouth pressed against the shell of your ear.

“You don’t need to worry your pretty little head, mistress. It’s all going according to plan.”

Your eyelids flutter, your core tightens with excitement.

Perhaps you should be more afraid than you actually were… but where was the fun in that?

#Demon!Billy Russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo #billy russo x female reader #my writings #the punisher #billy russo smut #dark!billy russo #monster!billy russo

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ruvaidwani · 1 year ago

Text

Schizo Ruvaid :

I once read in a psychology book that the earlier in life that one appears odd, the more severely they’re likely to be impacted by their mental illness later on in life. I guess you could say that’s the case for me. I can trace certain thoughts back to as early as 6 years old. I had crippling social anxiety and would become fearful of totally irrational things. Irrational even for that age. I was freaked out constantly and didn’t even like walking to the bathroom in my own house during the day time. I had this sensation that someone was right behind me all the time. I never felt alone.

My psychotic symptoms appeared when I was 12. They were brief and very spread out then. The first hallucination I ever remember was seeing a black hole or portal in my yard. By 14–15, I was having visual hallucinations nearly constantly. Mostly when I was by myself though. They really scared me . My parents didn’t wanna hear it because it upset them.

Around that time I also started having delusions that stalkers from my old school were crawling in my air vents, so I’d always close the vents. I believed I had to punish myself to absolve the world of its pain and sins and that was my duty on this earth. This led me to hurting or torturing myself in various ways. I believed I had a sort of gift to communicate with the ghost world but I couldn’t brag about it or else I’d be a pompous sinner like all the rest.

I also would hallucinate glowing quotation marks and I thought that was the spirit world quoting my thoughts. Whenever that would happen I’d focus extra hard on whatever I was thinking because I thought the spirits were trying to tell me it had a deeper meaning about how to punish myself for the world. I would also think random things were making vague references to my thoughts and that was a punishment toward me to make me suffer and go crazy.

There was also this delusion I had that my bathroom mirror was a two way mirror and I didn’t shower often because I didn’t want whoever was on the other side to see me naked. And I would see this caterpillar man on the bathroom door and I don’t know why but I believed he was the spirit of a criminal.

When I was 18 I started having more vivid hallucinations as well as nightmares where I’d wake up and see visions. I got these new visuals where shadows would commit suicide in front of me. I also started hearing voices at this time, usually at night. I would hear static and a lady calling me rude names and just repeating words. And I heard a man’s voice saying the name of a TV character. I also began losing my train of thought mid sentence or text or forget what words I’m trying to say. Or I will misread words on paper.

Despite the toll this takes on me, I keep it mostly to myself. I know deep down I am either gifted with the ability to see the forces around us, or I genuinely have schizophrenia.

I stay to myself as much as I can in my room. I do have to study and I manage to get through it. I’d say I’m pretty functional though I am constantly tormented with fears and thoughts. I can never truly chill out because it’s always going on and I can’t just fully ignore it or get used to it. I just hope that it doesn’t progress past this point.

It got worse when I was 18 I started to hallucinate more but it got better after I overcame my addiction but now it's happening again

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miley1442111 · 1 year ago

Text

remember me.- f.odair

a/n: MY FIRST FINNICK FIC. I love finnick so much, he's such a king. this wasn't intended for a fem! or male! reader so imagine what you like :))))

summary: after being taken by the capital you're brought back to district 13. you remember the real finnick, right?

pairing: finnickodair x reader

warnings: general hunger games topics, feeling broken, mentions of pain and hurt, mentions of wounds and general capital hijacking.

You sat up in your hospital bed, a familiar brokenness in your mind. Who were you?

You were a victor. You were a capital darling. You were a product.

You felt the restraints on your wrists and sighed in discomfort. When would you be free? When would you ever be allowed to live? You knew someone had taught you that dream, the dream of being free, but you couldn’t remember who. He had… blonde hair? White teeth? A sweet tooth? You had also been taught that that same man had hurt you, that he’d left you to the capital, left you to die.

The images and pictures of your broken and bruised body they’d shown you. Shown what he’d done to you. They flashed in and out of your brain, a constant torment. Everyday he visited you, but never came in. You could see him against the glass, watching you cry and scream. Watching you beg and plead for them to take him away.

You had been badly beaten, at least that’s what you’d heard from the nurses. You had broken bones and stab wounds, and severe mental damage. They assumed you had been sleep deprived, psychologically abused, and ‘hijacked’.

A woman walked into the room, a kind smile on her face, and behind her was the man. The man who'd left you to the capital.

“Please,” you begged. “Please don’t let him in, I-I didn’t do anything, I-I th-thought it was s-safe here. Why is he here?!” Tears streamed down your face as you pleaded with the nurse and he started crying too. Why was he crying? He hurt you. Right?

“Darling, please,” he pleaded, clenching his hands. “Remember me.”

“Y-you hurt me…” you trailed off, a real memory coming back, one of him and you at a beach. Him running up to you with a surfboard under his arm, the warm sun on your skin, making the swimsuit you were wearing bearable. He smiled at you and kissed you, then brought you to the water and helped you onto his board, teaching you to surf. When you fell he’d held you to him and kissed you, whispering words of encouragement and making bad jokes to bring a smile to your face. His hair was soft, even when it was wet.

Soft, that’s what he was. Your finnick was soft.

Then everything came back, all at once. Finnick had fought tooth and nail to save you, but couldn’t get to you in time, he had to be pulled off of the person taking you away, just to keep him safe. “Finnick?” You shouted and his face whipped up, shock evident. “Finnick, you’re ok!” You braced your hands against the restraints and the nurse quickly unlocked them. He stalked over, picking you up in a tight embrace. It hurt, the bruises and wounds on your skin, and the broken bones inside all ached to be left alone. But he wouldn’t put you down. You didn’t want him to. “You’re ok,” you repeated, trying to convince yourself of the fact. Finnick was ok. Finnick was here. Finnick was here to keep you safe. You were safe again.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry darling, I couldn’t get to you in time- I-I shouldn’t have-”

You cut him off with a kiss to his lips. This kiss was a promise. A promise that you would be together no matter what. That any flaws or shortcomings would be forgotten and dismissed. A promise that you loved each other. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he smiled, tears falling from his pretty eyes, you brushed them away and kissed his cheek. “We’re ok again.”

“We’re ok again,” you echoed, a sense of determination for your dream. Your dream of freedom.

#finnick imagine #finnick odair imagine #finnick x reader #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair x reader #hunger games finnick #finnick x you #thg finnick #finnick odair #the hunger games #hunger games #thg #thg series

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twistedheartsclub · 22 days ago

Text

The breeding room Yandere husband x cheating wife

WARNING: noncon/r@pe · forced pregnancy · forced ovulation · emotional abuse · physical abuse · confinement · humiliation · degradation · incest-adjacent (mother-in-law involvement) · victim-blaming · manipulation · power imbalance · gaslighting · psychological torment · domestic imprisonment · voyeurism · exhibitionism · medical coercion · violence · trauma · toxic love · cult-like control

She was the perfect wife—until she wasn’t.

Now, locked behind gilded doors, her body is no longer hers.

Each touch is ritual. Each night, a test.

And somewhere between the silence and the silk,

a child is expected.

Love is never mentioned.

Only duty.

The Beautiful Beginning

Y/N was twenty-three when they married.

Bright-eyed. Elegant. Perfect for the image he wanted.

Thatcher was older. Late thirties. Wealthy. Cold in public but dangerously seductive in private.

He told her he didn’t believe in love—only loyalty.

She thought she could change that.

Their wedding was televised. A society fairytale.

And for a while, it was.

He bought her a home with marble floors, three walk-in closets, and a garden she wasn’t allowed to plant in without approval.

She laughed it off back then.

It happened so fast.

A rumor. A whisper.

A woman with red nails, older, experienced.

Y/N confronted him gently—heart pounding, voice trembling.

And Thatcher didn’t even lie.

He just looked her in the eye and said:

“It’s not love. Just business. You’re still my wife. Don’t embarrass me.”

And that?

That’s when something inside her shattered.

She didn’t plan it.

But when she met him—soft-spoken, kind, warm in a way Thatcher never was—it felt like breathing again.

He touched her like she was precious.

Not a trophy.

A woman.

She kissed him before she even knew his last name.

And the first time they slept together?

She cried afterward.

Because it felt like freedom.

It was never supposed to go that far.

But they started whispering about new cities. New lives.

He said he’d protect her.

That she didn’t have to be Mrs. Thatcher anymore.

That she didn’t have to live in glass.

And for one wild, dangerous moment…

She almost did it.

Almost ran.

But she didn’t know…

Thatcher already knew.

The house was too quiet.

Y/N stepped into the dining room, heels soft on the marble, heart beating too fast. The air was still. Heavy.

And Thatcher was already there.

Sitting at the head of the table. Whiskey in hand. Perfectly pressed shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms.

“Sit,” he said without looking up.

She hesitated.

“Now.”

She sat.

His gaze rose to meet hers—glacial, unreadable.

“How long?”

Her blood froze.

He sipped the whiskey.

“How long have you been fucking him?”

She opened her mouth—denial on the tip of her tongue.

“I wouldn’t,” he said softly. “I already know.”

He pulled a small remote from his pocket.

Pressed a button.

And then the screen behind him lit up.

Images. Videos. Security footage. Her car parked outside the man’s place. A kiss in the stairwell. Her moaning on hidden audio.

Y/N’s body went rigid.

“I always wondered,” he said, rising from his chair slowly. “Why I ever stopped fucking you.”

He walked around the table, slow and deliberate.

“You were so obedient once. Grateful. Young. Beautiful.”

His hand gripped her jaw—tight.

“And then you got bored.”

“T-Thatcher—please—”

His laugh was cold.

“You thought I’d divorce you? Let you leave with some middle-class nobody?”

His grip tightened. Her lip trembled.

“No, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You made vows. To me. And now… you’ll earn your place.”

He dragged her by the wrist through the house. Up the stairs. Into the master bedroom.

It had been years since he last touched her.

And now?

He was ravenous.

He shoved her against the wall, ripping her dress at the seams. Her bra snapped, her panties shredded beneath his hands.

She begged. Pleaded.

“I’m your husband,” he growled in her ear, pinning her down. “This is mine. You are mine.”

She cried out as he forced himself into her.

There was nothing gentle.

Just fury. Control. Punishment.

Her body ached beneath him, wrists pinned, throat kissed with too much force. His teeth sank into her collarbone, hands bruising her hips as he thrust harder, deeper.

She sobbed beneath him, and still—he didn’t stop.

“Now you remember,” he spat. “What you gave up.”

He came inside her like he owned her.

Collapsed over her.

Breathing hard.

Y/N wasn’t allowed to leave.

The front gates were sealed.

Her phone was gone.

The staff wouldn’t meet her eyes.

There were guards at the stairs, cameras in the hall, and a subtle new tension in the air—everyone knew. But no one said a word.

She wore what Thatcher gave her.

A soft silk robe. No underwear.

Easy access.

Her body was sore. Bruised. Marked.

He didn’t let her shower alone.

He said, “You don’t need privacy anymore.”

She was eating quietly, trembling, spoon clinking in the bowl.

The maid placed another dish down.

And that’s when Thatcher walked in.

He didn’t say anything. Just came up behind her, pulled her head back, and kissed her throat.

The maid flinched—but didn’t leave.

Thatcher’s hand slid into her robe, cupped her breast, squeezed until she whimpered.

He licked her nipple while the maid stood frozen.

Y/N cried.

No one moved.

His Mother Arrives

She came with tulips and a smile.

Tall. Elegant. Stern.

“Sweetheart,” she said to Y/N. “You look pale. You need to eat more.”

Y/N blinked.

Thatcher’s hand slid around her waist. Protective. Possessive.

His mother’s eyes watched. Calm. Knowing.

“Let’s start talking about baby names,” she said brightly. “We’ll have to design a nursery soon.”

Y/N nearly fainted.

Y/N tried to pull away.

It was dinner. Formal. Guests had just left. The servants were clearing dishes.

And Thatcher?

He pulled her onto his lap.

Unbuttoned her dress slowly.

Kissed her breasts in full view of everyone.

His mother sipped her wine, smiling.

“It’s good to see passion in a marriage again.”

Y/N whimpered as Thatcher spread her legs, one hand sliding beneath the table.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against her nipple. “Now make me proud.”

He made her ride his thigh under the table until she sobbed into her hand.

He fucked her in the hallway.

The bedroom.

The back of the car.

The shower—where she slipped and bruised her hip, and he only moaned harder.

And slowly… his rage melted into worship.

Not soft.

Worship with chains.

He kissed her belly.

Spoke to it.

Even though there was no sign of a baby yet.

“Soon,” he murmured. “Soon you’ll carry me. And you’ll never think of him again.”

SCENE: The Bedroom – Bruised and Broken

The door slammed behind her.

Y/N already knew what was coming.

Thatcher’s eyes were dark with rage. The pregnancy test had come back negative—again.

“You’re failing me,” he said flatly, unbuckling his belt. “Do you know how embarrassing this is?”

“I’m trying,” she sobbed, stepping back.

“You’re not trying hard enough.”

He grabbed her.

Threw her onto the bed.

Pulled her legs apart.

“Maybe if I fuck the rebellion out of you, your body will finally learn what it’s supposed to do.”

She screamed when he entered her—no prep, no pause.

Just brutal punishment.

She cried into his chest, fists pounding weakly against him.

“Please… please stop…”

But he didn’t budge.

He gripped her hips, slammed into her harder—until her thighs were bruised and her cunt was raw, blood smeared across his sheets and her skin.

His mother came in the next morning.

Smiling.

Holding a white silk ribbon and a glass of warm water.

“Sweetheart,” she said calmly, “We need to change a few things.”

Y/N blinked through swollen eyes.

“From now on, you won’t wear clothes inside this house. A wife should always be available.”

Y/N started to shake her head.

The mother grabbed her chin.

Tight.

“You humiliated my son,” she said coldly. “The least you can do now is let him take what he owns.”

She roamed the halls naked.

Bruised. Silent.

Every time Thatcher saw her, his hands found her waist, her breasts, her thighs.

He fucked her over the kitchen counter.

Against the windows.

On the floor in the hallway while the maid passed by.

And if she cried?

He only kissed her harder.

“That’s what I want to see,” he murmured. “Real tears. Real obedience.”

His mother bathed her.

Scrubbed between her legs.

Brushed her hair.

Dried her with the same hands that once clapped proudly at their wedding.

“Such a good girl now,” she said softly. “You’ll give him a son. I know it.”

She gave Y/N warm tea. Bitter medicine. Pills with no names.

And when the blood came—again, not pregnant—she only sighed.

“You’ll do better next time.”

The test was negative.

Again.

Thatcher said nothing at first. Just looked at the small strip on the bathroom counter like it had personally insulted him.

Y/N stood silently in the doorway. She already knew what was coming.

He turned to her slowly, jaw clenched, eyes cold.

“Get on the bed.”

She didn’t move fast enough.

His hand hit her cheek hard—enough to make her stumble.

“Now.”

She lay there, trembling, legs closed.

He ripped them open.

No lube. No prep.

Just anger.

“You let another man touch you,” he growled, unbuckling his belt. “You thought he could fuck better than me?”

She sobbed. “Please—please, not like this—”

“You don’t get to beg.”

He shoved into her hard, bruising deep. The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room.

Y/N screamed.

Her body wasn’t ready.

It tore anyway.

And he didn’t stop.

The door opened.

Y/N couldn’t lift her head—her face was smashed into the mattress, hips pinned under Thatcher’s punishing grip.

“Darling,” his mother said calmly. “Be careful. You’ll ruin her.”

He didn’t stop.

But his rhythm slowed—more cruel now. Each thrust dragged out, grinding her sore insides.

“She’s crying again,” his mother sighed, approaching. “Let me see her.”

She came around the bed and wiped Y/N’s tears with a silk handkerchief.

“I knew you were perfect for him,” she whispered. “He was an idiot for straying. And so were you.”

Then she cupped Y/N’s breast—gently. As Thatcher fucked her harder.

“There, there. You’ll be swollen here soon. I can feel it.”

Y/N cried out, her body shuddering.

And still—he stayed buried inside her.

Afterward, they made her sleep naked.

Eat naked.

Walk the halls with nothing but bruises and shame.

And every time Thatcher passed by, he took her.

From behind in the hallway.

Beneath the dinner table.

On the steps, where the staff stepped around them like it was normal.

Y/N was on her knees.

Naked.

Her knees rested on velvet cushions. Her wrists rested in her lap.

The fire crackled in front of her, and behind her, the door creaked open.

She didn't lift her head.

She didn't have to.

She could smell the mother's perfume-floral, powdery, and terrifying.

"Good girl," the older woman said softly, stepping into the room. "We've made progress."

Y/N's lips trembled.

She wanted to scream.

But she didn't.

Warm oil spilled down her spine.

The older woman massaged it into her skin

—slow, steady, almost loving.

Her fingers dipped low, rubbing the oil between Y/N's thighs. Over her belly. Over her breasts.

"You're softer now," she murmured.

"That's good. We don't want him bruising the baby before it's made."

Y/N shivered at her touch. Her thighs tried to close.

A sharp smack hit her inner leg.

| "Open."

She obeyed.

The mother's fingers slid along her folds— pressing, spreading, coating.

Y/N whimpered.

"Shhh," she soothed. "You'll thank me when he finishes faster."

She reached for something-cool, glass, oiled.

"We'll use this tonight," she whispered.

"To make sure you're ready."

The pressure between her legs returned— gentle at first.

Then deeper.

Y/N's hands clenched the edge of the cushion.

She sobbed once, breath hitching in her throat.

| "This is for your own good, darling."

Later, when Thatcher entered the room, his mother was already seated near the fireplace.

Calm. Regal.

YIN lay on her back, body slick with oil, thighs parted and trembling.

The toy still inside her.

"Remove it," the mother said. "Slowly.Then take her."

Thatcher obeyed.

He hovered over his wife.

But the mother's voice guided him.

"Go slow."

"Kiss her lips. Not just her mouth. There."

"Don't grip her that hard."

"Make her feel it. But don't break her-not yet."

Y/N sobbed as he entered her.

Her body sore, stretched, slick from the preparation.

"Hold her hips up," his mother said softly.

"She receives better that way."

Thatcher adjusted her position, holding her like a doll.

She didn't resist.

She just cried.

And his mother?

She watched from the chair, sipping wine like she was watching a play.

"There. That's my boy," she said, smiling.

"And that's the wife you should have had from the start."

Y/N lay on the cold stone floor, legs trembling, oil smeared across her thighs, Thatcher’s release still dripping from her sore cunt.

She couldn’t close her legs.

Couldn’t move.

The room was quiet now, fire crackling in the hearth.

She flinched when fingers touched her scalp—only to realize it was her.

His mother.

A brush dragged slowly through her hair.

“Don’t you feel loved now?” she whispered. “You’ve never been more cherished than you are at this moment.

Tears slid silently across her cheek, disappearing into the fur rug beneath her.

“You are becoming,” the older woman continued softly. “A womb, a wife, a legacy.”

Each morning, she was woken by a servant.

Washed. Oiled. Fed a special tea to “prepare the womb.”

She was forbidden to speak unless spoken to.

Forbidden to dress.

Every afternoon, she was inspected—checked for softness, warmth, receptiveness.

And every night?

Thatcher bred her.

Sometimes slow. Sometimes rough.

But always under his mother’s direction.

The medicine changed.

It made her dizzy. Hot.

Her stomach cramped. Her nipples swelled. Her thighs clenched at nothing.

She begged once—for it to stop.

His mother only smiled.

“You’ll be ovulating by tonight. He’ll come to you soon.”

They brought her to the room with the red velvet sheets.

Laid her out like an offering.

Candles lit.

Hands bound softly in silk.

And when Thatcher entered—already hard, already hungry—she whispered:

But he didn’t stop.

He never stopped.

When it was over, and she was sobbing into the pillow, his mother returned.

Cupped her face. Wiped the tears.

She kissed Y/N’s temple.

“Don’t you feel loved now?”

“Rest now. Your real purpose begins tomorrow.”

#yandere #dark fantasy #fantasy #tw noncon #x reader #dark romance #sfw noncom #power dynamics #breeding k1nk #evil #cult kink #mother #twistedheartsclub

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