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depravitycentral · 4 months ago

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Yandere! Gyomei Himejima NSFW Profile

Yandere! Gyomei Himejima x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, stalking, mentions of non-con, reader is implied to be smaller than Gyomei but let's be real EVERYONE is smaller than him regardless of your weight or height, anal play/fingering (m receiving), allusions to breeding, sub-ish Gyomei, masturbation, minor objectification, Gyomei is whipped, Stockholm Syndrome, accidental exhibitionism, Gyomei is a stone cold virgin (haha I am very funny), fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 13.6K

HABITS:

Sex is not a priority for Gyomei.

Not only does his lifestyle make having a partner difficult, but even the physical act of sex is something he’s never been particularly interested in. He’s just simply not that physical of a man – affection isn’t something he’s especially comfortable with, and while he wants nothing more than to hold you and keep you in his arms forever (and he really does mean forever, something he doesn’t hesitate in reminding you), touching you isn’t at the forefront of his mind.

And this is especially true in the context of sexual intimacy – it’s one thing to crave holding your hand, but it’s another to crave having your thighs wrapped around his head. It’s one thing to desire you falling asleep with your cheek pressed against his chest, but it’s another to imagine you perched on top of him, your pretty moans of his name making his cheeks feel hot and his pulse rising dramatically.

It feels disrespectful, more than anything, to imagine you in a sexual light; he’s already painfully aware that having any sort of romantic feelings towards you is wrong, but to doom himself even further with explicit, lewd fantasies of you? Just the thought makes him bristle, unease and shame crawling up his spine because only perverted men do that, men with no morals or self-control.

And he’s able to keep this mentality for an impressively long period of time - you’d be hard pressed to catch him having any sort of risqué thoughts regarding you for much of the time his obsession festers, the furthest possible thing being imagining kissing you and gently cupping your cheeks.

(And even then, the idea of slipping his tongue into your mouth makes his cheeks feel hot, his entire body feeling like it’s on fire and making him hurriedly forget the thought, instead busying himself with imagining hugging you or pressing a quick kiss to your temple. But as time passes, if his concentration lessens for even a single moment, then he’s suddenly thinking about you putting your tongue in his mouth, and suddenly he needs to sit down, his head feeling dizzy and light and overwhelmed.)

He manages to stay within the confines of innocent fantasies of you, physically conditioning himself to halt any thoughts further than holding you by pinching himself or biting his tongue, anything at all to deter such thoughts and reprimand himself. But really, while Gyomei may be a very morally guided man with one of the gentlest hearts, he’s still a man.

And like most men, he has needs – even if he himself isn’t truly aware of them.

And so, while he forces himself to stay respectful of you during the day, he’s not so in control of his thoughts at night. It’s not as easy to stop himself from playing out vivid, pleasure-filled scenarios when he’s in the grips of slumber, his subconscious running wild and imagining how you’d feel with your hands on his body, your soft breasts pressed against his own rigid chest, your lips kissing his neck, and the wonderful warmth between your legs that he’s absolutely sure would be such a tight fit, truly stretching you out in every possible way.

(And god, while the size difference intimidates him ever so slightly because he doesn’t want to hurt you, there’s something about the fact that you’re just so damn tiny compared to him that makes something primal and territorial stir in his gut, the sense of protectiveness and ownership he feels over you only amplifying, despite his wishes. And then he’s imagining the way you’d squeal and grasp onto him as he sends rope after rope after rope of thick, white cum as deeply inside of you as he can manage, and it’s only then that Gyomei truly gives up any hope of not viewing you in a sexual light because how can he not fantasize about stuffing you so full that you’re leaking it? Leaking him?)

He’s woken up to messy sheets, a sweaty body and heavy breathing more often than he’d like to admit, the cum smeared across his softening cock and the material of the bed making him feel dirty, ashamed and disgusting.

(And when he sees you later that day, you’ll notice he’s a bit quieter than usual, not standing as close to you as he normally would, but if you bring it up he’ll only tear up a bit, telling you to disregard his strange behavior, but not really giving you a reason for it. He can’t lie to you, it feels wrong, but he can’t tell you, either, so he settles with omission, praying you won’t push the issue further.)

And so, as time passes, slowly he’ll find himself becoming a victim of the lust that begins showing itself, rearing its ugly head when he finds himself wanting you most, the bouts of loneliness he feels late at night making fighting off his desire difficult.

But even then, Gyomei has the patient of a saint and could probably stave off his urges to actually touch himself for the rest of his life. Dirty thoughts, no, but the act of actually stroking himself or acting upon those thoughts? He could, if he really tried – or at least he could without the intervention of something outside of his control, something that pushes him to finally, finally give in.

And that intervention comes one summer evening, when the wind is warm and the night air is full of liveliness. The village he’d been sent to had a night market that was bustling, hence the presence of a demon slowly picking off the shoppers every night. Finding and destroying the demon was quick and easy, and as Gyomei wandered through the market after completing his mission, a wrong turn led to a rather shocking discovery.

The woman’s voice sounds almost exactly like yours, only a bit higher, a bit more slurred, a bit sultrier as she moans presumably the name of the man pinning her against the wall. The alleyway between the two buildings in the downtown segment of the town reverberates her cries strongly, the wet sucking and kissing noises as the man worked at her neck making Gyomei freeze, embarrassment slowly creeping up his spine.

Of course, Gyomei isn’t naïve – he knows about the intimate relations between men and women, and although he has no sexual experience of his own, the heavy breathing, racing hearts and wet plap plap noises echoing down the alleyway towards him tell him more than enough about what exactly is taking place just a few meters away. He knows that this is really quite a private moment, and he knows that he should really, really move.

And yet, the similarities between your voice and the woman’s make him pause, his legs suddenly feeling like lead, even as the man’s grunts and questions of you like that, baby ring in his ears, making Gyomei’s eyebrows shoot up because oh no, what a horribly inappropriate thing to be hearing.

A particularly harsh thrust and a nearly pained groan from the man has Gyomei suddenly moving, sensing that the man is close to his end and the Hashira would prefer to give them privacy during such a moment. He tries to continue on with his evening, focusing entirely on the feeling of the beads between his palms and the bustling sounds of the town’s evening life as he heads back towards the more populated area, but the damage is already done.

The woman sounded so much like you that it haunts Gyomei that night, the sound ringing through his ears on repeat and driving him nearly mad, forcing him to head back home to his estate early. Once he’s smelling the familiar air of his home (tinged ever so slightly by your scent, you having visited earlier that day and leaving a lingering reminder of you that he immediately deeply inhales once he enters), Gyomei relaxes ever so slightly, head dipping down in shame as he notices the way his trousers are still fitting tightly, the woman’s sounds and the small, barely-there thoughts he’s trying to repress about your sounds physically affecting him.

Furrowing his brow, he resigns himself to the knowledge that he’ll likely spend the rest of the evening hard enough to be uncomfortable, instead simply sitting and resting atop his bed. He tries to distract himself as the minutes slowly tick by, thinking of training, praying, and anything else he can conjure up, brain working as frantically as possible because the idea of you moaning his name in that same wanton, needy way just absolutely refuses to leave him.

It’s infuriating, really, and it leaves Gyomei with a heavy sense of shame in his gut because it’s just so, so disrespectful to be thinking of you in such compromising, lewd ways. It’s abhorrent, truly a sign of just how weak he’s become in your hands, all without you even realizing it.

The next few hours are painful, his erection remaining prominent and sweat beading his brow, his concentration waning the longer it drags on. Every time he lets his mind wander, it’s turning back to you – he’s thinking of the delicious smell of curried meat that was coming from a market stand, and suddenly he’s imagining the way you would suck on the meat stick, and it’s not long before he’s thinking of how you’d suck on his lips, his fingers, him –

He sits up abruptly, biting his lip and forcing himself to his feet. And eventually, as Gyomei tasks himself with whatever simple task he can think of as a distraction, the concentration and resolve eventually breaks. The neatly folded pile of his clothing in the corner of the room shouldn’t make him pause as it does, but as his fingers feel over the fabric to identify each piece, he can’t help but notice the presence of something new atop the other items – something lighter and softer, a material completely unlike the rough, thick fabric of his uniform.

Curiously, he brings the material up closer to his face, leaning down slightly and inhaling, only to immediately stop, eyes going wide because fuck, this is your shawl, isn’t it?

You’d accidentally left it in his home and he’d placed it in the corner with the hopes of keeping it out of the way to preserve it and not accidentally ruin it. And yet, as he stands there, muscles tense with each inhale bringing your scent to his nose again and again, Gyomei finds that he simply can’t take it anymore. He’s so hard that it hurts, and with the smell of you filling his lungs, how can he possibly hold himself back any longer?

And so, with a heavy heart and shame creeping up his neck, Gyomei finds himself once again laying on his bed, back flat against the ground and swallowing heavily. He’s never touched himself before – maybe once as a young teenager, but he’s simply not had the time nor desire to, and he’s ashamed to admit that he’s nervous.

But then he’s imagining the way you’d moan again, your pretty voice ringing in his ears, the syllables of his name rolling off your tongue like velvet, G-yo-mei whimpered in his ear as he kneads at your breasts, thumbing at your nipples and kissing along the sensitive skin of your jaw.

And that’s all it takes for him to gently loosen the belt of his uniform trousers, his hand slightly trembling as he shuffles them down a bit, the cold air brushing against his freed cock and making him shiver slightly.

He’s slow and methodical as he very, very slowly relaxes. Guilt still consumes him, but he’s already got his pants off, cock in hand – and soon, he’s throwing caution to the wind and instead focusing on the idea of you.

He starts by imagining a simple part of your body – your hands, the ones whose fingers always brush his own, resting against his clothing as you compliment him, always feeling warm and soft and so, so very foreign. He swallows, his fist moving to grip himself at the base, the dull pleasure making his toes curl a bit.

Then he’s mentally picturing your arms, remembering the way they feel against his palms. He’s sure the skin there is soft, too, and he squeezes tighter as he thinks of the way you’d wrap them around his neck as he thrusts into you, hovering over you and trying to get as deep as he possibly can – he wants to feel every possible inch of you, to leave you stuffed full enough to be a gasping, stuttering mess.

He’s imagining your collarbone, his free hand coming up to trace his own for reference. He decides that your must be more delicate, softer, pretty and mirroring the shape of your jaw. Slowly, his hand begins moving upwards, a low, uneven breath falling from his lips because oh, this is a strange feeling.

He’s not entirely sure what breasts feel or look like, but as he licks his lips, he thinks back to all the (unpleasantly and unwilling) conversations he’s overheard from perverted older men. Soft, he thinks, and surely firm enough to grasp onto – one hand continues the slow, steady strokes as the other reaches up in front of him, shame eating away at him as he spreads his fingers, cupping and squeezing them as if your chest were right in front of him, your pretty tits bouncing, the plap plap noise of skin hitting skin filling the room.

He quietly groans your name as he continues to squeeze, head lolling back slightly against the floor, a strained look crossing his features because no, he knows the feeling that’s coming is an orgasm but dammit, he wants this to continue, even as depraved as it is. Even as disrespectful and rude – even as badly as he hopes and prays that you do this thinking of him, too.

His thumb comes up to quickly swipe at his tip, his abs clenching tightly at the sensation. He’s thinking of your stomach – it’s soft, he just knows it, the perfect thing for him to grab at, imagining the way he’d rest his head against the soft pudge of your lower tummy as he licks and sucks between your legs, feeling your thighs cage around his head, squeezing and crushing and fuck fuck fuck –

He groans your name, hips bucking up and up as he imagines what lays between those pretty thighs of yours, the exact picture a mystery but the idea making every nerve feeling like it’s on fire, white hot pleasure burning its way from the pit of his stomach through to every limb.

He’s sure fucking you would be heavenly – he’s heard women’s genitalia described as warm, wet, and tight, and the mere idea of you being that way is enough to get him gasping, his orgasm hurriedly approaching and his concentration too haphazard to use a technique to slow his breathing and delay the inevitable.

It’s futile, really, because when he imagines the way you’d clutch onto him and tell him such sweet praises, your pretty lips pressing against his desperately, whining that you want him, that you need him, it’s only natural for him to start bucking up into his hand, thrusting against his fist faster and faster and faster, the sound of his ass clapping back down against his bedsheets reverberating through the room, along with the wet slapping noise of his balls clapping against his fist as he imagines fucking into you harder, faster, more more more –

And just the idea of you moaning a breathy, adoring I love you, Gyomei is enough to get his back arching up, every muscle in his body going taut as spurt after spurt of warm, thick cum spurts from his tip, landing in rivulets across his chest, feeling hot and wet even over the fabric.

He’s panting, breathing heavily and bathing in the aftershocks of his orgasm, cock still pulsing and throbbing even as the minutes tick by, still mostly erect even as he grasps at the sheets, a fresh wave of tears beading at his eyes because what has he done?

Clarity rushes back to him and for a moment he’s in shock, the pleasure still numbing his senses. He’d masturbated to the thought of you – imagining your naked body touching his own, fantasizing about the way he’d taste you, how he’d ever so carefully ease inside you, a thumb constantly pressing against your clit to make sure everything feels as good for you as he’s sure it will feel for him.

He’s breathless, disappointed in himself, and as he silently sits up and washes himself up in the bathroom, scrubbing at the drying cum stains on his uniform, Gyomei can only sigh. It’s truly amazing what you’ve done to him – what you’ve reduced him to.

And yet, as Gyomei walks towards your home the next day with the intention of walking you to the market, he can’t help but subtly take wider steps, hoping to adjust himself as he grows hard at the mere thought of being close to you.

What have you done to him?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Voice

Due to his blindness, Gyomei perceives your beauty in more meaningful ways than simply your appearance.

He fell in love first with your voice, the things you say never failing to leave him in awe of your kindness and your humility. He falls in love with your laughter, loving the sound and finding himself speaking more often simply for the chance to say something that would amuse you.

(Something that both you and others will notice, if only because it’s extremely unlike Gyomei to say anything even remotely hinting at humor, and while his comments often don’t land as he intended, you’ll often times end up laughing simply because it’s so out of character and odd of him. And oh, in the moment Gyomei is basking in the sound of your laughter, committing every inhale of breath and slight snort to memory, obsessively replaying the sound over and over and over.)

And so, when he’s falling into the depths of loneliness, arousal and desperation for you becoming too difficult to handle, he’ll think of the lulling sound of your voice, the way you roll your letters and how you enunciate your words. He’s memorized your speech patterns, always trying to engage you in conversation just so that he can listen to you talk, eagerly absorbing everything you say because it all feels important, like he’d be doing you a disservice to not memorize every little quirk, mannerism and opinion you have.

And so while his love for your voice begins platonically and innocently (or at least as innocent as it can be, considering his feelings for you are anything but), Gyomei finds that over time, this sentiment begins changing.

Sure, he’s still in love with your voice, but now he can’t stop thinking about what you’d sound like when you’re out of breath, when you’re moaning, when you’re whining and keening and begging and needing him to please touch me Gyomei, I need it so bad please please please –

He’s fantasizing about what you sound like during sex long before he feels comfortable with it, his mind conjuring up all these questions and hypothetical scenarios without his control. He’s idly wondering if you’re more of a moaner, all high-pitched and girly, plentiful sounds that are expressive enough for him to very easily and quickly be able to read exactly what you’re feeling, exactly what you’re wanting. Or perhaps you’d be a little deeper, more of a groaner, more likely to let out sighs rather than whines. Or perhaps you’re just very quiet - he’d be happy with that, too, finding that the minimal sounds he does manage to get out of you are all the more rewarding, all the more precious and worthy of cherishing.

(He’s even found himself, in a moment of dissociation as he tries to sleep, mimicking what he imagines your noises would be like – he catches himself after the third moan slips out, immediately stopping himself and becoming mortified because oh god, does he now not even have autonomy and control over his own body and actions?)

And once he’s stolen you away, his hand forced by some external event, Gyomei’s love and appreciation for your voice persists. He’s still captivated by it, except now he’s paying even more attention, listening to your heartbeat and the way you breath, finding himself pressing his ear up against walls when he wants to give you space but still needs to hear you.

Once your sexual relationship begins, he’s absolutely addicted to drawing all sorts of sounds out of you – he wants to hear your every moan, your every comment, every everything because he wants to know exactly how you’re feeling and what he can do to make it better for you.

He’s always encouraging you to be louder, to be more expressive, always asking you questions during sex in attempts to get you to be more vocal. It’s selfish, sure, but with the way his cock throbs at the sound of your voice, can be really be blamed?

You just have an effect on him – one he absolutely adores, shivers running up and down his spine merely at the sound of you breathing.

His Fingers

Even outside of the bedroom, Gyomei is reliant on his fingers. It’s a necessary part of his job – wielding his axe and flail, praying, even simple day-to-day activities. They’re thick, and they’re strong – calloused and weathered with the scars of battle and a tough life, and Gyomei has remarkable dexterity and control over them.

And while he may be blind, Gyomei notices almost immediately that you seem to take a liking to them, once your fear and apprehension towards him starts to wear off, once you start to see him as less of a threat and more as a provider, a lover, even.

So while he’s never really given them much thought, there’s just something about how you react to his thick, scarred digits that makes him positively swoon with happiness – it starts off relatively platonic, with you simply touching his fingers. Letting one of his hands rest in your lap, your smaller fingers comparing sizes, tracing scars and callouses, idly toying with them as you talk about something seemingly trivial to you.

(Little to you know that Gyomei is listening with rapt attention, every one of his senses heightened because you’re touching him, and it feels so soft and sweet and adorable that he almost thinks he might combust, his cheeks feeling warm and something fluttering in his stomach.)

It’ll move to you asking him to rub your shoulders, letting out little moans at the feeling of him running thumbs against your back, digging in – carefully, of course – against the tight, sore muscles of your shoulders, all the while Gyomei has to focus on continuing his job and relaxing you, ignoring the rather insistent erection pressing heatedly against his pants as a result of your sounds, the feeling of your skin, and the proximity of your scent.

And of course, you absolutely adore his fingers in the context of sex - one of them is enough to have you pleading with him to wait, please, the stretch is too much, you need a second to adjust, immediately pausing or pulling back, listening to you and asking if you’d like him to try again, if he should go slower, if you’d like to be done and instead do something else, or nothing else at all.

(He hopes, prays, even, that you’ll let him try again, that you’ll let him sink his fingers into you, curling and rubbing and mapping out every inch of you like some sort of sacred knowledge, like knowing you inside and out is his only purpose.)

And while Gyomei has never been an especially prideful guy, he can’t help the surge of satisfaction that rolls through him at the knowledge that he’s enough for you in bed, that he’s able to satisfy you and give you what you want at any time, sometimes even with just his fingers alone.

He had no experience before his infatuation with you began - he’d never even kissed someone, let alone fingered them or been inside them, but once he realizes how badly he wants to make you come, how desperately he needs to hear up-close the way you sound as your orgasm crashes through you, he’s suddenly learning as diligently as he can, taking into consideration your every whimper, moan and gasp.

Soon, he’s able to pinpoint your spot within the first three thrusts, and once he feels the way you tighten around him, almost as if you were sucking his fingers in further, deeper, he gets to work - he’s thrusting, curling, rubbing and stretching you out just how you like it, hearing the symphony of your noises and cries, along with the lewd squelching noises of his fingers pushing and pulling out of you again and again.

And when his calloused fingertips find your already swollen and sensitive clit? Honestly it’s game over – they’re never leaving the spot, quickly learning precisely how you like to be touched, the accuracy and ease of the movements nearly unfair as you squirm and writhe and gasp out his name.

Gyomei is determined, and he will get you to come, if it’s the last thing that he does. After all, how can he call himself good enough of a lover for you if he can’t even manage to do that?

DRIVE:

Before his infatuation with you began, Gyomei’s drive was quite literally nonexistent. The thought of sex hardly ever crossed his mind, and if it did, it was immediately shoved away, pushed aside for more important matters in his everyday life. Survival, hunting demons and saving innocents took all of his free time and energy, and touching himself was both unnecessary and a stark reminder of not having a partner.

(Something that doesn’t bother him up until he meets you – because now he’s suddenly hyper aware of what couples do. He’s constantly thinking of holding your hand, brushing back your hair and cupping your cheek, softly pressing his lips to the corners of your mouth and against your jugular, holding you in his arms at night to keep you protected from both the cold and any wayward demons. And of course, the other things couples do – the things that make him feel like some hormone-driven teenage boy for being so easily flustered, for being so horribly eager to try them out with you.)

His libido was essentially non-existent, and while he’d sometimes overhear Tengen talking in shockingly explicit detail to Rengoku about his latest sexual escapades with his wives, he genuinely never felt the need to even so much as think about intimacy like that, let alone indulge in it.

But once you worm your way into his heart, suddenly the urge to be with you in an intimate manner is just too much to ignore. Of course, it’s still very gradual – it takes years of friendship in order for Gyomei to even form romantic feelings towards you in the first place, much less feelings to this degree. And even once they’re realized, it’ll take a long while before he moves past fantasizing about simply sitting by your side and slowly breathing in the air you’re exhaling and instead towards fantasizing about fucking you until you’re crying.

But as time passes and he slowly gives in more and more to his better judgement, Gyomei finds himself idly toying with the thoughts lingering at the edges of his subconscious – ideas of how you’d feel underneath him, how your lips would curve against his skin, how you’d keen and sigh his name. It becomes too hard not to imagine the way your pretty cunt would suck in his fingers, clenching down and fluttering around him as he curls and thrusts them, listening to the beating of your heart and slowly but surely finding every spot that drives you absolutely crazy.

His drive is still quite low even once he realizes his infatuation with you (simply finding that while he very, very much wants to have sex with you, it’s not something he needs on an hourly or daily basis), but the more lewd, dirty thoughts about you are most certainly still swirling in his mind.

And really, how can he be expected to not fantasize about you?

You’re so beautiful, inside and out, and Gyomei is sure that if you were to allow him to touch you in such an intimate way, he'd be in heaven. The softness of your skin, the tightness of your throat, the warmth of your pussy…

(He’s heard, once again mainly from Tengen but also from others he’s unfortunately overheard, that vaginas tend to be warm, hot even. Initially, he’d just thrown aside this information, having no use for it, but the comments flow back into his head as he tries to picture what your cunt must feel like. Warm makes sense, but then he’s thinking of how it’s supposedly so very wet, assuming the woman is aroused, and Gyomei can only gulp at the thought, imagining the wet schlock noise that would ring in his ears when he’s got you bouncing in his lap. And of course, the tightness – he’s gripping himself harder at the mere thought, gasping sharply as he brings his fist up and down, varying the strength of his grip as he imagines where you’d be tightest, how your walls would squeeze and massage at him just how he’s been told it is.)

And you make it very, very hard to keep the thoughts from entering his head once he's accepted his sexual attraction to you.

When he notices the little sound you make when you throw your arms over your head and stretch, how can he not think of the way you’d squirm and cry out when he gently, sweetly presses a finger inside of you, curling and rubbing at the spot that Tengen promises will make you feel good? And although he knows it’s probably a bit inappropriate to be thinking of you in such ways despite you not being married quite yet, he honestly can’t help it - you’re too attractive to him, you mean to much for him to not want to be with you in every possible way.

After all, Gyomei wants to do everything in his power to make you as happy as possible, and if it means burying his face between your legs for hours on end and bringing you to your high a few times, he’s already plopping down onto his knees, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

(And even if you don’t really want it, Gyomei is still more than happy to taste you, practically begging you without saying the words, reminding you that he can make you relax, please allow me to pleasure you, it should help with your headache. And while it’s mostly for you, genuinely, there’s still a selfish part of him that’s hurriedly settling your pretty cunt over his face because he wants your thighs caging around his head, the taste and smell of you enveloping his senses, to have every ounce of your attention solely on him him him.)

He's not perpetually desperate for you in a sexual sense, but once Gyomei’s infatuation settles in for long enough, he will not turn you down should you offer.

That said, Gyomei will never force anything physical onto you in any capacity.

(And this is true In all senses – obviously he won’t force you into sex if you don’t consent, but he also won’t do things like holding your hand or calling you petnames, wanting everything in your relationship to be as reciprocated as possible. Except, of course, where your safety is concerned – if he looks the villain for kidnapping you, so be it, but at least he isn’t pinning you down and taking what he wants from you. Though with his stature, you’re aware that he could take practically anything he wants and you’d not be able to do a thing about it.)

While he isn’t especially experienced with romantic relationships, he’s more than aware that consent is everything, that each action and step should be accepted by both parties, whether it be a peck on the cheek or bending you over the nearest counter and leaving you sore.

Gyomei hates when you cry, and as the target of his obsession, this works in your favor - while you’re likely to develop sympathy and possibly even some warped sort of love for him, you won’t ever have to worry about being taken advantage of, or being put in a situation in which you’re forced to do something physical that you’re uncomfortable with. His top priority in any situation is you, and how can he justify shoving his tongue down your throat if you’re cringing, pushing at his far too muscular chest, showing obvious signs of fear?

How can he enjoy spreading your legs and running a thick finger up and down your folds when you’re shivering, whimpering with a few tears trailing down your cheeks?

He’d never forgive himself if he touched you without your consent, if he hugged or kissed or - heaven forbid, fucked - you without your explicit agreement, and this honestly ends up advantaging him in a strange way. It’s wrong and you know it, but eventually you’ll begin to grow fond of his gentle touches, his way of treating you as if you were made of glass, far too fragile and breakable for this world.

Perhaps it’s Stockholm Syndrome or the extreme isolation of only seeing one other person on a consistent basis, but eventually you’ll stop caring, justifying your growing yearning for his touch as simply a natural response to your situation. And at some point, you’ll want him to go further - no longer is a soft caress of your cheek enough; no, you want him to press his thumb against your lips, tracing the outline and pushing in just enough to pop it past your lips, settling on your tongue and telling you in that calming, deep voice of his to suck.

At some point you’ll decide that instead of him simply placing the palm of his hand on the top of your head as a sign of subtle, noninvasive affection, you’ll want him to instead have you on your knees before him, that same hand pressing your head down as you choke and gag on what you’re sure is a very, very sizeable cock. And once you voice these needs, gathering the courage and confidence that he won’t reject you (he would never, no matter how compromising or humiliating what you’re requesting of him is), Gyomei will be shocked, flustered, nervous, even.

When you shyly tug at his belt, kissing along the line of his jaw and whispering his name in a way that gets shivers erupting over his whole body, he won’t fight you. And all throughout the process he’s asking for your consent, refusing to move his hands until he gets explicit verbal confirmation that he can touch your back, your waist, your tits, your thighs, your ass, your cunt, your everything.

(Honestly, the question of are you sure, is this okay, does that feel good that constantly falls from his lips is almost too endearing, the ever-so-slight tremor in his voice giving away just how excited and nervous he is to be getting so intimate with you, as if the very, very insistent bulge pressing against your ass isn’t enough to tell by.)

It’s in moments where he’s completely vulnerable with you that the Stockholm Syndrome really accelerates: he’s slowly drawing circles against your clit and listening as if his life depends on it to the changes in your breathing, your moans, feeling the way your hips and thighs twitch at certain stimulation. It’s sweet, really, how attentive Gyomei is and just how anal he is about making sure that you’re comfortable with everything, and with each soft moan of his name and each orgasm he coaxes out of you, Gyomei can only thank whatever is listening, savoring the taste of you like a starving man and trying to memorize every inch of your body.

(It’s in the times of post-orgasmic bliss that he finds himself incredibly grateful for having prioritized your comfort and not pushed you into anything too early – sure, covering his mouth with the section of his happi you’d touched early in the day and absolutely yanking at his cock, his fist moving so quickly it’s nearly a blur wasn’t ideal, but it lead to this. All those evenings spent desperately trying to orgasm to release some of the built up sexual frustration and to minimize your chances of seeing the rather massive tent in his pants were worth it – anything is worth it to have you cuddled up in his arms, cheek smoothed against his bare chest, your soft breaths puffing against his nipple and making him lick his lips. Anything at all.)

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Oral Fixation

Specifically, Gyomei absolutely adores going down on you.

In general, he’s a giver in bed. He’s not a selfish lover by any means – in fact, he’s almost infuriatingly generous, prioritizing your pleasure over yours no matter the situation to the point that it’s almost irritating. And because he’s so cautious and aware that he’s significantly larger than you and thus has a cock proportionate to his height and stature, he knows that he needs to take things slow and spend a very, very long time preparing your body to take him.

And Gyomei’s personal preference is to use his tongue on you – to spread your legs and leave you squirming against him, the taste of you invading every one of his senses and only driving him to lick with more fervor, to suckle harder, to give you more more more because he needs you to be ready and able to take his cock or he thinks he might go insane.

He likes the intimacy of using his tongue on you – it means you trust him, he thinks, and there’s something so wonderful about the lewdness and vulgarity of it all. Having his mouth on the most sensitive, personal place on your body, all while your thighs cage his head in, your hips twitching and your fingers tunneling through his hair. He loves the way he feels so close to you – like he’s experiencing the most real, raw part of you that he can, the feeling almost as euphoric and intimate as having his cock nestled inside of you, warm and snug and full.

He loves the smell of you – it’s musky and earthy, something that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head and something resembling a groan slip from him at a mere whiff of between your legs, often leading to his hips bucking on their own, unconsciously moving to come closer to the source of your scent, his body physically unable to stop itself from trying to rut and fuck into you.

(Something that embarrasses Gyomei slightly, if only because he finds it rather pathetic just how poor his body-control becomes around you, ashamed at his inability to stop himself from responding so carnally, so perversely.)

He’ll often lean down and press his face against the pretty hair covering your cunt, nose-deep into it as he inhales, pants growing tight embarrassingly fast because oh fuck, he’s practically Pavolv’d himself into orgasming the moment he smells you, arousal blooming through him even though he hasn’t touched himself even the slightest.

And he’s not shy to tell you that you smell good, either – he’s always praising you in bed, but he’ll murmur to you that you smell divine, the compliment sounding throatly and groaned, and he’ll always finish it off by pressing soft, adoring kisses around the junctures of your thighs and pelvis, making sure every inch of space has been touched by his lips.

(And he gets very, very into it, too – he’s groaning lightly against your skin, letting his lips linger, letting his tongue come out to rub at the skin of your inner thigh, sucking slightly and letting go with a wet plop sound that makes your face feel hot and your stomach twist. It’s often at this point that he’ll wind up unconsciously very slowly grinding against whatever object is available, often the blankets you’re resting on and even sometimes your leg when he’s feeling especially needy, often when he’s returned from a prolonged mission. On those rare occasions, you may even feel something wet and very, very warm seep against your leg, hot cum already staining your skin and only serving as an omen for what Gyomei wants to do to you.)

He’ll trail kisses up to your clit, little kitten licks while he listens and gauges your reactions, trying to discover if you’re more in the mood for circles, figure eights, stripes, or – when a strange, unusual bout of possessiveness surges through him – the kanji for his own name.

(He’ll always grip onto you harder when he does this, still trying to be mindful of his strength, but with enough force to leave you completely immobile, utterly subject to whatever he wants to do to your body – a fact that both frightens him and excites some small, carnal part of him.)

He’ll station a thumb to work the pattern against you, rhythmic and steady, while his tongue darts out to dig between your folds, pressing shallowly into you while you twitch and whine, his thumb insistent against you. He’ll take his time to explore you, leaving no area untouched, and he’ll pull back with a few hearty sucks against your labia, licking his lips as he presses kisses against your stomach.

How would you like to come, my love? He’ll ask between kisses, the emphasis on the word ‘my’ subtle but still there. If you want to come solely from his tongue licking and sucking at you, he’ll be more than happy to – he’ll shift his positioning, laying on his back with you perched on his face, keeping his tongue stationary and instead moving you to the rhythm he knows you like, just so that all you have to do is sit there and take it, leaving your body completely in his control.

He’ll bring you to your high solely through sucking at your clit if you’d prefer, puckering his lips and keeping the pressure up, running his tongue over the sensitive skin and keeping them attached even when you buck up, your hips moving uncontrollably as you near your orgasm.

He’ll do both, if you want, able to multi-task and keep everything exactly as you like it, desperation motivating him because he needs to feel you come for him, to feel the way you muscles clench and spasm around him, to hear your pretty cries and feel your fingers dig against his scalp, pulling and yanking and making him groan lowly at the pain-twinged pleasure.

He just loves to please you really, and he can spend hours between your legs – genuinely, and without a single complaint. He’ll bring you a single orgasm or twenty, whatever you want of him, all you have to do is sweetly ask, to say his name and say please Gyomei, need another one, you feel so good and I want to come for you again all the while you grind against his tongue.

(If you really want to get him going, do all that and grab his free hand, slipping a finger or two into your mouth and sucking yourself, making sure it’s wet and sloppy and full of drool. He’ll pause for a mere second, before swallowing hard and immediately diving into your cunt, motivated because oh god, you never use your mouth on him – his own instigated rule, simply because he’s terrified he’ll choke you and kill you should he lose control and thrust down your throat. But this? Oh, perhaps he does have a penchant for your mouth, too, the oral fixation extending both ways and leaving him dizzy and light headed because even your fucking mouth is perfect, all warm and wet and smooth, making his cock leak so much precum that he idly wonders if he’s undergoing a single long, drawn-out orgasm because of the sheer volume.)

And Gyomei will be eager for the entire time he’s between your legs, keen to take you in any position – you laying down, from the back, you sitting on his face, anything that feels right – in any setting. He just loves the way you taste – how it’s so earthy, heavy against his tongue, natural in a way that makes him desperate for more, finding himself craving the taste at the most inopportune of times.

(Thank god for the looseness of the uniform pants – you can notice the tent in them, of course, with just how often he’s sporting an erection in your presence, but this way his fellow slayers won’t notice – which is good, because as your sexual relationship progresses, it’s a near daily basis that a passing thought of your taste hits him, literally making him salivate and having to leave the room briefly.)

He just really, really likes using his mouth on you, and he won’t hesitate to offer himself up at even the slightest change of you wanting it. Even the slightest chance.

Praise

He’s not terribly vocal in bed, but when he speaks he makes it count.

His natural sounds during sex are much more controlled – he’s always letting out these long, shaky exhales, his lips parted slightly and his eyebrows drawing tight because fuck you feel good. He’ll groan your name and often hiss lightly through his teeth, soft little ah-ah sounds falling from his lips when you’re sucking on him just right and riding him with the rhythm and angle he likes best.

And yet, he was very, very quiet at the beginning of your sexual relationship – only breathing heavily and giving you a slurred, rushed I’m coming right before so much cum is stuffed up into your cunt that you’re literally leaking around his still-hard cock inside of you. He was quiet mostly because he didn’t want to turn you off by letting out some of the more intense noises, groans that start low but turn into this higher, whinier sound, or chants and mantras of your name like a prayer when he’s gently rolling his hips into you, every muscle in his body clenching in an effort to restrain himself and not absolutely pound into you like he so desperately wants to.

He didn’t want to scare you or make you uncomfortable, but as he grows more familiar with your body and your sexual preferences, Gyomei finds that complimenting you seems to fall naturally off his tongue.

He already thinks of you as perfection in human form, idolizing you to such a degree that he knows it’s unhealthy but he can’t find it in himself to stop. He’s never seen your face, of course, but he’s sure that you’re beautiful, fingers having groped and traced out every feature of your face, every slope and curve of your body (even the inside of your body, too, of course) more times than he can count.

And before he knows it, all sorts of praises are filling the wet, thick air between you as he fucks into you – his voice is still low and timbered, the vibrations making shivers shoot up your spine and your nipples harden up, his strained praise of you take me so well, love only serving to get you going faster, grinding and scooping your hips more aggressively and feeling the way he sucks in a sharp breath and tenses up underneath you.

A lot of his praises focus largely on your performance during sex – always complimenting you for the way you feel, telling you that you feel like heaven and that you’re perfect and that you’re everything I’ve been dreaming of quietly under his breath the first time he carefully, almost fearfully cups your tits in his hands, squeezing gently and waiting pointedly for your response, forcing himself to not cave and squeeze as hard as he can.

He’s complimenting parts of your body, too – telling you that your skin is so soft, that your lips taste so good, that your ass is so warm and perfect to grip onto while you’re riding him. Of course, not in such vulgar terms – he only gets crude when he’s right on the brink of orgasming, some of his more lewd, risque thoughts coming to life because fuck fuck fuck it’s like you’re milking him for everything he’s worth, cunt sucking him in so tightly that he thinks he might die and oh god oh god oh god –

Even then, it’s still nothing terrible, but he’ll switch out some of the sweeter terms for cruder ones, calling it a cunt rather than your warmth or something equally virginal, really.

(Which makes sense, considering that it’s extremely obvious the first time that you touch him that he is in fact a virgin, his startled little gasps at every touch even against his torso leaving some sort of power trip rushing straight to your head because while he’s this hulking, huge, powerful man, you have him crumbling with a simple brush of your index finger, every muscle in his body flexing so hard it nearly hurts when you lick at his tip for the first time.)

Instead of asking you with a rather polite please go faster, angel when he needs you to bounce on him at a quicker pace, he’s throwing his head back a bit, Adam’s apple bobbing as he clutches onto you, losing his composure and telling you that you feel so – so good, oh keep going, don’t stop, you’re making me so close to coming – please tell me I can finish inside of you…

Which brings up another major aspect of his praise kink – Gyomei always seems to be asking for permission, even borderline begging at times. It doesn’t read as begging often, though, simply because he's still the one in control most of the time, even if you’re on top or dictating the pace. But he’ll always slip in a please, or bite his lip and wait for you to give him permission, managing to stave off his orgasm long enough to hear you moan out a yes, please come inside me, and suddenly he’s calling you beautiful and clutching onto you as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear, cum spraying into you and leaving you squirming because you can feel just how hot it is and just how much there is.

During his orgasms he’s particularly vocal, not to an exaggerated degree but always babbling in that deep, groaning voice that gets high at the very end about how you’re perfect, how you take him so well, how you’re made for him, how he loves you he loves you he loves you he loves you –

He genuinely finds you to be perfect, and every sexual encounter with him will leave you uncomfortably aware that he feels this way. He’s always complimenting you, and due to his lack of vision, the compliments are often extremely specific and leave you more puzzled than flattered.

He’s telling you that you’re the perfect size for him (this is often size closer to his orgasm, when he’s marveling and unable to fathom just how fucking tight you are around him), that you smell like how he’s always imagined (followed with a loud, audible sniff that’s trailed off with a moan, his voice higher than normal), that you’re so soft and squishy (this is always punctuated by particularly hard thrusts if he’s fucking you, and he’ll bury his face against the warm skin of your neck, hands groping at any fatty, squishy part of your body in a frenzy that’s rather uncharacteristic of him).

He just finds that while he’s normally able to stay composed and can be judicious about just how much he reveals he knows about you when he’s not touching you, the moment your skin comes into contact with his, a bit of his judgements flies out the door, instead focusing on the way you feel, how he’s been dreaming about this moment for months, guiltily wringing his cock dry at the mere prospect of getting to touch your used clothing, of getting to hear you breathing in his ear while he thumbs at his tip and lightly squeezes his balls.

You’re just so, so damn good – and in those moments where his admiration and obsession with become dangerously on display, you’ll feel equal parts disturbed and flattered, because really isn’t it just so damn pathetic that you’re able to turn such a large, important, strong man into a groaning mess that’s holding onto you for dear life with just a grind of your hips and a few well-timed, sultry phrases in his ear? Pathetic, sure, but also erotic, sexy in a way that scares even you for feeling it.

But Gyomei can’t seem to care, unable to stop himself form laying on the praise thick, not even conscious that he’s doing it – you just affect him that much.

Orgasm Control

But specifically, Gyomei wants you to control his orgasms.

Most of the time, Gyomei assumes a more dominant role in bed. He doesn’t really adhere to the dominant and submissive roles per say, but it’s rather because he holds so much power over you outside of the bedroom that it naturally follows between the sheets. You’re his captive, after all, and while you’ve slowly come around to him, perhaps even returning his feelings in some sort of deranged way, Gyomei is still undeniably the one in charge in your relationship.

So while he’s not shoving your face into the mattress and mounting you like some sort of animal staking his claim on you (though if you begged him hard enough, he might consider maybe doing something along the lines, but significantly toned down and with a constant question of is this alright, my love asked before each and every motion), between his size and his aura you’ll often find at the start of your sexual relationship that you’re following his lead, doing what he wants to do.

And this bothers Gyomei – he doesn’t like the fact that you still feel a shadow of fear for him, obvious in the way that you look to him for guidance and approval during sex, even though you have at least as much experience as him if not more. It makes him uncomfortable and reminds him of the reality of your situation, something he wants to escape from when he’s being intimate with you.

He wants to think of you as wanting to be naked in his arms and kissing him rather than you having talked yourself into it simply because he’s the only human being you regularly have contact with now. And to remedy this, Gyomei does his best to let you dictate the timing of his orgasms. He has impeccable self-restraint and control, and while it’s not necessarily easy, he’s pretty adept at holding off his orgasms.

(It’s a lot easier to come on command, of course, simply because all he needs to do is focus on the feel of you under his palms and around his tongue or cock, listening to your heartbeat and the sound of your voice and he’s already halfway there, only needing a single, final push to get him groaning and letting go.)

And while he doesn’t explicitly say it at the start, you’ll notice pretty quickly that he only lets himself go when you beg him to, only warning you with a clipped I’m close to coming as a prompt for you to tell him to either hold it in or release.

You’ll soon figure it out, and Gyomei absolutely loves the power structure that forms when you finally understand what he’s trying to do. There’s something thrilling about letting go of his control and handing it totally over to you. No longer does he have to be the strongest, wisest, or most senior – no, now he can just be Gyomei, just be your lover, the man unequivocally whipped and subject to your beck and call.

It’s freeing, almost, and he looks forward to seeing what mood you’ll be in each time your clothing gets peeled off. He’s not sure which mood he likes most – there’s something arousing about the way that you tease him, denying him his orgasm over and over and over, leaving him pent up but still attentive to your words, following your instructions and holding himself back, even when you’re doing things you know drive him crazy.

(Like bouncing on him just right, the feeling of your ass clapping against his thighs making his mouth feel dry. Or when he’s hovering over you, fucking into you slowly and deeply, and you go and wrap a leg around him, drawing him closer, begging him to finish inside but stopping him just moments before his release, telling him nuh-uh, not yet, you only get to come inside me when you’ve earned it. Or one of the rare times you’ve convinced him to let you take him in your mouth, teasing him with tracing his tip over your lips and collarbone, alternating between suckling at his tip and pushing your breasts together to rub up and down his length, narrating to him the whole time exactly what you’re doing. They all make his face go slightly red, his fists clenching up and the muscles in his arms bulging, veins standing out and leaving you to drool slightly, entranced that this behemoth of a man is listening to your words like gospel, forcing himself to be good and do exactly as you say. Even if you’re not an especially dominant person, there’s still something that’ll get you going about that, some sort of power trip that leaves you feeling light headed in the best possible way.)

The edging only serves to make his orgasm stronger, to make everything feel more intense, his eventual orgasm ending up being way more powerful, arcs of cum shooting from his swollen, red tip with such intensity that it feels almost painful against your skin.

(And he’ll finish wherever you tell him to, too – his preference is always inside of you simply because it feels the most intimate and it satisfies some small possessive side of him, but Gyomei will do whatever you want – you want him to finish on your chest? He’s painting your tits in white, droplets dripping from your nipples and drying in thick smears against your skin. Grab his hand and let his fingers feel over the mess he's made and he’ll lowly gasp, a smaller, less impressive spurt landing freshly on your chest, the feeling of his cum on you enough to get the last, sad little bit out. He’ll finish on your back, your ass, your stomach, your thighs, anything you want – just say the word and he’ll do it, eager to please you and make you enjoy your time with him, even if it means leaving his seed somewhere other than where it really belongs – inside you.)

But of course, Gyomei also loves the other side of you dictating his orgasms – that is, similarly to his ability to hold himself off, his refractory period is short. If you were to take advantage of that, you'll see him at the closest to pussydrunk you’ll ever get – make him come in quick succession, your hand steady and quick as you jerk him off, and you’ll see how the first orgasm is the familiar heavy load, the second is slightly reduced, the third even more so, and by the fifth orgasm he’s shooting blanks, abs clenching and unclenching so quickly that you almost feel bad for him, but the sounds he’s letting out are filthy. His normally low and masculine voice rises with each one, until he’s letting out something that isn’t quite a whimper but isn’t not one, either.

He loves the way you bleed him dry, your voice soothing and alluring even as you push him to the edge of his comfort zone, tears pooling in his eyes as you tell him to keep going Gyomei, I know you can give me another one, please give me another one paired with a wet, needy kiss to his lips.

You unlock all sorts of kinks and sides to him that he wasn’t aware even existed, and he’ll let you play with him as much as you please, eagerly setting down onto your shared bed, spreading his legs and helping guide you to your place in his lap, already rock hard below you.

He’s too big and powerful to be called pathetic, but he sure toes the line when you’re touching him, when you’re driving him absolutely insane.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Size Kink

Though, only in very specific circumstances. By and large, Gyomei is painfully aware of just how extreme the size difference between the two of you is – and regardless of your height or weight, you are smaller than him. Small enough to make him worry constantly about accidentally hurting you, terrified that he’ll somehow crush you or bruise you or simply be too much for you. It’s his number one concern when doing anything sexual with you, worrying that even a single finger slipping into your cunt will make you squirm with more than just pleasure.

But by the same token, there’s something so inexplicably right about just how much bigger he is than you. It’s shameful, he thinks, and it makes him feel like some sort of freak for being attracted to the size difference, but it makes him feel stronger, more masculine, feeling like a true protector and provider for you because he can encompass your whole body simply by hovering over you.

And he’s reminded of it at every turn – his hand against your waist covers half the area, the skin soft and plush and warm underneath him, but he can feel the curve of your hip, the expanse of his hand just that much on your body. He can feel the way your fingers struggle to fully grab around his cock, fingertips barely touching even as you squeeze him tightly, and while it seems to frustrate you, Gyomei can only headily swallow, cock twitching in your hands because god, there’s no way that will fit inside of you, will it?

And yet as he swallows, oh so slowly eases you down as you straddle him, going slow and giving you ample breaks to adjust to his size, there’s something about the way he can feel you tremble, your cunt stretching to accommodate him that makes him fist at the sheets, struggling to maintain his composure.

(The warmth and wetness of your walls certainly don’t help his predicament, absolutely soaked and sensitive from the some three orgasms he’d already pulled from you in preparation.)

He’s cautious and terrified that he’ll hurt you, of course, and his concern for you weighs out over any sort of sexual pleasure he gets from the size difference, but it’s still present at the back of his mind, toying with him and begging him to just shove himself inside of you, to take a quick, harsh pace like his body is dying to, to use you as some sort of living cocksleeve for him to fuck into and fill up. He won’t ever do that, of course, but it’s one of the main motivations behind his deep, far-reaching thrusts, enjoying the way you gasp and claw at him when he’s nudged up right against your cervix, pressing and filling you to the point of you almost feeling that you’re being split in half.

He preps you well enough that you’re always able to just barely take him, too worried that he’ll hurt you otherwise, but he still can’t deny the allure of just how different your bodies are.

(And this extends beyond the bedroom, too – he loves the way you fit against his side when you cuddle against him, or how he has to lean down for you to press kisses against his face - something he absolutely adores and very does not mind leaning over for.)

It’s just sweet in his opinion, and while it gets blood rushing south more easily than he’d care to imagine, it ultimately only serves as another reminder that he needs to keep you safe and protected, that you’re too weak to survive in the real world without his aid.

(And, of course, some selfish part of him is satisfied with the knowledge that now that you’ve had him, you’d never be satisfied with another man’s cock, never able to feel the level of stretch and fullness that he can give you. Not that he’d allow you the opportunity to try with another man – he’s not terribly possessive, but the thought of someone else touching you, fucking you, is enough to get his nostrils flaring, rage simmering through him because he absolutely does not want anyone else getting even remotely close to you in that capacity.)

Thigh Riding

Gyomei lives to please you in bed. Every sexual encounter with him sees your pleasure as the absolute priority – he’ll have pulled some three orgasms from you before he even thinks about reaching one himself, before he even really pays attention to the fact that he’s so hard he’s soaked the front of his pants through.

And he’s not picky about how to get you there – namely, Gyomei doesn’t mind being quite literally used for your pleasure, his every limb and feature available for your use. He’ll let you do whatever you want to him; bending him into all sorts of positions, giving him directions for how to finger your pretty cunt, laying down and letting you grind and hump at his face like he’s a mere pillow.

He loves to be of service to you, and he finds that the best sex is where he’s nothing more than a toy for you, at least at the beginning – hence, Gyomei grows to absolutely love having you ride his thigh. He’s huge, a hulking man with muscles so thick and defined that you’ll quite literally be drooling the first time you see them, sucking in a sharp breath when you touch him for the first time.

(And he’ll feel a mixture of pride and bashfulness grow inside him when he hears your little gasp – he’s overjoyed that you seem to like what you’re seeing and feeling, some small, anxious part of him having been terrified that you’d be repulsed by his size and the scars littering his body, that you’d find him to be too muscular, too intimidating. And you can tell, too, because the way that he visibly becomes harder afterward the gasp is a clear indication that you’re doing something to him, your mere presence and breathing getting him hard as a rock.)

He likes the physicality of the act – he keeps you steady on his thigh, the muscle large enough for you to straddle, and the feeling of your hands gripping onto his chest for support makes him oddly giddy.

The first time it happens, Gyomei honestly isn’t sure what you’re trying to do - when you straddle his thigh rather than his waist, his lips part slightly, confusion evident across his features. But as your hips start moving, your exposed, wet cunt sliding against the toned, broad expanse of his thigh again and again, he’s suddenly grasping onto our hips, helping guide you up and down the length of his thigh, occasionally tensing his muscles in order to hear you gasp and cry out his name.

He wants to do everything he can to service you, to help you reach that wonderful high, and the only thing that’s rolling through his mind at that moment is how perfect you feel, the way his name slips from your lips as your body shakes in pleasure, how he can feel the pulses and clenches of your cunt even as you pick up the pace.

And when he snakes a hand down to thumb against your clit, he nearly comes from the sound that escapes you - it’s so wanton, so lewd and dirty but so fucking hot, and suddenly all he can think of is the repeated phrase of make her come, make her come, a mixture of desperation and determination leaving him frantically rubbing at your clit.

Gyomei will offer his thigh to you whenever you feel like riding it, and once you’ve finished, your body exhausted and laying down next to him, he’ll sneakily rub along the area where your slick has rubbed off onto his thigh, bringing his fingers up for a taste and groaning as your flavor coats his tongue, free hand reaching down to palm at himself, squeezing at his balls and shuddering. Gyomei can and will do anything to make you feel good in the bedroom, and he’ll never turn down the opportunity to see you fall apart on his thighs.

(And if he’s feeling particularly needy or knows he’s leaving for a long mission away from you, he won’t bother to wash off his legs afterwards – he'll let your slick dry against his skin, wearing it like a sort of badge of honor, feeling connected to you as he slaughters demons even while you’re miles and miles away from him. It’s dirty, sinful, even, but it’s enough to keep him satisfied, to let him bear to be away from you while he does his duty. And yes, he’s running his fingers along the area occasionally and sniffing, his knees getting ever so slightly weak because the smell has the taste of you flooding his mouth, the sound of your moans ringing in his ears, even phantom touches of yours erupting all over his body.)

BIGGEST FANTASY:

As a general rule, Gyomei prioritizes your pleasure in the bedroom. He’s not a particularly sexual man, and so he views intimacy as being all about making sure that you enjoy it to the fullest extent possible – in many ways, he sees himself as merely a tool for you to use to reach your high.

(And if he happens to orgasm – which he always does when it’s you touching him – then great, but it’s not a necessity.)

And this is largely true – he really does want you to enjoy fucking him, and he’ll go to extremes just to make sure everything is as perfect as possible.

But Gyomei is only human, and as such he harbors a few fantasies that are entirely selfish, entirely about him – one of which develops by complete accident. He’s so terrified to hurt you that he’s constantly looking for ways to satisfy you without using his cock, because although he loves the feeling of your lips, fingers, or cunt wrapped around him (to the point that just thinking about it makes his composure falter ever so slightly, his jaw going a bit slack and his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly), he’s always concerned that it’ll be too big and you could hurt yourself if he fucks you with it.

And so, during the rare times he’d get off before he begins any semblance of a sexual relationship with you, Gyomei’s exploring alternative options.

And while it isn’t necessarily a way to help you get off, per se, he’d been idly gripping himself while thinking one evening, biting his lip and feeling awfully shameful of his actions but unable to bring himself to stop. He’d reached down further, sucking in a sharp breath as he carefully and delicately cupped his balls, idly squeezing and rolling them between his fingers.

But he must’ve been too deeply in thought, distracted by the idea of you, that his hand continued down, reaching and pressing against his skin, until a sudden, odd sensation made him pause, eyes going wide. He’s never even considered anything involving either your ass or his own, but at the single press of his fingers against his hole, the strange, fluttery feeling in his chest makes him feel a bit light-headed.

It’s dirty, taboo, and he hadn’t explored the thought any further that night simply because he was too embarrassed to have found it pleasurable, but it sticks around in the peripheral of his mind. There’s this ever-present question of what if, a sort of far-off fantasy that he toys with every once in a while, when he’s particularly needy and missing the feeling of your skin on his or your attention on him.

And the idea of you taking your time, worshipping his body and guiding him through a new, pleasurable experience makes more than just his cock swell, because there’s something so loving and calming about it, and letting himself be vulnerable in that way is something he hasn’t done for years – something he can’t afford to do, no matter how wonderful it sounds.

Of course he’d never, ever bring up the idea to you for two reasons – it bothers him a bit that you wouldn’t be getting any direct pleasure or stimulation out of it, and he’s too embarrassed to admit that he wants you to touch his ass, afraid that you’ll find him disgusting or flatly reject the idea. He'll keep quiet about it, and if you were to bring it up, you’ll see the way he subtly perks up, body tensing as he swallows, telling you that you don’t have to, I understand that you may not wish to.

But if you’re insistent, and you see the way it affects him, Gyomei will be putty in your hands – you can do anything to his ass, and he’ll take it so well, the only sign that you’re affecting him being the small, barely-there moans leaving his lips, a slight flush across his cheeks, and the copious, copious amounts of precum oozing from his swollen tip.

So really, play around – he’ll never request it, but it’ll only make his feelings for you grow stronger, his desperation and dependence on you growing because only you can make him feel this way.

“Gyomei, I want to try something new tonight.” You start, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. He’s got you straddled in his lap, large hands resting on your hips and his back leaning against the near wall. At your words, he nods, encouraging you to continue.

“Anything you wish, angel.” His voice is low, deep, excited in a way that you can ever so slightly pick up on.

You take a deep breath, leaning up to whisper into his ear as you brace yourself on his chest. “Gyomei, I want to touch you. All of you.”

His hands lightly squeeze at your sides. “You have all of me, you know this. I am all yours, and you can do whatever you please with me.”

You laugh slightly and it makes Gyomei shiver, his grip tightening just enough to make you uncomfortable, but you don’t say anything. “No, I want to touch you where I haven’t before – somewhere new.”

You reach back and grab one of his hands, guiding it to press against your clothed ass, his index fingers landing on the indent between your cheeks.

Gyomei gulps. He’s silent for a moment, mind racing, but the semi-hardness underneath you throbs at your words, and you only smile as he shakily exhales, murmuring an “Are you sure?”

Carefully taking his earlobe between your teeth, you grind down onto him, your thumb finding his nipple over the fabric of his top. Humming, you let go of his skin with a kiss, telling him, “Yes, please… lay on your front for me, please Gyomei.”

Which leads to where you are now, with your big, strong captor laying on his front, arms kept tucked at his sides. This angle makes his muscles stand out, his sculpted back and the definition of his thighs nearly making you drool. And of course, the tan skin of his ass, muscular enough to make you grab handfuls of each cheek and spread them apart to get a good look at him. Coarse black hairs dabble over his skin, and Gyomei finds himself oddly self-conscious as he feels you staring. He’s laying with his head to the side, his breathing still a little quick, and he waits with baited breath for you to do something, to say something, anything.

What he isn’t prepared for, though, is to feel your soft lips press against the sensitive skin of his cheeks, making him jerk ever so slightly and stiffen up under your touch. Your thumb rubs soothing circles against his skin as you kiss a trail down from his tailbone to his thigh, the hardness of his muscles never ceasing as you continue.

“Gyomei,” you whisper against his skin, “relax for me, please. I want to take care of you.”

He hesitates, but forces himself to be less tense, only slightly shifting under the weight of your lips. You smile at that, planting another kiss. “So good f’me.”

That gets something small and uncharacteristically high sounding from low in his throat, but you don’t comment on it.

Your thumb comes down to press softly against his puckered hole, and Gyomei sharply inhales at the sensation, immediately clenching and shaking slightly at the feeling of you increasing the pressure, just idly rubbing circles over it.

The way you retract your hand without warning almost makes Gyomei grunt, confusion and disappointement contorting his face, but then your thumb is returning, something warm and sticky coating your thumn, and suddenly you’re pushing in, further and further until you break past the tight ring of muscle, Gyomei’s breath goes ragged because it feels strange –

It feels good, though, and as you settle in to your first knuckle, his toes curl slightly, the sensation odd but not unpleasant.

“How does it feel, Gyo?” You ask, pressing more kisses along his back and squeezing at his ass. He can’t quite answer, too overwhelmed by the feeling of your thumb inside him. Smiling, you lightly nibble at the skin of his lower back. “Know what I’m using for lube?”

He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to get used to the feeling.

Pressing your thumb just a hair further, you smile at the way he jolts, thigh muscles tensing hard enough to see visible definition. “It’s me, seeing you like this is making me wet enough that I’m using my own slick to prep you…”

That gets Gyomei groaning, the sound muffled by the pillow underneath him, but audible nonetheless. His cock’s painfully hard, pressed up against his stomach, and he can feel the wet pool of precum already staining his skin and the fabric of the sheets below him.

Humming, you press another inch or so in, curling your finger slightly and listening the way his breathing changes, trying to identify what he likes most.

“So pretty, Gyomei,” you start, and his eyes snap open when he hears the familiar sound of your fingers sinking into yourself, the small sigh you make only making him clench around your thumb and his cock throb underneath him.

Your thumb’s all the way in now, and as you slowly, shallowly begin thrusting it, you time it with your own pumps inside. “I’m fucking myself at the same pace as you, that way it’s like we’re together.”

Your voice makes him melt, and as you angle your thumb just right, a gasp tunnels its way through him, ripping him apart and making his hips jerk forward, humping at the sheets below him.

You smile. “There, huh?”

And immediately you’re abusing the spot, pressing tightly against it and rubbing it in a hithering motion, Gyomei’s hips twitching wildly at the feeling. He’s chanting your name under his breath as the pleasure begins mounting, eyes shut again and eyebrows drawn tight.

He’s embarrassed, truly, because even something as small as your thumb has him falling apart like this, desperation lacing his movements because this is building up to be a different feeling from his normal orgasms, something entirely different that makes his whole body tense up and stutter, a muffled groan sound, “It-It’s coming – “

And suddenly cum is caked along his front, your eyes watching transfixed as the visible portion of his balls clench and spasm wildly, his ass flexing and the tightness nearly forcing your thumb out. Instead, you keep pressing against his prostate, watching the way he clutches onto the fabric below him, grip so strong that the fabric rips under him, his strength uncontrollable as his orgasm rocks him.

It’s easily a twenty second affair, cum pouring out of him and visibly seeping into the fabric surrounding him, making you lick your lips because oh, isn’t this precious? Your big, sweet, strong Gyomei falling apart with your thumb up his ass, something like whimpers falling from his lips because you’re still rubbing inside him, reaching deeper with every curl and leaving his back to tense up, shoulder blades visible as he fights off the acute feeling overstimulation.

You only press a kiss to the back of his head, pausing your movements for a single moment as you murmur his name in his ear, telling him with a near purr, “You’ll give me another one, right? I know you can do it, my pretty boy.”

And the way he shudders, hand snapping out to grab onto your thigh as he nods tells you enough, as does his muffled, choked “y-yes”.

#yandere kny #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere ds #yandere demon slayer #yandere gyomei #yandere gyomei himejima #_lee's profiles #_kny #_gyomei himejima #yandere smut #kny smut #kny x reader #gyomei himejima x reader

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jethrowest · 1 year ago

Text

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

gif credit

divider credit

Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

#homelander #homelander x reader #the boys #antony starr #my writing #let me see you stripped down to the bone #oneshot #god it feels so good getting this out #i’ve been going through a painful writer’s block so 🥹#thank you everyone who helped and anyone who reads #this is my first full-fledged homelander fic so i’m a bit nervous but! very excited 🖤#love you all 🥰

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caniball1sticdes1re · 1 year ago

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hello, you

pairings . joe goldberg x fem!reader

warnings . stalking, mentions of breaking and entering, mutual masturbation (kind of), joe being a creep, reader being a creep

a/n . can’t let gang know i fw joe goldberg

hello, you.

see, the thing about you is that you think you hide things well. you think you pass as innocent. you almost had me fooled, i’ll give you that, but you forget one little detail. there is nothing, and i mean nothing, my dear, that you could hide from me. you’re looking through the children’s section, looking for a new book to read to your class, but i know you. i know what disgusting, vile things you want- no, need me to do to you. if Paco wasn’t upstairs and your little ex-fling wasn’t downstairs, i’d bend you over this coun-

“hey, joe.. just this please” she sets the children’s book on the counter, along with an erotica. she picks up a lollipop from the bowl next to joe, unwrapping it and throwing it in the small trash next to her. an erotica? when the hell did you pick this up, quick little thing. and you grabbed a lollipop? god, if you wanted me that bad, you could’ve just said something! poor, needy girl.

joe slides both books to his side, a small smirk on his face. “interesting choices.. this for the kids?” he picks up the children’s book, ringing it up before he scans the erotica. she nods, a small hum accompanied by her smile. “yeah! we finished the other one you suggested… it was really good.”

joe shoots her a smile, one that quickly fell when he’d finished reading the back of the other book. stockholm syndrome, huh? you really are starved. he sticks her receipt in the book cover before handing both of them back. his eyes linger on her lips wrapped around the lollipop as she takes it out of her mouth, her lips tinted red and wet.

“thanks joe, have a good day” he smiles, nodding. fuck, i cannot get enough of you.

hello, you

something i like about you is your lack of social awareness, how you forget to close your blinds before digging into that erotica. dumb thing, you want me to see you, don’t you? why else do you keep that one specific window open, your legs spread perfectly in my view so i can watch your hand move like your life depends on it?

the book is discarded by now, and soon enough she decides her hand isn’t quite enough to get her off. joe watches as she picks up two of her pillows, stuffing them under her wetness, whining as she grinds down on it. joe’s hand slips down his pants, his mouth in a soft ‘o’ shape. he pulls himself out, his hand running up and down his length as he stares at you, whimpering with every bump against the pillow. what he fails to see is that she’s wearing his shirt, one he’d lost days ago while he was out, taking care of the only thing that stood between him and his true love. fuck, you dirty thing, seems like i have my own little stalker on my hands.

joe’s hand picks up the pace, sighing and groaning out into his bedroom as images of him being the one she’s riding clouds his mind. he watches as her thrusts get sloppier, her grip getting harder on the pillows. that’s it sweet girl, cum for me honey.

and she does, throwing her head back as she slips her hand back down to her pussy to slide across her clit. her cum seeps out of her and drips down onto the pillow and at the same time, joe’s cum shoots out and drips over his hand, a declaration of her name leaving his lips as he does.

his vision goes blurry for a second, looking down at the mess he’d made. once he’d looked back up however, he watches as you lock eyes with him, smile, then close your blinds. well, shit.

#— joe !#joe goldberg #netflix you #penn badgley #i kind of really need him #joe goldberg smut #joe goldberg fluff #joe goldberg angst #joe goldberg save me

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absolute-flaming-trash · 3 months ago

Text

Pairing: Yandere!Mahito x Disabled!Reader

SFW

Word Count: 1172

Warnings: Yandere, Kidnapping, Confinement, Ableism (what else do we expect from him), Invasion of personal space, Stockholm Syndrome (if you squint), Reader uses a cane to walk, Reader suffers from chronic pain.

Additional Notes: Mahito has feelings he doesn't understand.

“Why are you broken?”

The sentence wasn’t an unfamiliar one. In fact, it was one you’d grown quite accustomed to over the years, in all manner of phrasings, but the sting of it never lessened.

‘I’m not’ is what you wanted to say - to insist that nothing was wrong with you, but such a bald-faced lie would do nothing for you.

“I just am.” You replied, not looking up from the thread you were pulling at in your nest - piles of discarded clothing and fabrics Mahito had no use for. It was makeshift bedding that did little to aid the pain you experienced on a daily basis.

Mahito’s whine caused you to look up in time to see him roll his eyes at your answer, his unsatisfied huff blowing a few strands of his bangs out of his face.

“Yes, I know that.” He bent at the waist, arms extended out, and propped up on the handle of your cane as he rested his weight on it in front of you. For a moment you were reminded of a noir film star in the silent picture era. ”I’m asking why.”

A frown pulled at your lips while a grin stretched across his.

“I’ve already told you.”

“You told me nothing that made any sense, I want details.”

“And what about what I want?” The words were impulsive - gone before you could register how bad of an idea they were.

Luckily, although sometimes you supposed ‘unluckily’, Mahito’s interest in how you spoke to him far outweighed any potential consequence they’d have. It was different, he’d once told you. Brave, yet stupid - like how a small dog would try to fight something much bigger than itself.

A squeak sounded around the cold concrete of the sewer as Mahito squeezed the foam covering of your cane’s handle, and it was hard. Hard not to let anger simmer in your soul at the nonverbal taunt, because that’s what he wanted. A reaction.

Your reaction.

“Why are you broken?” Mahito repeated, his tone and inflection the same as before while he cocked his head.

Again, it was hard not to react.

“I have… problems. In my spine.”

‘Problems’ felt like the best term to use here. With him. Though even still, the word choice caused his expression to practically twist with glee.

“Problems?” He repeated, so much condescension dripping from a single word that it made your stomach churn. “Want me to solve them for you?”

Fear and disgust swam in your heart as much as they did in your gut, and you knew he knew. You knew he could sense it because of the way he looked at you. Hungry for anything you’d give him, both on your own volition and against it.

It was another thing you had grown used to, yet had to swallow down along with the bile that threatened to rise.

“...Not particularly.”

“Why?” This time his tone was petulant as the excitement on his face gave way to disappointed irritation. “It wouldn’t hurt much.”

“Because you don’t even know what it is you would be fixing.”

Mahito drummed his fingers along the cane’s handle. “And whose fault would that be? Don’t you want to get better?” He finished with a coo so mocking your lip twitched - the first of many cracks.

He smiled.

“Of course I do.” Your fingers bunched in the fabric settled in your lap as you practically hissed the words. “But I can’t.”

Mahito hummed and twirled the cane in his hand. “I just offered to.”

You sucked on your teeth. “How generous.”

“Have I not been with you?.” Laughter mixed with every one of Mahito’s words as he dropped the cane and crouched down in front of you. The nail of his index finger dug into the flesh of your cheek as he poked it, uncaring of the scrape it left behind as he dragged it down your face. “I have yet to hear a single ‘thank you’ for anything, actually, it’s quite rude.”

This time it was your eye that twitched and you had to look away from him.

What was there to be thankful for? Sparing you, maybe, though arguably that was worse than being immediately killed. Learning what he was, what he could do. Ignorance was bliss, and it was difficult to stay that way when the screams of his experiments could go on for hours at a time.

The food he gave you was another possibility, but even that was laughable. They were scraps at best, and not even given on a regular basis. A large part of you was convinced the half empty bags of chips he'd toss to you was only done so the noise your stomach made would stop interrupting whatever he was reading.

Not that you'd ever tell him such things. You knew it could be worse. Much, much worse.

“Thank you.”

“See? That wasn't so hard!” Mahito patted your cheek twice, making you grimace. “But what are you thanking me for?”

You inhaled deeply. “Everything.”

Mahito’s sharp bark of laughter echoed along the walls, and his fingers grasped your jaw to turn your face back to his.

“‘Everything’?” He cooed, mimicking the pitch and tone of your voice. “I don't think you mean that.”

That was a trap. You knew it was because, once more, he looked at you with that awful hunger in his eyes.

“I do.”

Mahito tutted, “I don't think you do.” His voice almost a sing-song as his nails dug into the skin where your jaw connected to your face. “If you did, you'd let me fix you~.”

“It's not about that.”

“Then what is?” Mahito leaned closer, to the point his nose nearly brushed against yours. It felt like he was trying to look directly into your soul with how intently his eyes bore into yours, and maybe he was. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done such a thing.

Each second that ticked by felt heavier than the last. It made you realize just how dry your throat had been this whole time, and you attempted to wet your lips before speaking again.

“...If you fixed me, you'd get bored.”

Mahito merely continued to stare at you after that. With how close he was, it was easy to watch his expression shifting in real time with his thoughts - a detail that was simultaneously intriguing and frightening.

Eventually he sighed, like an owner disappointed with their pet.

“Bored, huh? That's what you're worried about?” The hand holding your face squeezed your cheeks hard enough to force your lips into a pout. “One little flaw changed and that would be that?”

He didn't wait for you to answer, even if you could.

“If you think I'd ever get bored of you…” He trailed off, nothing too unusual when he was deep in thought, but it was the way he did it that made you want to wish you'd never said anything in the first place.

“Well. You don’t need to worry about that.”

#riri writes #Mahito #Mahito x Reader #Yandere!Mahito #Yandere!Mahito x Reader #Jujutsu Kaisen #JJK #tw yandere #tw kidnapping #tw confinement #tw ableism #tw stockholm syndrome #tw noncon touching #tw invasion of personal space #oof yeah I'm hard projecting here #but it's been a hot minute #it's dangerous to go alone #take this

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fear-is-truth · 1 year ago

Text

ALL PART OF HIS PLAN

kai anderson x f! reader￨nsfw. mdni￨wc: 2.4 k

w a r n i n g s – mdni !! porn with plot. oral sex (m receiving). unprotected p in v. dacryphilia. breeding kink (if you squint). english is not my first language. not proofread as usual

summary — mornings spent with kai weren’t always as mundane as it might seem

a/n – this took forever to complete cos every time i open this draft, i spend a good five minutes laughing at the cursed gif and the writing mood is completely ruined.

requested by: @ellaaaaa44

ೃ࿐ .

You woke up when the birds started chirping outside, just as the soft light of dawn filtered through the bedroom windows. Kai was still asleep next to you, his electric blue hair spilling across the white pillow like a halo. You were facing each other, his arm thrown over your waist. Carefully, you inched from under his arm and sat up, feeling the remnants of sleep clinging to your eyes. In the morning stillness, he almost looked innocent, pure, even. But you knew better— Kai Anderson was anything but pure.

Glancing at the digital clock on the bedside table, its red numbers glowing 06:57. It was Saturday, which meant Kai had a political rally scheduled at 10. As his girlfriend, you were expected to accompany him, not just as a supportive partner, but also to adorn his arm and enhance his appeal to the masses.

But Kai was smart. He had made sure the public knew more about you than just your looks. He had purposely made it known that you were well-educated, and a feminist, no less.

At first, you were skeptical about the whole idea, doubting that the media would find interest in speculating about the personal life of a politician. But, as always, Kai proved you wrong—which irked you to no end. The shallow nature of society never failed to disappoint.

The public adored the two of you, seeing you as an ambitious and attractive power couple, and the media lapped it up like hungry dogs. They also conveniently turned a blind eye to some of the more “controversial” political views of Councilman Anderson, choosing instead to focus on the carefully choreographed public displays of affection meant for the cameras—holding hands, stolen chaste kisses that you pretended to think no one was looking. Tabloid rumors ran rampant about your alleged engagement and the potential of a baby on the way, both of which were far from true, thank the fuck Christ.

That, and a couple of satanic killings that involved clowns, Kai had made significant progress in garnering supporters in a remarkably short period of time.

All part of his plan.

You had to admit, despite the circumstances, you and Kai did make quite a nice couple. There was no denying that the sex was mind-blowing and he had world-class cock that had never failed to make you come undone.

Kai was a pretty considerate lover as well, after you admitted your fear of pregnancy during “pinky power”, surprisingly, he didn’t even get mad or punish you, as expected. He told you that he respected your feelings and prioritized your health above his own preferences. Even though he openly expressed his disdain for wearing condoms, Kai stayed true to his word and wore one every time you asked him to, sparing you the stress.

But Kai had made you a promise that once he secured his position in the Senate, he would put a ring on your finger and you’d be the mother of his “messiah baby”. He made it sound like an honor, and you supposed that, in a twisted, fucked-up way, it was— you’d say yes, because it’s always yes for Kai. Even so, as much as you loved him (was it love? Or something stemming from Stockholm Syndrome, you weren’t entirely sure), the idea of bringing a child into the world still scared you shitless.

But again, you didn’t feel you had a say or a choice in the matter. Kai had rescued you from your lowest points, and for that, you were indebted to him for life.

Enough of that. That was phase two of the plan. Focus on the present.

Big day ahead, don’t fuck this up. All you have to do right now is pretty yourself up and smile, smile, smile for the cameras.

With a sigh, you slipped out of the warmth of the covers, careful not to disturb him. You tiptoed across the carpeted floor and into the en suite, closing the door gently behind you.

Yawning, you began to strip off your sleep clothes—starting with a comfortable T-shirt and booty shorts, followed by your bra and panties—tossing them haphazardly into the laundry basket. Then you stepped into the shower, the sound of rushing water filling your ears as you twisted the knob. You closed your eyes and tilted your face upward, feeling the cool spray hit your skin.

You didn't hear the sound of the bathroom door opening, nor the shuffle of clothes hitting the floor. Suddenly, the sliding glass door slid open, and your eyes snapped open in surprise, a yelp escaping your lips.

Kai stood there, undressed. His hair was a tousled mess. He blinked, his gaze sweeping over your naked form with an unimpressed expression.

He even had the audacity to look a bit offended and disgruntled, as if he wasn't the one barging in on your shower.

“Move over,” he grunted, his voice husky with sleep but his tone left no room for argument. You quickly shuffled to the side, making room for him under the spray.

Kai reached past you and turned the water knob to blast hot water, steam billowing around you as the temperature rose. His hair was slicked back by the water, the vibrant blue adding a splash of colour to the monochrome backdrop of black tiles. Head tilted back, his eyes were closed in blissful rapture as warm droplets of shower spray hit his face.

Your gaze wandered from his features to over his torso, taking in the sight in awe.

Kai looked beautiful. godly, even.

Starting from the clavicle of his neck, glistening rivulets of water meandered down, following the chiseled lines of his biceps and the breadth of his toned chest. Continuing their descent, they danced across his abs, taut and sculpted, rippling waves of raw, masculine strength that seemed to beckon you closer; drawing your eyes inexorably downward until they finally converged at the V-line of his lower abdomen.

Without as much as a glance in your direction, Kai reached for the bottle of 3-in-1 men’s shampoo sitting on the wall shelf.

“Like what you see?”

he poured some shampoo onto his palm. His tone was casual but you could sense the smugness. Heat flooded your cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the steam from the shower. Biting your bottom lip, you nodded bashfully.

“Mhm,” he hummed, fingers raking through his damp, blue locks as he pretended to consider.

“Work for it then. Get on your knees,”

You immediately sank to your knees, wrapping your fingers around the base of his shaft before pressing a kiss on the tip. He raised an eyebrow.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing,”

You smiled sweetly up at him before taking the tip between your lips, collecting the precum and swallowing it with a cheerful hum. Starting with kitten licks, you slowly dragged your tongue up the veiny underside of his cock.

“Fuck…” he hissed through his teeth,

“Attagirl– You’re so good at this…”

The heartfelt praise had a greater effect on you than his usual dirty talk ever could, encouraging you to hollow your cheeks with extra gusto, making sure to give a swirl of your tongue every time you reached the tip.

The groan that came from him seemed to validate his approval. Reaching down, Kai threaded his fingers through your hair into a makeshift ponytail to dictate your motion, bucking his hips into your mouth. Even as your eyes watered, you didn’t pull away as he continued to fuck your mouth. Instead, you peered up at him through your eyelashes and occasionally moaned so that he could know how much you appreciated pleasing him.

It wasn’t long until Kai gave your hair a small tug, and slid out with a small pop. He wasted no time snatching you by the underarms and pulling you to your feet.

His eyes raked over your body as if he was seeing you for the first time. One large, calloused hand trailed from your cheek, down to your neck, then to your arm and waist.

Bending down slightly, his hands continued to trace the smooth skin of your thighs, gently securing behind the bend of your knees. Before you could fully register what was happening, Kai was lifting you up effortlessly from the ground as if you weighed nothing at all. You squealed in surprise as he hoisted you up, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support.

You gazed into his dark eyes to find that the sleep-induced glaze from earlier was now replaced by intense focus and determination. He meant business.

“Stay still, I wanna try something,”

Holding firmly onto your waist, Kai settled you against his hipbones, pausing for a moment to let you wrap your legs eagerly around his waist.

With the shower water cascading above you, it reminded you of the iconic kiss-in-the-rain scene from “The Notebook,” which you had watched together in bed just last week. Well, technically, you were the only one watching; Kai had been either scrolling through his phone or looking irritated the entire time.

Maybe this was just pure coincidence and wishful thinking on your part, or could it possibly be that he was trying to recreate that moment– impossible… right?

The subtle smirk curling his lips and the slight crease of his eyes confirmed your suspicions. So he had listened to your rambles on how hot Ryan Gosling looked. “Kiss me, please,” you begged, and he graciously obliged, claiming your lips in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. You moaned and tangled your fingers into his hair when you felt his tongue slip past your teeth.

Pressing your back against the tiled wall, he positioned himself at your entrance, so that the tip of his cock was spreading your lips open. Then he pulled back from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you both.

Maintaining eye contact, he sank his cock into your awaiting warmth. Your eyes widened and a little “ooh-” tumbled out of your mouth at the sensation of him filling and stretching you.

A small voice in the back of your head warned of the potential consequences—a slip, a fall, and the possibility of ending up in the hospital with a concussion or a bruised tailbone. However, any lingering inhibitions melted away in a heartbeat as Kai angled his thrusts in just the right way, hitting just the right spot that made you see stars.

“Whoa, this angle is– fucking amazing…”

Kai muttered between grunts as he continued to slam into you, rocking your entire body with each of his thrusts. It didn’t take long before the tightened coil inside you snapped completely; your pussy giving one final squeeze before you screamed out your release.

“Nuh-uh, princess. I’m not done with you yet,”

He spun you around, forcing you against the shower wall. You yelped in surprise and instinctively flattened your palms to steady yourself. Gripping your hips firmly to keep you in place, Kai sheathed himself inside you in one swift, brutal stroke.

“Ack- Kai!” you squealed as your cheek was pressed against the wall with a wet smack, feeling your breasts flatten against the cool surface. Your fingernails scrabbled against the slippery tiles, desperately searching for purchase as Kai reared back his hips. You let out a loud wail when he thrust back into you, setting a harsh, punishing pace. His pelvis slamming into your ass with such force that the supple flesh rippled with each thrust.

“Ah f-fuck… mghmm—” your vision was blurry with tears as he bottomed out once again, pressing himself so deep that you could feel every ridge and vein, every delicious throb and twitch—his eagerness to pump you full of his come but also to make you suffer just a little bit for his pleasure.

“Hah- you just love it when I fuck you into my perfect little brain-dead slut, don’t you?”

He grunted, his thrusts becoming progressively sloppier but somehow still maintaining the same pace. Whining pathetically, you wiggled your hips, allowing your cunt to swallow his cock deeper. Lewd schlick shlick noises ricocheted off the walls, dulled by the sound of your moans and pattering water.

“Look at me, little lamb,”

You peered over your shoulder, shiny, fat drops of tears decorating your eyelashes. He smiled fondly at you before pressing a tender kiss on your temple.

“You look so pretty when you cry,”

Kai’s hand brushed past your mound, fingers slipping between your thighs and started stroking; deceptively gentle caresses at the sensitive bundle of nerves until your entire body started to tremble. The hot coil in your belly was now impossibly tight.

“Puh-please please please Kai ‘m gonna c-”

“Go ahead,”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Kai groaned, his head falling to rest on your shoulder, his sloppy thrusts coming to a decrescendo.

“Make a mess on my cock. There you go baby- ahh fuck– yeah just like that,”

Kai buried himself deep inside you and you felt the warmth flooding your insides. He thrust lazily into you for a few more times for good measure, and you could feel his cock continuing to throb and spasm as he buried his come as deep as he could.

When the residual spasms finally waned, he pulled out, your combined release seeping out between your thighs and splattering onto the floor. You shivered from the loss of contact. He smirked, nipped playfully at your earlobe.

“What a way to start a morning, hm?”

…

After the hot water had finally run out and you both had cleaned yourselves, you sighed contentedly as you wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel. Despite the soreness between your thighs, you couldn’t help but feel satisfied. This had to be one of the best sex you ever had in your life.

Then, reality came crashing back as you remembered the potential consequences of your reckless actions.

“Kai! You didn’t pull out!” you squeaked, the pitch of your voice raising with panic. You weren’t on birth control either, since Kai was paranoid about side effects.

Kai, still tying his blue hair into a bun in front of the bathroom mirror, turned and looked at you. “The senate election is in the bag. Might as well start trying for a baby now,” he said coolly.

Phase two was already in motion, without you even knowing it.

#american horror story #ahs #kai anderson #evan peters #ahs cult #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson x y/n #kai anderson smut #ahs season 7

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saphiccarma · 5 months ago

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- Sweet Thing Pt.2

Relationships - Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - For the first time in months, Agatha and Rio take you off the ship and into the human world. Of course, you had to go and ruin it once you were given a chance.

Warnings: Overall a little bit of dark themes, but its not obvious.

A/N: Y'all could prob guess this already, but this story is going to be kinda dark. Stuff like stockholm syndrome. Just letting y'all know. Reblogs and comments make me happy :>

Weeks had gone by, maybe even months. You weren't sure how long they held you there. The pain was never any less, you still longed to be home and with your family again. To feel the cool flush of sea water against your skin. Not once had they even let you get close to the water, no matter how much you begged and pleaded. It made your heart ache and tears swell in your eyes whenever they brought you out onto the deck.

It felt like they were taunting you. The wind would blast in your face and for once, you would get a taste of what it would be like to be free. If you were close enough to land then you would be able to see the birds as they dived for fish. Whales would surface every now and then and you wondered if they were the ones you knew.

Little by little, you began to understand the ship more. The people on it. They were a bundle of dangerous and sweet, all mixed together and thrown onto the boat. You weren't sure how you felt about being around them. It's not like you had a choice.

Alice was one of your favorites. Her brown eyes were dark, a deep color that resembled the chocolate she gave you once. Most times she kept her hair pure black with red stripes at the front, pinned halfway up, letting some dangle around her neck. The few times you saw it down completely, showed you how wavy it could be, flowing like the waves in the ocean. Alice usually stood in the back of the group, silent and watching, but she made sure to smile in your direction or give you a simple nod.

Lillia was probably the oldest on the ship - skin wrinkled and slightly tanned from being out in the sun so much. She took care of most of the cooking, skilled hands making some delicious, yet odd, food. Her hair was an interesting mix of white and various shades of gray, with hazel eyes that were always so comforting. Her voice soothed you when you panicked once, neither Agatha nor Rio around, and your breathing uncontrollable. Like the whale songs that you heard under the sea, Lillia had a way of calming you down.

Your relationship with Jen was odd. She was gorgeous, skin smooth as a turtle's shell and beauty similar to the corals that blossomed near your home. You hated how much she scrutinized you, eyes scanning you up and down with a weird sort of disgust. Despite that, there were times where she felt familiar. She would dab at your face with a wet cloth, cleaning off the blood from where Agatha punched you. In the end, you decided that you liked her enough.

Billy was your favorite. He lets you braid his fluffy black hair into tiny little braids that stuck out, reminding you of your sisters. One of your favorite things was that he brought you entertainment whenever you spent time locked in your room after 'bad behavior'. (That mostly included being snarky or trying to jump off). Once, he brought cards, little pieces of paper cut down into squares with shapes and symbols colored red and black, and he showed you how to play games with them. Billy was there for you, bringing a source of comfort when you missed the one you truly wanted.

Then there was Agatha and Rio-

Rio whose’ s nails dug into your cheek. Rio who twisted it and squeezed until your mouth was opened. Rio whose eyes were dark brown, calculating and observing every movement you made,

"Are you paying attention?" A red flush crept onto your cheeks as you glared at her, shifting on your knees. You had been sitting on the floor for forever, the wood digging into your skin every time you shifted the slightest, but Rio never let you up.

Her boot was wedged between your legs, keeping them spread apart as she examined you. Lately, Rio had taken a particular interest in studying your anatomy - which you learned was quite different from human anatomy. Her fingers pressed down on your tongue until spit pooled on her fingers, coating them in the wet liquid. Even as you flinched back from when she pressed down hard, Rio didn't let up until there was a pool of saliva. Shivering once she finally withdrew, still holding your mouth open with her other hand, Rio snagged a bottle from the desk next to her. She placed it under your chin then tilted your head down until your spit was dribbling into the cup.

Rio shifted her boot up, the hard tip pressing tight against the sensitive spot between your thighs. A small huff of air escaped your nose as you glared at her. All you got in response to your sound of annoyance was a teasing smirk and a raised eyebrow.

As of late, Rio had been taking you to her 'study area' as she called it. It was a room near the back of the ship, secluded from everyone else and all other places. The only thing audible from there was the soft sound of the ocean moving and rocking the ship. The constant movement of back and forth was one of the few things you liked, the movement lulling you to sleep when it evaded you during many nights. Stacks of books inside the shelves lined the walls, a few odd trinkets shoved between them. A desk was pressed in between two of the shelves, a chair sitting behind it. Otherwise, the room was empty.

You hated being back here, alone with Rio, where there was no one who knew what was going on. The thought sent shivers down your spine and made you twist uncomfortably when you were ack here with her. Sometimes Agatha would join the two of you. That did nothing to make you feel better.

On queue, the door was opened, a bit louder than Agatha would have. And based on Rio's glare, it wasn't the blue-eyed woman. Rio sighed, annoyed, and removed the bottle and her hand from your skin. She set the bottle, filled with your saliva, onto the desk behind her.

"Billy," her words were cool, her boot slowly dragged out, but not before shoving it up one last time, "What do you want?" You were forced to suppress a whimper at her harsh movement, biting down on your lip and giving her wide eyes.

There was a little spluttering from behind you, "I-uhm- Agatha sent me to grab you. We're docking soon."

That made you perk up, your pointy ears alert for whatever Rio had to say next. She waved her hand at Billy dismissively and there was only a second before the door fell shut again. Rio grinned, the sight almost feral, but you knew it was normal, and she bent down so that she was eye-level with you. There was a glint in her eyes you didn’t like.

"It's time to go on land, pet."

^__________^

Humans bustled about you, and it wasn't so different from the undersea markets that sold oysters and clams, pearls and coral necklaces. Your mother loved to take you there for your birthday, buy you anything you wanted. There were various wooden shops set up, people shouting into the street and waving their products around with excitement. Billy had given you a quick debrief on what the human markets were like so you wouldn't be completely surprised, but it didn't help with the shock that rolled through you.

Your fingers twitched nervously when someone knocked into your shoulder, not bothering to look back and say something. Agatha's grip on your arm made everything worse, her fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise later on. She never once let up, even when you tried to pull away because it was too much. It was all so loud compared to what you were used to. The ship was quiet, Jen and Agatha arguing being the loudest sounds there. In the sea, it wasn't exactly either loud or quiet, but you were used to that type of noise. The whales were singing and dolphins talking while fish swam around.

But this was different.

People yelled at one another, carrying large baskets around where they carried their goods - too focused on themselves. You stumbled over your own two feet more than once every time Agatha tugged harshly on your forearm. She had dressed you up in a pair of pants, loose ones that swished and made dirt fly with every step you took. A loose blouse was thrown over your head, the edges nearly dangling over your shoulders and you constantly had to push it back up. Rio threw a pair of sandals at you just before you left the boat.

Being near the port was the most comforting part of this experience. It smelled of fresh fish and the salt of the ocean was more prominent. For a moment, you were able to pretend you were back in the water. That bubble burst when Agatha told a hold of your arm and dragged you into the crowded streets.

Tall buildings, taller than the ones you had merely observed when you were still home, boxed you in from all sides. People stood atop those buildings, watering their plants or chatting with one another. Everything here was constantly moving. Not in the way the sea did though, the sea flowed with a practiced and familiar flow. People were odd.

Agatha stopped at a stall, and for the briefest of moments, her hand let go of you. Without thinking much, you took off, feet kicking up dirt with every frantic step. Running was still new to you, but with the hope of freedom you got the hang of it. You shoved through people. They gave you shouts of protest. Rio and Agatha were hot on your heels, you could tell. Once, one of their fingers ghosted along your blouse, tugging. Desperation helped you rip free. The near chance with capture again spurred you on more, picking up speed.

Taking a sudden right, you skidded and almost lost your balance. Agatha shouted behind you, her words a sharp warning. You knew you should listen, it would be smart, but home could be so, so close. You followed the sound of crashing waves and seagulls cawing. Wind whipped in your face, similar to the way currents would rush past you in the water. Oh, you could be there so soon. Your hair got into your eyes, and you brushed it away frantically, you had to be able to see right now.

The smell of salt became stronger the farther you ran. You were almost there. Birds crowed above you, almost cheering you on. The finish line was right there. You could see the ocean now, the crashing waves and the wet sand. Slapping against your skin, the sandals felt restricting but you had no time to take them off. You burst from the confines of the buildings that had walled you. Arms pumping and pushing yourself to run fast, you were almost there.

The ocean was right there. You could be home. Mother and Father would be waiting with your siblings, eager to welcome you back. Tears of joy pooled in your eyes at the thought. All you had to do was get deep enough to transform and then you were free.

A sudden weight on your back stopped you. You fell face first into the wet sand, the water lapping at your face - you were so close. A body was on top of yours, holding you down. A scream, one of pure desperation and frustration left your mouth as you thrashed.

"Calm down," Agatha's voice was the coldest you had ever heard her as she pushed your face into the sand. You twisted around, somehow managing to get on your back, and spat sand from your face. Your hands clawed at Agatha's shoulders, trying to shove her back, but she merely held firm. Agatha waited it out while you struggled and screamed, not caring for the eyes that began to stare. Tears streamed down your face, wet and mingling with the sand that clung to your skin. "Calm down." She repeated it, firmer this time.

Your breath was coming in ragged breaths as the fight left you. A broken sob came from your lips as your head fell back, eyes falling shut. The waves licked at your hair, the water a small comfort in this moment. It was cold. If you were just a little further in then you would be able to hear some of the sea creatures. Maybe the fish would circle your body, welcoming you home. But that wasn't happening. Instead, Agatha was hauling you up, her grip somehow even tighter than before. You cried in pain at how harshly she yanked you up. Agatha scoffed and rolled her eyes, but she did not apologize.

"Never," Her face was right up against yours as she said the word, breath hot and eyes narrowed, "Do that again. Rio take her back to the ship." Agatha threw you at Rio, the other woman catching you with a small smirk. Her hands landed on your hips, smiling down at you as if you weren't crying.

"Aww don't cry," Rio's thumb wiped away your tears, and that was all you got before she was dragging you away. The fight returned to you for a moment, and you struggled, but Rio merely swept your feet out from under you and threw you over her shoulder. You gave a surprised yelp, her shoulder bones digging into you as she walked back towards the ship. Your fists pounded on her back, legs kicking as you tried to break free. Freedom was so close. It was so close.

Marching up the deck of the ship, Rio nodded to people passing. You felt like a child on her shoulders. Maybe they saw you as one. Rio kicked the door to below deck open, ducking so as to not hit her head on the frame and you had to pause in your struggle to do the same. She carried you down the hallway before reaching your room. Once again kicking the door in, she finally set you down. There was hardly a moment for you to recover from the harsh landing, being thrown onto the bed, before the door was being slammed shut.

You heard the telltale sound of the key locking it.

Scrambling up from the bed you pounded your fists on the door, "Rio please!" Your voice was strained due to the tears that ran down your face, "Let me out!" And you begged. And begged. And begged. Even after you knew she was long gone, you sunk down in front of the door. Your hands trembled and your breathing was shaky as you gasped, trying to get more air in. You screamed until your voice was raw and cracking with every word.

You were so close to home and now it was just gone.

Taglist: @vigilante24ish

#agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal x reader #agatha harkness x you #rio vidal x you

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kissesandarsenic · 6 months ago

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Day 31 - Stockholm Syndrome

Turning you into my cute little captive that I keep locked up in my basement so I can use and dote on you to my heart’s content.

Early days wouldn’t be easy on either of us. You’d be volatile. Scared. A silly little thing that thinks it’s okay to scream abuse at me. You’d call me all sorts of terrible names and demand I let you go. You’d say that I’m awful and that you want nothing to do with me.

But we can correct behaviour like that, isn’t that right, sweetheart?

Some discipline with a nice leather paddle will keep those undesirable thoughts behind closed lips. I’ll lock you up in chains so you can squirm but never get away. I won’t stop until you’re sobbing and pleading for forgiveness.

And then we’ll follow it up with some cuddles and kisses. Maybe even something more, if your tears really turned me on. And let’s be realistic here - they’re going to.

You’ll be my prized possession. Sure, you’re locked away in my basement and will only be allowed out when you’ve proven you can be a good pet. But I’d treat you so well. I’d cook for you, take care of you, and give you access to films, shows, books and games - so long as they’re not co-ops.

Plus, I’d learn exactly how to turn you into putty in my hands. I’ll memorise which places to touch drive you crazy, even when you think you don’t want it. How fast and slow to go. Whether to use my mouth, hands, toys or something else to make you insane with desire.

I’d tuck you in and cuddle up to you, constantly reminding you just how sweet and precious you are to me. Make it so that when I leave, it feels like fucking agony waiting for my return.

Eventually, you’ll realise that being locked up was in your best interest. Because of course, it was. I care for you so much, sweetheart. All those people outside are scary and awful, they only want the worst for you. Not like me. I want you safe. I want you happy. And I know exactly how to ensure those two things are fulfilled.

All you have to do is trust me. It’s an easy choice to make.

Or it will be, by the time I’ve corrected you.

Loretta and Salt's Kinktober Masterlist

#femdxm #fem domme #stockhom syndrome #cnc kidnapping #cnc k!nk #tw gaslighting #obsessive love #soft yandere #yandere #dark kinks #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #annnnnnnd done #loretta speaks

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yanderespet · 1 year ago

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TW noncon and other LFL themes

Some shnasty Jacob Alden headcanons:

-Jacob would totally try to baby trap a female MC at some point in the relationship, even a captive one if your relationship has progressed far enough. You can postpone it to some degree, but you don't actually have a choice once he decides it's time(people never feel perfectly ready for kids, after all, maybe he'll change your mind by getting you preggers?), and he'll treat you with extra care <3. In his mind, having kids is the ultimate show of love and a way to bind you together forever~

-He's also the type of guy to be serious about marriage and he'll make a little ceremony out of it even with a captive MC lol

-Jacob would fuck and eat out a girl on her period he dgaf about things getting messy

-Jacob LOVES bondage and sensory deprivation to make his captives desperate for him, it's his favorite punishment method combined with isolation. He'd rather not physically hurt you in the process of making you love him (unless he has to)

-Jacob can develop lima syndrome, but he never kidnaps those he doesn't have a crush on in the first place because he has no incentive to and would rather kill anyone giving him trouble(although hes concise with his killings). Thus it'd have to be under special circumstances, and his captive would probably have to be the one to develop Stockholm first. Their interest in him would pique his interest in them...

#jacob alden #jacob alden x reader #lurking for love #tw noncon #tw pregnancy #my posts

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sayusims · 3 months ago

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Maomao mini analysis

Maomao in The Apothecary Diaries is such a sad character, but she doesn't act like it because, in her world, it's kind of normalized. First, her mom, an esteemed courtesan, essentially hated her because she gave birth to her. Her biological dad is gone and not in her life (we know it wasn’t by choice, but this is from her perspective). She was raised in a brothel, and while she had people there who loved her, it's still a brothel. Even after she was adopted, she still had to take precautions to make sure she wasn’t going to be kidnapped or that nothing else would happen to her because of men.

After all of this, when she was still a teenager, she was kidnapped by a couple of guys and sold to the Emperor’s palace. These events are really traumatic, but at the same time, she still has the same indifference—as if she doesn’t care that much. She wants to stay in her own lane, and with her tactical genius (stemming from both her parents), this is relatively easy to do. But I wanted to know more, and since I’m taking AP World History in school, it wasn’t really that hard to understand why.

The Apothecary Diaries takes place during the Ming-Qing dynasty (possibly Song), which is evident because of the harem system, the clothing style, and the medicine she uses. During this time, China had been taken back from the Mongols, and the government, in an effort to get rid of their traditions, reinstated many old systems like the civil service exam, improved education, and reestablished the bureaucracy. The education aspect is evident in the series because of the plans to better educate women on basic skills like reading.

The part worth highlighting, though, is that China (and basically everywhere the Mongols ruled) was safer under their rule. So when everything became scattered again, safety greatly decreased, making things like kidnappings more common. This is probably why Maomao wasn’t distraught about being kidnapped. Still, the rest of what happened before this time is traumatic enough.

The main reason I give for this is that she’s used to it—not in a Stockholm syndrome way, but in an “oh, this happens sometimes” way. Being raised in the brothels, she likely saw the worst parts of humanity in the customers and the courtesans. Being exposed to this regularly probably caused her to naturally believe that humans do bad things—but not in an overly pessimistic way, since she still had good people taking care of her. Along with this, she is just practical in everything she does. She weighs the pros and cons of her actions before she acts. She discloses information that is important to wrap up a case so she doesn’t have more drama to deal with (unlike a lot of characters, which is why I love her).

While she still has a curious personality when it comes to mysteries, at this point in season 2, she has gained the trust of literally everyone important, making her unlikely to get into trouble. (This is still China in the 11th-12th century, so she still has to be careful, but compared to before, she has a lot more freedom.)

While her personality may look plain at first, you quickly grow to love her, especially her passion for medicines and poisons. The shift in her demeanor when poisons come into play is so fun to watch. This shows that, at the end of the day, she is still a teenager. She is mature but childlike at the same time when it comes to things she’s interested in. Women in this time were supposed to be, like in almost every other time in history, subordinate to men. Maomao, being as smart as she is, knows and acknowledges this but does not let it stop her. She goes against the status quo by being a completely independent woman who doesn’t need a man.

The best part of this is that she does it without really thinking about it. Her goal is not to go against the status quo or anything like that but simply to pursue her interests in life.

Overall, I just really love Maomao and the series, and it better keep getting new seasons until it’s done, or else I’m going to tweak out. I also wrote this while procrastinating on my AP World homework to “review” for the AP exam (which is like four months away), but I hope you guys like it.

#the apothecary diaries #anime #manga #maomao #jinshi #apothecary diaries #season 2 #kusuriya no hitorigoto

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depravitycentral · 4 months ago

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Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa General Profile

Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence/mild gore, Sanemi controls your diet/comments on what you eat, mentions of physical and sexual assault (not by Sanemi though because he is Consent King™), my characterization of Sanemi is a little unusual I think but I stand by it, part of that characterization involves him being very sexually frustrated so mentions of masturbation, Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of reader being insecure/having low self esteem, kind of mind-break ish for reader, fem reader, MDNI

WC: 13K

DARLING PROFILE:

Honest

To Sanemi, there is nothing more worthless than liars - with the exception, possibly, of demons. He doesn’t understand why one would skate around the truth, and in his eyes it’s a sign of weakness, of an unwillingness to face reality and to cheat themselves.

Needless to say, he wouldn’t tolerate a partner who is prone to lying, who lets falsities slip from their lips like it’s nothing. He wants to know that his partner won’t front anything, that each word and phrase that they speak is nothing but how they feel, their honest thoughts and feelings.

Trust means a lot to him, and because it’s so difficult for him to fully open up, to allow himself to becomes vulnerable, he’s quite selective with who he lest see the real Sanemi Shinazugawa, the real man who wants nothing more than for the ones he loves to be safe and happy.

He needs a darling who won’t bullshit him, who can hold his respect and take a slight weight off his shoulders by knowing that they won’t ever lie to him.

It doesn’t mean his paranoia diminishes in any sense of the word, but the sentiment is still nice - it’s pleasing to him that when his darling is finally giving in and telling him in a defeated, resigned voice that they love him too, when he’s forcing out a compliment that sounded wonderful in his head but strange once it passed him that the small smile and soft ‘thanks’ they give is real.

He needs to comfort of knowing that his darling is authentic, that they’re showing their real selves to him, and with each glimpse he sees he only falls more and more in love.

Opinionated

There is no doubt that Sanemi works tirelessly to be as powerful as he can, that it’s his sole drive in life to kill and defeat demons. He’s a man fueled by adrenaline and hate for the man-eating creatures, and he desires a darling who is similarly motivated.

His darling doesn’t need to have a tragic past or anything of the sort, but he appreciates someone who is somewhat of a spitfire.

He likes women who can challenge him, and if his darling is able to keep up with him and even occasionally be better than him at something, it’s a sure fire way for him to grow interested.

He loves the idea of his darling being capable and independent (ironic, considering the way he grows to coddle his darling and let his overprotectiveness convince him that they’re utterly helpless without him), and a darling who’s able to showcase this personality trait gets him ever so slightly flustered.

He likes someone who can stand up to him, who doesn’t let him boss them around, and while he’ll want them to be complacent and listen to him once he has a more solidified role in their life, there’s something so incredibly attractive about them having their own mind and opinion.

He may act like it irritates him at first, butting heads with his darling and even occasionally complaining about how headstrong they are, but it’s one of the very first things that catches Sanemi’s attention and keeps it.

(That and, of course, the color of their eyes, the sway of their hips, the lilt of their voice, and myriad other qualities that make him gape like some lovesick school boy. Pathetic.)

Kind

On the flip side, Sanemi is also wildly attracted to a darling who is a truly kind person.

They can be opinionated, hardheaded, competitive, any number of things that leave them labeled as a strong personality, but it’s in the moments where Sanemi sees how truly compassionate they are that his feelings really become cemented.

He’s had to bury his own compassion and empathy down over the years, hardening his shell and playing into the character so well that it’s become essentially his real self, and to see his darling able to be so kind and loving to the people around them makes him wildly flustered and jealous.

It reminds him of his old self, and while that brings its own heavy baggage, there’s something freeing and so very calming about it, like some long lost puzzle piece is slotting into place because it just feels right.

And when his darling turns that kindness onto him, Sanemi’s genuinely at a loss for words. The first time they scold him for getting injured and help tend to his wounds, he’s already putty in their hands. He’s momentarily struck silent when his darling presents to him a small gift from a nearby market, the gift itself meager and not something Sanemi particularly wants, but there’s something about the gesture that gets his heart racing, flattered and unsure why they’d be giving someone like him something.

It’s a quality that he subconsciously looks for, and though he’d never admit it, it’s difficult for him to not notice just how kind his darling would be in the context of motherhood. They’d be great with children, he’s sure, and while he doesn’t want to bring any children into the world while it's still crawling with demons, he’s nursing the quiet, embarrassed dream of his darling carrying his children and heading a loving, large family.

It’s the stuff of his fantasies, the kind of thing that makes him flush and get irritated at sappy at is, but with each kind gesture and compliment, his darling only makes it harder and harder to not dream of it.

Brave

On many levels, to become a person Sanemi respects you’d have to be brave. He simply doesn’t tolerate those who are weak-willed or meek, and a darling who’s more willing to put themselves out there or stand up for others is extremely attractive to him.

His darling doesn’t need to be a risk-taker, but he appreciates someone is willing to go outside of their comfort zone every once in a while. This is especially true when it comes to interacting with him. His tough demeaner scares most people off, so his darling would need to be willing to tough it out and stand up to him in order to dig past his rough exterior and get at the soft, vulnerable side of him.

It makes him proud, really, when his darling does something that he deems brave or difficult for them. It fills him with a sense of accomplishment, feeling genuinely happy for them because he’s so very proud when they achieve even basic things.

He's extremely observant and picks up on even minute aspects of his darling’s personality, and so he’s very in touch with what’s within his darling’s comfort zone and what isn’t.

This trait is by and large a positive for him, however there are times when it becomes the bane of his existence; if they do something he deems stupid or unnecessary and puts them in danger he becomes very, very angry. He’s paranoid in every sense of the word, terrified that his darling will die or somehow disappear, leaving him behind to be all alone, losing just another person he’s come to love.

(Though, love is perhaps not quite the word for it – needs, maybe, or even adores, just with a sense of finality that scares even Sanemi.) His darling’s braveness is a double-edged sword, and once they’re under his lock and key, he’s trying to cut down on their ability to act on this as much as possible, not only for their safety but also his sanity.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Protective

As a general rule, Sanemi’s expression of his feelings towards you is rather indirect. He’ll never outright confess that he’s in love with you until very, very late into his obsession, and by that time you’ll have already been trapped by his side for at least a few months, already uncomfortably aware that he feels something for you, even if he won’t put a name on it.

He’s not traditionally romantic in any sense, and while he does harbor fantasies about being all soft and mushy with you, he can’t seem to allow himself to act on these desires, particularly towards the beginning of his infatuation.

(He’ll spend his nights laying awake, staring at the ceiling while his fingers trace patterns against the scars on his chest, imagining they’re your own softer, prettier hands, that you’re laying beside him and lulling him to sleep with your touch and soft voice, that you’re telling him that you love him and that you feel so safe with you, Sanemi. Idly, he wonders whether you’re put off by the scars – you’ve never mentioned it, sure, but Sanemi isn’t stupid. He knows you’re too nice and perhaps too intimidated by him, but he still bites his lip and wonders whether you wouldn’t mind them, if you’d like them, if you’d be attracted to them, even… And suddenly his fingers feel like fire because now he’s imagining how it would feel to have your lips trail the scarred skin instead and oh god-)

He’s not particularly overt with many aspects of his obsession, with a few stark exceptions – namely, Sanemi is very, very overprotective of you. Call it a result of a traumatic childhood and adult life or perhaps even a coping mechanism, but once his feelings for you begin to fester, your safety becomes his number one priority.

And really, isn’t it understandable?

Seeing humans get slaughtered on a daily basis constantly reminds him that you’re weak. Sure, he’s a Hashira and risks his life with every breath, but you’re you. You’re painfully unprepared to handle a confrontation with a demon, and with each new violent, gory death he sees, Sanemi becomes more and more aware of this.

It’s maddening, really, because he’ll be out on a mission and be just a hair too late to save some poor civilian woman and oh, her hair color is so very similar to yours – from a distance it almost looks like you. Your faces aren’t similar, though, and as Sanemi runs past the fresh corpse in pursuit of the monster, he’s breathing a sigh of relief because for the smallest, briefest moment he was almost convinced that that was you.

And later that night, as he sits down alone in his quiet, empty mansion, every blink of his eyes is flashing an image of you in her position, scarlet blood staining your skin and tears drying against your cheeks. It makes him grit his teeth, pacing around the room and clutching onto his sword hilt, muttering under his breath about how you’re driving him crazy and this shit needs to stop, I have to stop, this has to stop…

But he still finds himself dashing off to the modest room you call home, anger flaring when he notices you’ve left your window open, mentally berating you and promising to sternly remind you tomorrow to not be so careless.

Wide eyes peer into your bedroom to catch sight of you peacefully sleeping, and he sucks in a breath at the sight. You’re just so pretty – all soft and warm in your bed, lips parted ever so slightly, the slope of your nose catching his eye, the slow rise and fall of your chest.

(He’ll stop to match his own breathing with yours, palm pressing against the glass of the window, unable to stop staring even as he calls himself pathetic and a creep for watching you sleep. It’s just calming in a way he can’t describe, and when he finally forces himself to move some thirty minutes later, the cycle only restarts as he steps foot back in his home.)

His anxiety that you’re unable to protect yourself manifests pretty early into his obsession – and you’ll notice, too. He’s unusually concerned with all aspects of your health and safety – he’s always asking when you’ve last eaten, what you had, if you’re still hungry, when you last had protein or a vegetable or drank water. And while he’s trying to be as civil and nonchalant as he can manage, he’s still staring, looming over you and looking at you with an intensity that makes you feel so very small, your answer more of a question than an answer.

And if he doesn’t like the answer, you’re being dragged to his own personal kitchen, all the while he’s grumbling about how you’re so irresponsible, can’t even feed yourself on your own, meanwhile he’s already boiling water and cutting vegetables, having forced you to sit on the most plush cushion he owns.

And you will be eating everything he feeds you – when you seem hesitant, he's threatening with a disturbingly serious I won’t let you leave until that tray is clean, the calmness and sincerity in his voice driving you to immediately pick up your utensils.

Typically, his cooking isn’t bad – perhaps ever so slightly charred, but it’s cooked to your tastes and preferences (though he never explicitly asked about them), and he’s always looking at you while you dine, those wide eyes of his never seeming to blink as he surveys every possible detail about you.

(Really, he’s doing two things – firstly, he’s obsessively checking over every aspect of your eating habits. How many times do you chew before you swallow? Which foods do you start eating first, and do you eat section by section or a little bit of everything? Do you blow on your foods if they’re too hot, your pretty lips puckering into a cute little ‘o’ that makes him suck in a breath? But even aside from that he’s staring, transfixed, because just last night he was dining alone at this table, solemnly chewing at his food while imagining your presence beside him, fantasizing about the day when you’re eating together, perhaps even swapping stories of the day or complimenting him or telling him that you look so handsome today Sanemi, it’s kind of pissing me off… Just the thought makes him sit up straighter, unconsciously puffing out his chest because he wants you to be very, very aware of the muscles lining every inch of his body.)

And even aside from food, his protectiveness is apparent in the way he treats you – he’s always quickly gazing over your body, checking for any signs of cuts, scrapes, bruises, or limps, the surveying genuinely clinical rather than perverse.

(Of course, later that night he’ll remember the details with a slightly lewder twist – wondering how soft your thighs must be and letting his hands flex into a fist in an effort to grab onto something, even though it can’t be you. He’s imagining exactly how those nipples of yours must look like, imagining in detail the way they’d look all pebbled, the skin soft and warm and god, he bets you’d taste sweet, like some sort of heaven.)

He’s refusing to leave your side when you walk into town, always trailing at your arm and constantly glowering at the people around you, his excuse something related to checking for demon activity in the crowd – you don’t mention that it’s daytime.

(He’s always raising a brow when men approach you, rage simmering just below the surface alongside an underlying sense of anxiety and insecurity because while he may be the most capable of protecting you, the kinder, gentler man that calls you beautiful at the small morning market may be more capable of winning your heart. And so, when they get too close, he’s quick to place himself between the two of you, a scowl on his face and his tone a mix of condescension and threatening when he tells him to get lost, one more step and I slice your arm off. It’s protection, sure, because who knows what these men could want from you, but the small, possessive part of him is smug when the man scurries off, his worries momentarily quelled because you’re still next to him, not that stranger.)

He’s pessimistic about people by nature, always assuming the worst, and so Sanemi accompanies you every free moment he possibly can, acting as your shadow and impossible to get away from. It’s irritating, really, because even if you fight and bicker with him about it, requesting that he please leave you alone because it scares you to have him hanging off of you like that, he’ll only resort to following you from a few meters behind, blending in with the crowd but still keeping those eyes on you, hand always tightly clutched around the hilt of his sword just in case your safety is threatened.

He knows it’s stalking, sure, and he reprimands himself for his weakness and inability to control himself, but the moment you’re out of his sight panic is racing through him, his breathing getting shallow and his skin feeling hot because fuck fuck fuck this isn’t happening, you’re not gone you can’t be gone please oh god where are you –

He’s running as quickly as he can to check behind every corner, desperation to find you so potent that it bars him from feeling embarrassed, only calming once he finds you. He’ll grasp onto your shoulders once he does, his grip nearly bruising as he demands to know where you’ve been, practically yelling at you to tell him if you’re hurt, if anyone bothered you, if you’ve been attacked or if you’re scared.

It’s only when you wince or beg him to back off that he does, freezing up and letting his mouth fall open stupidly, before suddenly jumping back as if touching you pains him, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, disappointment and anger in himself for injuring you rolling through him.

He treats you like you’re delicate, fragile, breakable, and no matter how often you tell him – and prove to him – that you’re not, Sanemi refuses to acknowledge it.

After all, you needing protection gives him purpose. It gives him justification to be around you, to be allowed in your presence – it makes him think he might, just maybe, be worthy of your love. And no matter how pathetic it makes him feel to admit it, Sanemi would do absolutely anything to get you looking at him and needing him like he needs you.

Anything.

Possessive

And it’s palpable. Sanemi is many things, but subtle is not one of them – and while he may be decent at masking many aspects of his obsession with you, his possessive side is certainly not one of them.

He’s easily jealous, always suspecting the worst of people that approach you. The man that comes up to ask you for directions obviously has an ulterior motive, perhaps wanting to ogle you or get just a hair too close to your body for Sanemi’s comfort.

The older man that accidentally bumps into you as he walks with his cane may seem innocent, but Sanemi’s immediately scowling, eyeing the man like a hawk because many old men seem to feel much too entitled and much too confident in bothering younger, attractive women, and he’ll be damned before he lets some old creep harass you.

(A bit hypocritical, all things considered, because while Sanemi may be your age, he’s significantly more of a creep – the way he’s constantly following you, constantly thinking of you, imagining your smile and your laugh and of what he’s sure is a very warm and oh so fucking wet place between those plush thighs of yours. The old man would probably only touch you – Sanemi wants to do much, much more.)

And so, a large portion of his possessiveness stems from his own protectiveness. He firmly believes that no one else is capable of protecting you to the level and degree that he can. He’s a Hashira, unafraid to throw himself into danger for a cause he fully believes in, so why should he be afraid to put himself on the line in order to keep you safe and sound?

Slaughtering demons is still his life’s mission, sure, but somehow you’ve wormed your way in, too, and Sanemi finds it increasingly difficult to simply ignore how much of an effect you have on him. And even as much as he tries to deny his feelings in the beginning, praying and hoping that they’re simply temporary, it becomes very, very difficult to force himself to not care when he sees anyone else speaking to you.

And honestly, a lot of the anger comes from the fact that you have never been this familiar and carefree when conversing with Sanemi – you never smile at him like you do with this new man, all teeth and rounded cheeks and glowing eyes. It’s cute, adorable, beautiful even, but it’s also infuriating, making Sanemi’s blood boil and something ugly and uncomfortable press against his ribs.

Other men always seem to be able to more easily speak with you – they’re wittier, better at complimenting you, managing to make you laugh and smile in a way that hurts Sanemi to see. It’s painful, more than anything, and early into his obsession it’s moments like these that show him that no matter how he tries to convince himself that his feelings for you aren’t as strong or potent as he thinks, he’s wrong.

He needs you in a way that simultaneously frustrates and terrifies him. He hasn’t felt a connection and genuine desire in such a long time that he doesn’t even recognize the feeling at first – it takes him seeing you interact with men over a prolonged period of time to even understand the nature of his infatuation, realizing that instead of mere irritation he’s feeling, it’s something deeper, harsher, more personal.

It’s something that makes it hard to breath, his fists clenching and his legs feeling like lead, dread settling deep in his chest because oh god, what does he do?

He tends to act before thinking when it comes to you, his body seeming to react before he even has a moment to process what he’s seeing, and this is certainly no exception when another man approaches you. He’ll be quick to step in, but as Sanemi’s obsession continues on, he becomes more and more torn about his possessive tendencies.

By and large, he’s lucid about the nature of his feelings for you. He knows what he’s doing is wrong, and as time passes and his love for you only seems to grow exponentially, he begins to wonder whether interfering with potential lovers of yours is really the correct move. He’s horribly jealous, of course, barely able to keep himself from hurling the moment he sees you interacting with anyone else, but there’s something else there, sitting just below the surface and giving him ever so slight pause.

It’s guilt, the idea that he’s becoming unreasonably possessive and territorial over you when he really has no right to. After all, thinking of you as his woman makes him feel good, his chest feeling all tingly and his cheeks going hot, but it’s not really true, is it?

You’re not his – he’s just an admirer, a stalker who desperately wishes he could call out to you and have you smile at him, look at him, let him wrap you in his arms and even press a kiss or two against his trembling lips. But you’re not – and it’s difficult for Sanemi to rationalize that the longer his obsession goes on.

And so, by the times that he’s a few months into accepting his feelings for you, Sanemi tries to limit his interventions into your interactions with others to only situations where you’re uncomfortable or in danger. And it’s noble, truly – but the problem arises from the fact that Sanemi is the one judging when this occurs, deciding when someone is bothering you.

His mood plays a huge role in this judgement decision, his moodiness and however long he's been away from you or gone without interacting with you swaying his decision. If he’s been particularly absent from your life for the last few days or weeks, Sanemi is believing that everyone has ill intentions with you – every man that glances at you, even every elderly woman that compliments your eyes or your figure.

They all want you, and it makes him panic, growing anxious and terrified that someone will snatch you away from him, that he’ll lose you and with you every bit of happiness and calm you make him feel. It’s a panic response, more than anything, and he’ll immediately rush in, sometimes not even caring how you grow irritated and frustrated that he always seems to just appear, despite the fact that you have the situation under control.

It’s a mixture of genuine worry for your safety and selfish desire to keep you all to himself that motivates him, and you’ll notice a stark difference in his behavior once he’s got you stolen away in his estate. He won’t directly reveal his feelings to you, but his sense of ownership over you will become much more apparent with the way he’s always providing for you, giving you all sorts of expensive gifts and getting only the best foods for you, doing anything and everything to get you to like him, to get you to become willingly his and to show you that no one else could treat you as well or love you as wholly.

He’s a prideful man, sure, but when it comes to you everything flies out the window – he’s barely able to conceal his desperation for you, and the defense is so weak that you’ll spot the cracks immediately. You’ll be able to tell just how badly he needs you to admit that you’re his, his control over your life worsening with every day that passes because he simply can’t stand knowing that you aren’t utterly, completely his.

And really, would it be so bad to give in? There’s something romantic about a man who wants you so badly that he’s so hyper fixated on keeping you his and only his, isn’t there? Something exciting, something flattering, something raw?

Sanemi sure hopes you think so, but at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter – he can’t stop himself, and you will become his at the end of the day.

Shy

But in an extremely specific way – he doesn’t shy away from interacting with you per say, but it’s very, very difficult for him to become completely open and vulnerable with you.

He’s simply too closed off – he’s entirely unused to having anyone close in his life, his few relationships held quietly close to his heart and rocky, to say the least. (His love for Genya, for example, or even the comradery he feels for Obanai and his fellow Hashira, though he’s much more expressive than he realizes.)

He’s simply not good with words, often finding himself saying things he doesn’t mean or speaking with a tone entirely unreflective of what he feels. And as a result, he struggles with the idea of opening himself up to you. You’re simply too important to him – you’re his everything now, the woman he wants to protect and keep safe above all else.

And while he’s not deluded enough to believe that you can understand him simply by looking at him, Sanemi hopes and prays that his actions are enough to convey the depth and nature of his feelings.

(Though, he’s often unsure of whether he wants you to really understand just how strong his dependence on you really is. Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t know that he can’t spend a single hour without passing thoughts of you sifting through his mind – a simple glance at a cloud has him thinking it vaguely looks like your hair, the shape making the corner of his lip turn up ever so slightly, his fingers subconsciously rubbing together and imagining the texture against his skin. He doesn’t want you to know that sometimes, when he’s sitting alone and eating the rather bare-bones, plain meal he’s cooked for himself, he’ll set a second plate, biting back his pride and quietly speaking into the air, pretending that you’re sitting there and entertaining him, nodding along to his words and encouraging him after a particularly difficult mission or seeing you getting just a tad too friendly with another man.)

Really, a lot of the fear of opening himself up comes down to Sanemi’s lucidity about his feelings for you. He has no romantic experience, true, but he’s not stupid – he’s aware that it’s unusual to be this attached when the two of you are really only platonically involved, even as much as he yearns to take things further.

He understands that it’s not normal to be so hyper fixated and concerned on your health and safety, always having a moment of clarity as he scolds you for wearing shoes that are worn down enough to hurt the soles of your shoes, or for not drinking water all day.

He’s very aware that it’s wrong of him to be following you home and keeping an eye on you without your knowledge or consent, and truthfully he’s afraid to see your reaction when you realize just how truly depraved he’s become for you. He's sure that you’ll find him repulsive – maybe you’ll curse him out, calling him a freak and a creep and even a monster for invading your personal privacy and space on such a regular basis.

(You’d be mortified, he’s sure, to find out that he often lets himself into your apartment during the day, knowing you’ll be at a friend’s place for the next few hours and wandering back after following you there, the familiar scent of you calming him immediately once he steps inside. He’s sure you’d be angry to know that he’s thumbing at each and every item of clothing you own, memorizing the feel of the fabric, running his fingers along the inside just to pretend to feel your skin, finding that this is the closest thing he can get to touching you. He’s sure you’d be mad to know that he’s picked up your pillow, hugging it to his chest and pressing his face against it, deeply inhaling and even planting a few unsure, rather stiff kisses against the material, wishing with a sort of boyish hope that tonight you’ll happen to press your face against that specific spot as you sleep.)

He’s naively nursing the hope that you’d by some miracle be okay with his more covert behaviors, wishing that you secretly feel as strongly for him as he does you. But even then Sanemi doesn’t let himself slide too deeply into that thinking, aware that it’s dangerous to become so detached from reality. You will be horrified, and he will be absolutely shattered to see the way you’ll flinch away from him, how you’ll look at him with fear and disgust in your eyes.

(And really, the pathetic thing is that while Sanemi will be ashamed of your newfound perception of him, he can’t deny that he’d be absolutely giddy to have you looking at him, your attention entirely on him even if it’s negative. And that only serves to fill him with more self-loathing, something ugly and heavy settling against his chest at the thought because it really is awfully pitiful that simply your attention is enough to have his knees feeling weak, his cheeks tingling and his palms growing sweaty because oh, you see him.)

And so, Sanemi does his best to avoid broaching the subject of how he feels about you. Instead, he tries every possible method he can think of to express himself through actions.

He doesn’t have much as a reference point, both his career and his comrades not exactly ideal sources of healthy, loving relationships, but at a certain point Sanemi becomes too desperate to ignore his few resources. He needs you to see him, to smile at him and acknowledge him, and so he bites his pride and awkwardly approaches Kanroji about it.

He’s not exactly overjoyed to be asking for her advice, but she’s the only one he feels has any sort of idea what you could possibly be looking for in terms of romantic gestures. (He’d also considered asking Shinobu, but he’d immediately crossed that idea out upon realizing that not only would Shinobu likely tease him in the moment, she’d very likely never let it go, constantly holding it over his head that the Sanemi Shinazugawa needed advice on how to woo a woman. At least Kanroji would be kind about it.)

He’s approaching her and asking as nonchalantly as he can manage whether women like men to give them flowers, escort them from location to location, cook for them, where women like to be touched (with a very, very quick clarification of not in a weird way immediately following the question), or any number of other things. And Kanroji, while suspicious of his intentions, is more than happy to gush about the small things that make women swoon. And Sanemi is hanging onto every word – pressing for details about what specific compliments to shower you with, what small gifts he should consider picking up on his missions to bring home to you, what tone of voice he should be using instead of his usual gruff, irritated lilt.

Sanemi is quick to try and instill some of these ideas into his ‘relationship’ with you – he spends easily an hour biting his lip and diligently searching through every single flower at the shop, his hands slightly trembling when he hands you the small bouquet, struggling to make eye contact as he quietly – and with something almost akin to a tremor in his voice – tells you that your kimono is beautiful, the statement almost phrased like a question.

It’s the closest Sanemi is willing to get to admitting his feelings in times like these, and up until the point where he steals you away into his own abode, these sporadic bursts of confidence and nerves will leave you with whiplash because mere moments later he’ll be growling at a drunk man approaching you, threats slipping from his lips and his aura suddenly switching from bashful, almost schoolboy-esque to deadly serious.

And once he’s been forced you kidnap you, this behavior mostly continues. He still doesn’t want to fully confess everything, but he’s trying his absolute hardest to make you as happy as possible – going out of his way to keep you comfortable and satisfied, guilt eating away at him and making him overcompensate by treating you like you’re royalty.

With time, he’ll slowly become more open to you – that mask will slip ever so slightly, bits of his true feelings shining through. He’ll accidentally let it slip that he knows something about you that he shouldn’t, cluing you into his behaviors revolving around the stalking and rifling through your things.

It’ll be the middle of the night and he’s suddenly jolted awake after a particularly graphic nightmare, half asleep as he rushes out of his bed and practically runs to find you. He’s frantic to check that you’re still in the bed he’s set up for you, his breathing only calming down when he sees your still form, a declaration of love, adoration, and relief slipping from his lips that you happen to hear and wonder at how he can be so sappy and whipped.

It’s embarrassing, more than anything, but Sanemi simply struggles to be vulnerable – eventually you’ll become uncomfortably aware of just how badly he needs you, what with his growing need for your affirmations and physical touch, but the process is slow going, frustrating, confusing, even. But please be patient with him – he’s trying his best for you, really, and with every rejection and laugh when he’s attempting to open up, the less likely he becomes to completely and fully trust that you could love him, too.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Sanemi has always been a bit more on the aggressive side; between slaughtering demons for a living and being a bit brash in his words in his personal life, he’s never been one for handling problems with delicacy, or even really diplomacy – when he gets angry, it’s a bit all consuming.

And when you get thrown into the equation? Well, Sanemi is a lost cause – his emotions regarding you are so complex, so overwhelming and deep that the moment he feels your relationship is being threatened, he’s immediately shutting it down, attacking the threat mercilessly with everything he has because fuck, he can’t let you leave him.

When it comes to romance and love, he’s honestly quite insecure; he knows that there’s no way he’s your first choice, that someone as harsh and rude and demanding could ever possibly be the one you desire. Not to mention the fact that he’s constantly putting his life on the line, the gamble he’s playing on whether he’ll live to see the light of day every night. And he’s not sure about the scars the job produces, too, because while he normally wears them as a badge of pride to signal his toughness and battle experience, he’s not so sure you’d share the same positive response to them.

(It’s such a constant worry for him that the moment you’re in his vicinity, he’s torn between leaving his uniform wide open to show off his sculpted pectorals and abs and simultaneously wanting to cover up, terrified that you’ll find his scarred and calloused body upsetting, repulsive.)

He knows he’s not the ideal man, but there’s a part of him that’s desperately clinging onto the idea that maybe, just maybe you love him too, that you’re just as happy being with him, that you need him as badly as he needs you. It’s unrealistic, though, and in his heart of hearts he knows it and berates himself for even entertaining the idea that you see him as anything more than an acquaintance (or a friend at most).

And yet, the moment that he sees another man – one that’s arguably more similar to what he’s sure your type must be - all reason gets thrown out the door. He’s gritting his teeth as he sees another man approaching you, talking to you, even so much as looking at you – it’s a threat to the relationship he’s precariously building between the two of you, a possibility for something to drive you away from him, the mere idea scaring the absolute shit out of him.

You’re his everything, the reason he lives to see another day, and the moment your safety is compromised (because Sanemi is absolutely fucking sure that that man approaching you with a flush on his face and wide eyes has intentions that are only bad, desires racing through his heart to hurt you, leave you crying and violated and so very scared) he’s immediately wanting to interfere, to break you away from whatever son of a bitch decided to come between what’s rightfully his, what he’s devoted so much of his time and energy to – you.

And even as he realizes that this mindset is detrimental, unhealthy, potentially irreparably damaging your perception of him, Sanemi can’t find it in himself to stop. He’s just too paranoid, too terrified that you’ll be so cruelly ripped away from him.

And of course, it’s also a matter of paranoia where your safety is concerned, too – he has no faith in your ability to fight, and he’s confident that if a bigger, stronger man were to assault you in some way, you’d be hard pressed to fight him off.

(A notion that makes him sick, immediately clutching at his sword and furrowing his eyebrows, the need to see you immediately making him spring to life, already sprinting to where he knows you typically are this time of day.)

And so, Sanemi will often step in between the stranger and you, regardless of the context. And while it pisses you off when it’s a friend of yours or even a simple stranger with innocent intentions, Sanemi manages to redeem himself because every time a creep approaches you, he’s always, always there to swoop in and save you just as the weight of your situation begins washing over you.

(And Sanemi is more than happy to play your savior – just the look you give him, so full of admiration and gratitude and, dare he say, awe, is enough to make him flustered for the next week, finding himself unable to fall asleep and instead imagining your face, clutching at his pillow and squeezing his eyes shut, small whispers of your name falling past his lips.)

In retrospect, you really shouldn’t have gone out for groceries this late. It was winter time, when everything goes dark much too quickly. Before you’d known it the sun was setting and you had yet to stock up on food for the week, making you quickly race out the door and trying to catch the last few minutes of vendors. The market was just barely open, the entire town feeling oddly deserted considering how early it still was.

As nightfall descended, the sun slipping past the horizon, you find yourself carrying a bag of heavy groceries and padding back home, grunting occasionally at the heavy weight in your arms. Your home wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods, the area always feeling just slightly ominous at night, but the rather depressing sight of your empty cupboards had forced you to venture at a time you’d normally avoid leaving your front door.

Biting your lip, you let the groceries in your hand shift slightly, letting the weight shift from one arm to another. Your attention is so focused on the cloth bags in your arms that you fail to notice the figure standing at the side of the road, lounging in front of a small family-owned restaurant that was closed for the evening. His robes are a dark green color, stained with something along the front that left it dark and greasy, a bottle of something strong-smelling in his clutched fist.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, but you suddenly go stiff as he whistles, the bottle crashing to the ground and shattering. Freezing only momentarily, you quickly keep moving, trying to ignore the way the man is calling after you.

Hey, get back here, woman, he’d slurred, even audibly sounding drunk.

The rather weak torches stationed every few meters along the street make it difficult to see behind you, but you can clearly hear his footsteps getting closer.

You can also hear the distinct lack of others’ footsteps, meaning you’re totally alone with a drunk man seemingly intent on bothering you.

Gulping, you keep your shoulders low, trying to curl into yourself but keeping the same pace, hoping by some stroke of luck the man would lose interest or give up on following you. Your home was only a few blocks away, if you could just push a little further maybe you’d be able to close him off at the door, and surely he’d stop then, right? He’d be too bored waiting outside for you, surely.

Hey bitch, turn around! His hand is suddenly on your shoulder, fingertips digging tightly against your clothed skin and making you wince slightly. He’s taller than you’d thought, something that becomes frighteningly obvious as he turns you to face him.

He’s sneering, lips curling up into something ugly that makes your gut twist. His breath reeksof the same sour, alcohol-baked scent, and as he leans in, you try your best to step away, leaning away from his approach.

Please leave me alone, you try, your voice sounding pathetically weak even to your own ears. He’s strong, you can tell – the dingy clothing hid his physique, but it’s not hard to feel the way his grip tightens, the way he makes an unpleasant noise that has fear prickling up your spine.

What did you just say to me? He asks, baring his teeth and moving to cup your jaw between his fingers, pressing his thumb against your lips and pressing hard enough to make you squirm, the pressure against your teeth making your panic only grow worse. He cocks a brow at your struggling, his smile creeping up again as his free hand came up to rest at your hip, moving down and towards your middle, barely passing over your clothed navel and making you open your mouth to scream. The groceries are dropped, your fear overweighing your despair at losing your week’s salary on a single grocery run.

You’re barely able to vocalize your fear before a sudden flash of white fills your peripheral, the pressure against your mouth suddenly lessening. Your body slumps down, falling to your knees on the ground as your eyes grow wide, your breaths heavy and labored as you look upon the scene before you.

The man – your savior, is standing before you, five fingers wrapped around the man’s throat and shoving him up against the wall of the nearest shop, Sanemi’s teeth bared and his own chest rising and falling rapidly.

He’s got his free hand clutched onto the hilt of his sword, and for a brief, terrifying moment you’re sure he’ll whip his blade out, perhaps slicing into the man’s guts and leaving him a bloody, mutilated pile of bones. Some sick, malevolent part of you finds a sick sort of pleasure in the idea, but your body is moving before you can even think, struggling to your feet and moving to rush forward and stop Sanemi from acting on what you’re very aware is a quick-trigger temper.

But before you can take more than a few steps, the sound of the Hashira’s voice is ringing in your ears. It’s low, gravelly, sounding as if it’s taking every bit of his concentration and self-control to not be screaming and yelling, nasally and gravely, the words clipped and uneven as his fingers tighten.

You piece of shit, touching women without their consent, you’re fucking disgusting, rot in hell –

It’s like a mantra, Sanemi sounding so very genuine and forceful, and as you stand frozen at the intensity in his voice, his words only become darker, more sinister.

Don’t touch her, don’t you fucking dare or I swear I’ll slice your head clean off and dismember your every limb. He grins, eyes going wide. I’ll slice off your cock, too, that’d be good, huh? Can’t bother any innocent women when you’re not even a man.

He punctuates this point with a kick to man’s groin, the pained groan he lets out only making Sanemi’s smile widen. You take a small step back, but Sanemi doesn’t even seem to notice.

Anyone who touches her is dead. You hear me? You’re fucking dead.

The harasser is clawing at his hand, whimpering and wheezing as his air supply grows smaller and smaller. It’s at this point that you audibly gasp, covering your mouth with your hand and staring at him with shock, your fingers trembling and your heart racing.

That noise seems to snap Sanemi out of his trance, his muscles going rigid and his head snapping to you. His eyes widen and his lips part, the airiest whisper of your name falling from his lips, and then he’s suddenly letting go of the stranger, backing away and staring at his own hand in shock, as if he’s horrified by what his own body has done.

The man falls to the ground, curled up and coughing, but neither you nor Sanemi pay him any mind. He’s still looking at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish, mind racing as he tries to think of something to say – anything to say, really, because the way you’re looking at him right now is making his heart break, panic engulfing him because no no no now you must think he’s a violent killer and oh god you must hate him now –

He breaks the trance by rushing forward, hands immediately coming out to clutch at your shoulders, his grip noticeably softer than how he’d been choking the man. His eyes are searching over your face, glancing over every inch of your body, his breaths still coming out uneven and ragged, and Sanemi’s quickly swallowing, unsure of what to say but practically blurting out the words.

That wasn’t – I don’t – I’m not going to hurt him, I promise –

You blink at him, body stiff and unsure, but the longer he babbles on the more your muscles relax.

I wouldn’t hurt a human, I’m not a monster, I just – he was harassing you and I don’t even know what happened, I just started moving and –

You shut him up by carefully, hesitantly placing a hand over one of his, the skin contact making him suck in a sharp breath, gaze immediately zeroing in on the sight.

Your smile is only half-genuine, fear and adrenaline coursing through you, but now that the man has crawled away, cursing Sanemi out, you’re starting to calm down. You’ve spent enough time with the Hashira to know he won’t hurt you, and seeing him this worked up, this flustered and desperate to get you to believe him is proof enough that he’s telling the truth.

Stop Sanemi, I know. I understand. At that he visibly relaxes, his jaw tensing and clenching as he swallows. Thank you for saving me.

He pauses, eyebrows rising ever so slightly, before he lets out a deep, shaky exhale, nodding his head and stepping back, releasing his grip on you.

Good is all he says, still looking at you, before his grip rests once more on the hilt of his sword. He glances towards your groceries, before scowling. Are you stupid? Why the hell are you out at this hour to get groceries?

You bristle at this, familiar behavior making you shoot him a glare. Don’t judge me, not all of us can afford to have private servants cook us meals.

Sanemi scoffs. I don’t have private servants, you’re making shit up again.

You continue to bicker, still shaking slightly as you gather the groceries that fell out of the bag upon impact with the ground. Sanemi begrudgingly helps you, forcing you to let him carry both bags while he escorts you home, berating you for being out at this time the entire way.

It’s only later that night that you really truly think about what had happened, his words ringing through your mind because why had Sanemi said that? How had he even known where you were, much less that you were in danger?

You’re not sure, but as you slip under your covers and bury your face against your pillow, you find yourself brushing aside the odd coincidental nature of the encounter, instead finding yourself thankful that Sanemi was there to intervene before things got truly bad.

(Meanwhile, Sanemi is staying true to his promise of not killing any humans – though he’s quick to track down the drunk man, scoffing at the state of him. He’d fallen asleep, evidently, laying on the dirty streetcorner a ways away from your home. Rage overcomes him as he recalls the way this man had touched you, even going so far as to grope your most intimate region without your permission, anger and even a small bit of jealousy overwhelming Sanemi.

He'll certainly not kill the man, but he wasn’t lying when he promised to slice off the man’s cock – he wouldn’t miss it, would he? Besides, he tells himself as he cuts clean and quick lines, it’s for you. This way, the creep might not feel the need to harass you again, and might keep his filthy hands to himself.

And when Sanemi drops him off unceremoniously outside the doors of the nearest medical house, he can only scoff, turning his back on the bleeding man and listening as the medics immediately begin swarming him.

He doesn’t like hurting humans, sure, but for you? Well, the walk back to your home is short, and as he slips inside, standing at the foot of your bed and swallowing at the sight of your sleeping form, he feels himself visibly relax. You’re just too perfect – and as he inhales the smell of you, he knows he’d do it again if it meant keeping you safe, keeping you his.)

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Though Sanemi can’t deny the allure of domesticity with you, kidnapping you is actually something he is very strongly against. It’s a combination of factors that leave him hesitant to steal you away – he’s worried that it would permanently alter your personality, and he doesn’t want you to fear him.

He’s lucid enough to know that his feelings for you border and delve into creep territory, his penchant for following you and compulsively checking on you making it difficult to see himself as anything other than a pathetically obsessed man chasing and lusting after an innocent civilian woman.

And yet, he can’t stop himself from wanting you, needing you so badly that it physically hurts, and so Sanemi gives into his more disturbing urges with the clear, resolute promise to himself that he’ll never do anything truly drastic.

And of course, kidnapping you falls into this category. It’s the only way he can justify following you around, fantasizing about holding you and touching you and hearing you say his name. It’s the only way he can calm himself down when moments of lucidity and clarity come rushing at him, guilt clawing at his throat because why the fuck is he hovering over your sleeping figure and reaching into his trousers right now?

He doesn’t trust himself around you, and that’s only another deterrent to keeping you locked up and away with him. It’s like he’s not in control of his body when you’re present – he’s always looking at you, sneaking glances even when he explicitly tells himself not to.

(Even when he instigates a sort of punishment system for himself – he clenches his fist hard enough to draw blood or pinches himself too tightly every time he catches himself doing it, trying to break the habit. Instead, however, he finds himself littered in bruises and all sorts of crescent-shaped marks on his palms, his will-power no match for the way he needs to be looking at you constantly.)

He’s always gravitating towards you, keeping his body facing in your direction, just so that if you do something or say something he’ll be able to immediately respond, every fiber of his being hoping that you’ll reach out, that you’ll speak to him, that you’ll acknowledge him.

(Hell, he’s even lost control subconsciously – he’s puffing his chest out without thinking about it when you’re around him, subtly trying to make the deep slit in his uniform go wider so that you can see more of his corded muscles, clenching his abs tightly enough to make the definition impossible to ignore. He’s running his hands through his hair the moment someone mentions your name, swiping his bangs out of his eyes just to look presentable, just so that if you see him you’ll maybe, just maybe find him attractive and appealing.)

It’s pathetic, he thinks, and he’s terrified that once you’re stolen away by his side, trapped with him as your sole companionship and provider (an idea that does, of course, make something pleasurable and good roll up his spine), these behaviors will only get worse. If he can’t control himself when he’s still physically distant from you, who knows what he’ll feel at liberty to do once you have nowhere else to run.

He’ll never hurt you, he’s sure of it, but he really, really doubts that you’ll be comfortable with all of the things that his subconscious wants to do to you. He’s sure you don’t particularly want to be encaged in his arms while he squeezes and squeezes and squeezes, trying to get you as close as physically possible because he’s still irritated that he can’t live inside of your skin.

(But what if he crushes you, or somehow breaks your bones with the strength of his affection? It’s enough to get him biting his lip, staring down at his open palms and scowling, frustrated at himself because he knows the euphoria of touching you will make him stupid.)

He’s sure you don’t want him to hand-feed you, bringing the chopsticks up to your mouth, watching your pretty, soft lips open up and letting him place the home-cooked food against your tongue.

(And seeing you looking at him with your mouth open, taking something that he’s made and given to you against your tongue will have him flushing, swallowing heavily and having to look away because fuck he’s such a pervert and he’s ruining a sweet moment by growing unbearably hard in his trousers, and oh god – what if there’s a wet spot when he stands up? Will you notice? Fuck fuck fuck!)

It’s a recipe for disaster, not to mention the fact that your fear and hesitance would likely force you to become a shell of your former self. You’d be reduced to nothing but a skeleton of your personality, and that’s the absolute last thing Sanemi wants. He wants you – authentically, fully, as you are when you’re free and independent. And stealing you away would change that, he’s sure – and he’d never forgive himself for diminishing even a flicker of your light.

But of course, misfortune seems to follow Sanemi like some sort of sick joke – it’s only a matter of time before something terrible happens.

It’s a demon attack, likely. Perhaps some demon has noticed that a Hashira seems to hold a penchant for a particular human, and with his marechi blood they’re very, very eager to lure him out and feast on him. And in the process, you get caught in the crossfire – it’s rare that Sanemi leaves you completely and truly alone, but when he’s been summoned for a mission, he can’t exactly decline.

And so, he rushes through the job, quickly finding the demon and slaughtering it in the quickest, fastest way possible before immediately returning back to you, falling into the shadows so that he can continue to keep an eye on you, letting out a rather harsh breath when he finally spots you again, in tact and unharmed.

Except one night, as he sprints through the dark forest, he sees the very faint outline of your home and immediately his eyes go wide.

Your front door is wide open.

He generally thinks you’re rather careless about your safety, sure, but even you aren’t that bad – something is wrong. He pushes himself to run faster, harder, his breaths sounding more like wheezing as he descend on your house, immediately rushing inside and drawing his sword. The adrenaline coursing through his veins only makes him falter for a moment upon seeing his absolute worst nightmare – you’re on the ground, eyes slowly blinking and your body crumpled up, most of your visible skin covered with blood.

His nostrils flare, the sight of the demon crouching over you making his grip on the sword hilt so tight his knuckles turn white, something akin to a genuine growl coming from him.

Get the hell away from her!

He’s yelling and charging, immediately activating his breathing technique and beheading the creature before it can even react. His chest is still heaving, and despite the black mist that begins to appear on the creature’s neck, he’s immediately settling down, straddling the creature and throwing punch after punch. It’s bloody – it’s spraying all over his uniform, staining the white as his fists dig into flesh, denting and tearing and destroying, all the while Sanemi is yelling at it, cursing and calling it a vile, disgusting creature, claiming it’s trying to hurt and kill his woman.

It’s terrifying, really, and as you slowly lose consciousness you’ll find yourself feeling even more terrified, unsure of what’s happening.

And as the demon disappears, Sanemi slowly calms down, gathering his senses and immediately grabbing you, carrying you to the Butterfly Mansion as quickly as his legs can carry him. He doesn’t want to bring you home (or at least, he knows he shouldn’t), but once Shinobu has you patched up and he returns to your now blood-stained abode, Sanemi’s biting his lip, wavering.

He can’t let you come back here – not with the knowledge that you could be attacked again, not when you’re out of his sight and protection, not when you’re so very vulnerable. And so, he begrudgingly brings you back to his estate, settling you into the bedroom as far away from his own as possible.

(He’d refrained from keeping you in the room he’s spent the last few months pretending was your own, too – outfitted with all of the items he’s bought for you but been too afraid to give to you: all sorts of hairpins, beautiful weavings, flowers, even small, curtly written notes he’d been crazed enough to write in the dead of night when he just could not stop thinking of you. No, that’d be too much – he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, so he locks that room up, praying that you never, ever find out about it.)

When you awake, you’ll find yourself changed into fresh, clean clothing (soft clothing, too, the kind that you could never afford), tucked into a bed in a room you don’t recognize. The futon is soft, the sheets warm and decorated with a pattern and color that you distinctly note is a favorite of yours. Your entire body hurts, wincing as you sit up.

It’s only then that the door slides open, a tuft of white hair greeting you as Sanemi clears his throat, wide eyes glancing at every visible part of your body. He’s rather curt when he explains where you are, glossing over the why and instead cryptically reiterating that you’re safe now, so drop it.

As a captor, Sanemi is surprisingly attentive – you’d known each other before your kidnapping, of course, though he’d always seemed like a rather hot-headed, difficult man.

And those mannerisms certainly don’t change when he’s got you trapped with him – except now you can see that there’s something deeper under the surface, something vulnerable and raw and real. You’ll see it in the way that he touches you like you’re made of glass – shying away and retracting his hands just moments before they touch your skin, acting almost as if the idea of touching you repulses him.

(God, nothing could be less true – he so desperately wishes to brush his fingertips against the smooth skin of your thighs, to cup your cheeks in his palms, to press his lips against yours – softly, slowly, as if he can’t quite believe that you’re real.)

You’ll see it in the way that he has every meal cooked and prepared for you, the Wind Estate quiet and empty except for the two of you. It’s always your favorite foods, cooked with every idiosyncrasy and taste of yours in mind, with a level and degree of accuracy that will terrify you at first.

And frankly, you will be terrified at first – he’s reluctant to admit his feelings to you, sure that if you were to know the truth of the situation you’d immediately reject him, and as stupid as it is Sanemi doesn’t think he could handle your rejection. It would break him, emotionally, physically, and mentally, leaving him a shell of a man and still just as desperately, pathetically in love with you if not more so.

But the reason you’ll be terrified isn’t because of his demeanor or the way you think he feels – rather, it will become obvious very quickly that Sanemi knows much more about you than you thought. You know you’ve never told him your preferred menstrual supplies, and yet the bathroom he’s assigned to you is stocked full of the exact model and heaviness you prefer.

(It’s your own bathroom, thankfully, though when you’re asleep sometimes Sanemi will sneak in, picking up your toothbrush and letting it sit against his lips, suckling at the bristles and rifling through your trash just to find a pad or two when he knows you’re menstruating. He’d rather slice off his own hand than admit it to you, of course, but just being in a space that you regularly use makes him feel special, connected to you in a way that makes his knees weak and the smallest, faintest of smiles cross his lips.)

You’re sure you’ve never mentioned what clothing size you wear, and yet there’s a slew of brand new, beautifully made kimonos and lounging wear perfectly tailored to your body, all in a range of colors and designs that are your favorites.

(There’s also a few in a lime green material and a single, pure white one, both of which were guilty pleasures that Sanemi felt compelled to include in his orders from the local seamstresses. And if you were to wear one, willingly, during a shared meal with him? Well, don’t comment on the pink color of his cheeks, nor the way he ever so slightly stutters when he tells you that you look nice.)

Frankly, he’s a pretty good captor to have – he gives you space, and forces himself to stay away from you for most of the day in an effort to not overwhelm you. At least, at the beginning. He tells himself it’s enough to know that you’re locked up in the Wind Estate, safe and sound and perfectly removed from the danger of the outside world, but his paranoia and yearning for your company eventually drive him to spend just a hair more time with you.

Instead of giving you privacy during meals, he’ll instead knock at your door, entering with his own plate and sitting down as far away from you as possible within the room, silently eating and trying not to make his staring too obvious.

(He mentally justifies it as making sure that you don’t choke on your food, but really it’s more about seeing you enjoy what he’s made for you and knowing that you’ve eaten today. Good. He'll sharply inhale, biting back a smile as he slowly eats his own food, trying to prolong the moment.)

He spoils you with all sorts of gifts and supplies for any hobbies you may have, and while he initially doesn’t interact with you as you knit or draw or read, eventually he’ll gather the courage to ask you a question, trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant as he asks what it is that you’re drawing, how to knit, or what your favorite book is.

It’s a slow but steady process, and as time passes and you grow more and more complacent with your situation, you’ll find yourself coming to enjoy the rough, oddly charming presence of Sanemi. Even if his stalking and feelings for you become an unspoken truth, his fondness for you difficult to ignore (with the way he treats you so gently, spoils you, and very poorly hides the way his cock springs to life each time you say his name).

And so really, Sanemi feels guilty enough for being in love with you, and even more guilty for forcing you into a life of complacency – the least you could do is compliment him, right? You could at least invite him to join you for meals and walks around the modest garden of his estate. You could at least intertwine your fingers with his and pretend to not notice the way he gasps, mumbling something incoherent that sounds vaguely like your name.

Really, it’s the least you could do – and with every action, Sanemi only falls for you harder, deeper, his resolve to keep you safe, happy and his only growing.

PUNISHMENTS:

While his obsession with you alters certain parts of his personality, some characteristics remain absolutely true regardless of his feelings for you. And unfortunately, one of them is his quick-trigger temper.

You calm him, the mere sound of your voice making the tension in his muscle relax, the clenching of his jaw lessening slightly, the tensing of his shoulders becoming less pronounced. The feeling of your hand pressing against his chest makes him freeze in place, the anger simmering in his gut becoming more diluted, the rage slowly leaving him because god, you’re standing right in front of him and he can see every fine detail of your face and he can smell you and god…

You have a physical effect on him that calms him ever so slightly, but he still finds himself remarkably susceptible to rage, even with you in his vicinity.

Of course, rarely ever is he actually mad at you – early into his infatuation he’d found himself constantly irritated and enraged at you, convinced that you’d somehow purposefully made him into the lovesick fool that he is, unable and unwilling to admit to himself that it’s entirely his own doing leading to his spiral into dependence on you. He’d even tried to hate you, consciously filling his head with lies and telling himself that you were weak, a burden, only something that would slow him down. And yet, the anger was never quite real, never quite honest.

(Never directed at you, really, but more directed at himself for being so weak as to form such strong, dependent feelings on you.)

And so, Sanemi’s anger more often than not revolves around someone else – often, someone around you. Men that get too close, friends that meddle when they notice that you have Sanemi as an unwanted admirer, your boss when they treat you poorly, even strangers that are even the slightest bit rude to you.

He’ll never go far enough as to injure another human to point of death, if only because he’s still guided by morals that yearn to save humans, but Sanemi is absolutely committed to making sure that you’re treated like the royalty that he perceives you as.

(Often, any men that feel bold enough to approach you, or god forbid touch you meet a bloody, painful altercation with the Hashira, unable to do anything but be pounded into a pulp as he swings and punches, leaving them a bloody semi-conscious mess on the ground, even spitting onto them as he mutters something about being a fuckin’ monster, assaulting women like it’s nothing…)

But all that said, there are a few very specific things that can get Sanemi angry at you, too. He can forgive you lashing out at him and calling him terrible names, even openly welcoming it sometimes because he knows it’s true.

He’s mostly worried when you attempt to escape rather than angry, terrified that you’ll somehow hurt yourself or be eaten by a demon if you manage to get through the patch of wisteria trees surrounding the perimeter of his estate. Instead, his main triggers are when you injure yourself, or when you say something negative or degrading about yourself.

He’s so paranoid about your safety and health that the mere idea of you injuring yourself gets him borderline panicking, his breathing getting heavier and his hands starting to tremble as panic engulfs him because he absolutely cannot lose you, too.

He’s always quick to reprimand you, yelling at you but dressing your wounds as gently as possible, treating you as if you’re made of glass and cleaning everything perfectly to prevent any further harm. But really, what truly angers Sanemi is when you display a lack of self-respect, though he’ll never explicitly punish you.

He loves you – so much so that it physically hurts, his chest aching when he’s away from you, every muscle growing restless and anxiety settling in his gut because he needs to see you right now. He’s a worshipper in every sense of the word, and to have you disrespecting yourself and talking down to yourself in any capacity is enough to get his blood boiling. It’s two-fold, really, because not only is it an assault on your character, but it’s an assault on his, too. It’s a remark against him for thinking of you so highly, for revering you and kissing the ground you walk on. It bruises his pride and makes him defensive of you, even if it’s you yourself making the remark.

And so, Sanemi tends to grow angry, unable to comprehend how you can possibly see yourself as something less-than when he’s so utterly enraptured with every fiber of your being.

Being trapped with him means long expanses of time where you’re alone, Sanemi out on a mission or pulled away begrudgingly, and as time passes this will slowly start to affect you.

Too much alone time equates to an awful lot of staring in the mirror, fingers prodding at the skin of your cheeks or arranging your hair this way or that, furrowing your brow and trying to understand exactly what it is about you that makes Sanemi so enthralled. You can’t put your finger on it – you’re just you, and while he’s never come right out and said it, you’re very aware that Sanemi finds you beautiful.

(You’ve overheard him, after all, late at night when he’s muffling his groans and the wet schlock schlock noise is audible even through the wall separating you. It’s difficult to not hear it, after all, when he’s moaning your name as he gets close, stuttered curses and little gasps of s-so beautiful, fuck and all sorts of other praises slipping out of him as his orgasm approaches.)

It’s too much time for you to be alone and overanalyze. And even now that you’ve been with him for well over a year, now that your whole world has become Sanemi Shinazugawa, it’s too easy to let the insecurities get the best of you.

And really, you shouldn’t have ever mentioned it – later that night, when Sanemi returns home from his latest mission, he can immediately tell that something is wrong. He closes and locks the multitude of locks on the front door, glancing at you with skepticism and worry, before placing his hands on your hips and pulling you close, leaving a single long kiss against your forehead as he asks you what’s wrong. Your small mumble of nothing doesn’t convince him, but Sanemi just pushes it aside, deciding to revisit the subject after you’ve both eaten.

Dinner is quiet, and it’s halfway through that he decides enough is enough.

What the hell’s the matter with you? He’s asking, setting down his chopsticks and staring pointedly at you.

You’re not too terribly afraid of your captor by this point, but the intensity of his stare still makes you fold in on yourself slightly, embarrassment and self-consciousness eating away at you. Sanemi continues the staring, unwilling to back down, eventually scoffing and telling you to just spit it out, I’ll wait as long as it takes.

And that you believe, enough to get you blurting out a quick I’m not good enough for you to be so in love with.

It’s slurred and difficult to understand even to your own ears, but it gets Sanemi’s face twisting up, a mixture of shock and confusion making his brows knit together and that familiar scowl sit on his lips.

What the fuck? It’s all he can ask, really, because this is so out of left field and unexpected that he genuinely has no clue how to respond.

At his pointed confusion and silence, you play with your thumbs, hunger totally gone as the words start falling out of you like some sort of nervous word vomit. It’s just that I don’t really get why you’re so – so fixated on me. I’m nothing special, and before you get angry at me just know that it’s okay and I’m not trying to get away I just –

Sanemi cuts you off by rising to his feet before you can even blink, a hand snapping out to wrap around your wrist. Before you know it you’re being dragged down a series of long hallways until you come face to face with a door you’ve never set foot passed – Sanemi’s personal, private room.

Normally, when the two of you share a bed (something that has only recently begun happening, after Sanemi gathered the courage and you’ve become so touch-starved that you welcomed his presence), you sleep in the room he's had made up for you, Sanemi allowing you to stay in the quasi-comfort of your ‘own’ room rather than force you into yet another unfamiliar situation.

But you hardly have any time to gawk at the room before he’s shoving you in front of his modest mirror, the reflection of yourself making you blink twice. He's angry – you can see his face in the mirror now, and his cheeks area bright red and a few veins are standing out against his neck, a sure sign that he’s livid and is only barely able to hold himself back from acting on it.

It makes you shrink slightly, though you’re confident at this point that he won’t hurt you, at least not purposefully.

Look at yourself, he tells you, voice strained. He’s standing behind you, gripping onto your shoulders and forcing you to face yourself in the mirror.

You do as you’re told, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy Sanemi.

He groans, resting his forehead against the slope of your shoulder. Look at yourself.

A pause, then: Please.

Swallowing, you search each and every feature of your familiar face. Your eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, eyebrows, jaw, anything and everything you can think of. After a few moments, Sanemi looks at you in the mirror again, his eyebrows furrowed tightly.

Do you really not see it? He asks, and you merely shake your head.

He bares his teeth. Dammit, how can you not? How can you be so fucking blind?

It’s harsh, his words making you wince slightly, but they’re loaded with something unlike his usual rage – there’s something sweeter to it, something that feels different and gets you meeting his gaze in the mirror. The look on his face is almost pleading, and you’re struck with the realization that he’s not angry, he’s frustrated. Genuinely frustrated that you don’t seem to understand just what he sees in you.

Slowly, you bring your fingers up to your cheeks, fingertips pressing against the soft skin. Sanemi watches you with bated breath, his grip on you still tight.

Compliment yourself, he instructs, the words sounding strained. You blink at him, swallowing heavily.

You mutter out a small comment of how your eyes aren’t too terrible, and Sanemi groans at that. His hand moves from your shoulder to your chin, pinching at it and bringing you closer to the mirror. Give yourself a real compliment, or I’ll stand here all fucking day until you do.

You tell him that you have pretty eyes, and it seems to please him. He nods, almost subconsciously, keeping his grip on your chin. Damn right you do. Pretty eyes and a pretty smile. Tell me more.

He keeps you in this position for nearly an hour, forcing you to list off each and every possible compliment about your looks and personality that you can think, his gaze never wavering in intensity or sincerity as he grunts and nods at each and every one.

It’s only as your jaw starts to ache and you start to grow restless that Sanemi eventually lets go, turning you gently to face him. A finger lightly traces over the shape of your lips as he exhales, the softness of his actions and the moment making you feel light.

Don’t undersell yourself. His voice is firm, his lips set in a thin line. You’re perfect, and you need to accept that.

He covers your mouth with his hand as you part your lips to respond, shaking his head. No, none of that shit. We’re doing this every day until you decide that you’re good enough for me – until you prove to me that you respect yourself the way you should. New compliments every day, and I don’t care how hard it is for you. When you run out, I’ll step in, but you’re elaborating on everything I say. Got it?

You nod, a strange sort of tenderness welling up inside of you that only makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes because oh god, how wrong is this? Your captor, the man who stole you away and keeps you trapped inside his him, is complimenting you and it’s making you feel more loved and wanted and appreciated than you’ve felt in your whole life. There’s just something so sincere about his push for you to understand just how wonderful he thinks you are that makes your lower lip wobble, the way he’s actually genuinely enraged by your insecurities and the absurdness of them making your nose tingle.

It's sweet, something your captor really shouldn’t be, and as tears slip down your cheeks Sanemi awkwardly presses you against his chest, silent as his grip grows progressively tighter. He’s no stranger to insecurity, and as he drags you to the mirror the next day and the next after that, you’ll slowly find yourself believing him when he says that you’re kind, that you’re beautiful, that he wants you more than he’s ever wanted anything else in his life.

It's strange and you may hate yourself for it, but as the days pass you’ll find yourself growing more and more fond of Sanemi, his commitment to improving your self-esteem feeling like the more intimate thing anyone has every done for you, and slowly you’ll find yourself seeing him in more and more of a romantic light. Sure, he’s stolen you away and stalked you extensively, but when he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear and calls you beautiful in a voice so raw that it cracks, how can you not fall for him? Maybe you’re sick in the head, depraved, any number of terrible things, but with each compliment he forces from your lips, you’ll find yourself caring less.

He just really, really loves you, doesn’t he?

OVERALL DANGER:

4/10

By and large, Sanemi is akin to a large, possessive guard dog. The mere thought of hurting you makes him sick to his stomach, and he’ll go to any possible length to ensure your health and safety.

(He’s had literal nightmares about leaving you bloody and bruised, and he’s actually woken up and immediately hurled, breathing hard and nearly in tears because it felt so real and it’s almost like your blood is actually on his hands.)

He’s paranoid, terrified that you’ll somehow be killed and stolen away from him, your presence the only thing that seems to calm him, growing to become the only thing that motivates him to wake up every morning.

He’s overprotective, letting his fear for your safety bleed into every aspect of his relationship with you – he’s following you around like a lovesick puppy, constantly vigilant for threats to your safety. He’s obsessively tracking your meals, fussing over making sure that you’re getting balanced, nutritious foods, constantly asking you if you’ve drunk water on any particular day.

And he’s possessive – refusing to allow you to interact with most men, skeptical of your friends, entirely untrusting of each and every person in your life. He won’t try to manipulate you into isolating yourself, but Sanemi really, really wants to, only holding back for the sake of your mental wellbeing. And really, that’s a large factor in Sanemi’s behavior towards you – he loves you, or at least in his own deranged, too-intense way, and he’s willing to kill himself physically and emotionally just to make sure that you never frown, that you’re never sad or angry or afraid.

His first priority is you, always, and it’s only after that that he considers getting you to love him back. It’s of course the goal – he wants you so badly that you have no fucking clue, because how could you? How could you possibly understand just how deeply his dependence on you has become, just how intertwined a mere scrap of your attention becomes for his self-confidence, his happiness, his sanity in his day-to-day life?

He’s well and truly whipped for you, his every waking thought revolving around you, but you’ll that your life will be relatively good with him. He’ll treat you like a queen, spoiling you and doing everything in his power to keep you happy, and can you really hate it as much as you claim to?

Can you really, honestly say that Sanemi is a monster when he keeps you well cared for and respects you despite the way you know he wants to ravage you and keep you all for himself?

Can you honestly say that you don’t want him just as badly, that you’ve become so accustomed to him that you’re well and truly his?

Sanemi sure hopes not, and as time passes, you’ll slowly give into the small, desperately and pathetically hopeful looks of his, reaching out to touch him when he’s too hesitant to initiate, even whispering those lovely, sacred three little words. And once you do, he’ll only work harder to adore you, only falling deeper and deeper into obsession with every passing day.

With every passing second, really.

#yandere kny #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere demon slayer #yandere ds #yandere sanemi #yandere sanemi shinazugawa #_kny #_lee's profiles #_sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #kny x reader

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 years ago

Text

Little Warrior

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdom) x F!Reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, kidnapping, slight Stockholm syndrome, attempted sexual assault, sexual tension, coercion, corruption kink, talk of religious beliefs, female masturbation, loss of virginity, smut. Word count: 4.6k

Summary: When Sigtryggr and his men seize Winchester he takes a special interest in one of their captives (I have essentially yeeted Stiorra from the story and adapted the storyline of how her and Sigtryggr become an item to suit my own). Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

They come in the night. As Winchester sleeps, the Danes descend upon it.

She is woken by the blood curdling shouts and screams of the townspeople, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke from nearby burning buildings.

Her heart lurches in her chest, panic causing bile to rise in her throat as she acts purely on instinct, scrambling from her bed and out of the house wearing just her nightdress. The only thought in her mind is that she doesn’t want to die trapped in her home as it’s burned to the ground.

Once she is outside, she watches wide eyed with horror at the destruction around her. Buildings are ablaze, people lay dead and dying upon the ground, the thick coppery scent of blood makes her want to vomit.

It’s only when the coolness of the night air begins to chill her skin that she realises just how perilous her situation is - a thin layer of cotton is all that separates her flesh from the horrors around her. She worries about what these Heathens will do to her if they see her in such a state of undress.

She trembles at the thought, dread gnawing at her insides. It’s too risky to go back inside, her only option is to hide. She takes her chances beneath an overturned farmer’s cart, crawling beneath the gap and cowering, waiting for the chaos around her to die down.

Clutching the cross around her neck, she sends up a silent prayer to God to keep her safe. Her destiny is in his hands now.

The aching in her joints for having been crouched for so long is beginning to become unbearable when the noise eventually quietens. She wonders if the Danes have left, if King Edward will return to rescue Winchester or if they have managed to capture it in his absence. Where are the Wessex guard?

She freezes when she hears the sound of approaching boots upon the ground, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage when they come to a stop in front of the cart she’s hiding under.

“I can see your feet, Christian”, comes the voice of a man. He speaks softly and quietly, and it sends shivers down her spine.

Too paralyzed by fear to do anything, she remains as she is, her breaths coming quick and shallow, a rapidly dying hope in the back of her mind that he might give up and leave her alone. But there is no such luck.

“You will come out,” he commands, “or I will drag you out, the choice is yours.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the frightened whimper that escapes her, attempting to force herself further back against the wooden confines of her misguided hiding place.

A large hand appears beneath the cart, reaching towards her before wrapping itself around her ankle.

She shrieks, thrashing against the hold it has on her as she’s dragged out. She lays wide eyed on the cold earth, her breathing erratic, as she looks with terror upon the Dane that towers above her prone form.

His long brown hair is wild and unkempt, half of it pulled back, and a ragged scar runs the length of the left side of his face. He regards her with mild amusement and she becomes aware again of her state of undress.

The thought that he might rape her sends her senses into overdrive, pure adrenaline driving her decision making. She knows she’s in no position to run, her only other option is to fight him, so as he crouches down towards her, she lunges upwards, slapping and scratching at his face and shoulders.

He is quick to overpower her, pulling her to her feet and twisting her arm behind her back.

“A fearsome little warrior, she is,” he chuckles, keeping her arm taut behind her as he gently urges her forward.

He guides her towards the front steps of the King’s estate, where several people are kneeling before a group of Danes. As they draw closer she recognises a few of them; King Edward’s sons and a few of the Wessex guard.

She is certain she’ll be killed. The man presses on her shoulder, urging her to kneel beside the other captives. She takes up her position, the stone step is hard against her knees, and she is all too aware that she is the least valuable of everyone gathered there.

“Send them to where they keep their dead King,” the man says, looking at Edward’s children and then nodding towards the chapel.

“We need to send a message to Edward,” a dark haired, heavily pregnant woman says, as two of the Danish men pick up the boys and carry them off. “We must force him to yield Winchester to us.”

It makes her shudder to think that this woman will be a mother, when she is capable of such atrocities.

“And what do you propose, Brida?” He responds.

Brida regards her with a look that makes her blood run cold. She has never seen anyone look at her as though she is worth less than nothing, her brown eyes are filled with utter contempt. “Send him her head,” she tells him, “it is more shocking to Christians when you are prepared to kill women and children alike.”

She gasps audibly, stricken by terror at the notion that they intend to behead her, until she feels his hand upon her shoulder.

“You will not touch her,” he says cooly, “slaughter the men, but she stays with me.”

“And what will you do with her?” Brida asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That is for me to decide,” he responds dismissively.

He makes a cut throat gesture at the Danes that flank Brida, then nods towards the kneeling guards, before pulling her back to her feet and directing her inside of the King’s estate.

She winces as she hears the sound of blades making thick, wet impact upon flesh, followed by dying screams of agony. Despite her shock and disgust, she cannot help the twinge of relief that lightens the feeling in her chest that that is not what destiny has in store for her, at least not yet.

The room that he brings her to is what she assumes is a study. It is filled with books, maps and writing materials, the space is occupied by a wooden writing desk, a chair and a settee.

As her eyes travel around the room, taking in her surroundings, she’s startled out of her reverie when her gaze settles back upon him. He is standing so close, silently observing her, his expression unreadable.

Once more she is reminded of how little she is wearing, and now that she is alone with him, fear of what he might do to her returns in earnest.

“S-stay back,” she stammers, backing away, eyes scanning the room for something, anything, that she can use as a weapon.

He smirks, unmoving, as he looks her over from head to toe. “Be calm, little warrior. Do you know who I am?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “No…”

He straightens, tilting his head slightly, clasping his arms behind his back. “I am Sigtryggr Ivarsson. I am a Dane. If I wish to hump a woman I do not need to do so by force.”

She softens slightly, fear does not grip her heart quite so icily as before. His name is meaningless to her, but she is relieved that he means her no harm.

Sigtryggr leans in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. “But make no mistake, little warrior, I will have you, and you will beg me for it.”

She draws back quickly in disgust - not at his words, but at the reaction they elicit from her. The way warmth pools in her lower belly fills her with immense guilt. This man has invaded her home and killed people she knows, people she loves, she should despise him.

Swallowing thickly, unease prickling at her, she elects to change the subject. “What have you come here for?”

“To take what I am owed,” he says simply.

“And what is it you believe you’re owed?”

“Land. Your people drove me from mine,” he explains, anger lacing his tone, “your boy King will give back what he stole, or I shall keep Winchester and send him the heads of his children.”

She inhales shakily, feeling like she wants to cry. “A-and…how do I factor into all of that?”

He softens, shrugging slightly. “You don’t, but I can’t imagine your King will yield quickly, and it is always nice to have company. You are brave, for a Christian.”

“So I am your prisoner?”

“No, little warrior. You are free to leave any time you’d like, and take your chances with Brida.”

The implication is not lost on her. Her freedom is an illusion when the alternative is death. Sigtryggr is her only guarantee for safety.

“Shall we find something else for you to wear?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

She looks down at the thin material of her shift, seeing how dirty it is from having been crouched beneath the cart, dragged out and then forced to kneel on the steps of the estate. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

He nods. “Wait here.”

Sigtryggr leaves her alone in the study, not bothering to lock the door behind him - a sign of his confidence that he knows she won’t try to escape.

He returns a few moments later with a white cotton shift that is similar to the one she is currently wearing, She assumes it belongs to Ælflæd, something he has found within a bedchamber.

“Where is the rest of it?” She asks.

“What do you mean? It’s the same as what you have on, and it’s clean,” he says simply.

“Yes, but this is meant to go under–” she sighs, “nevermind.”

She takes the shift from him and begins to change, noting the way that he turns from her, keeping his eyes fixed on the shelves of books that line the walls of the room. The small mark of respect makes her smile. She had not anticipated such manners from a Heathen.

He pulls a book from the shelf when she is finished, flipping through its pages. “Can you read?”

She nods and he hands the tome to her.

“Read to me.”

“Can you not read?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I can,” he says with a smirk, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She sighs, settling into the chair in front of the writing desk, while Sigtryggr sits upon the settee a few feet away, and she reads to him.

Over the next few weeks their days are spent much like this. She reads aloud to him, though none of the books are particularly interesting, mostly religious texts and historical records of Wessex. She’s not convinced that he pays any particular attention to the words, but he seems to enjoy the sound of her voice.

They find a Hnefatafl board and Sigtryggr teaches her how to play. They while away hours strategising ways to remove each other's pieces from the board. He has a sharp mind, is calmer and more analytical than any other Dane she’s ever met. He bests her with his cunning multiple times, until she finally begins to get the hang of it and he begins to lose to her.

“Another game?” She asks. “How many have I won now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, a faint smile upon his lips. “I am not keeping count.”

She giggles. She is beating him, but he does not seem to mind.

They sleep upon furs and blankets that Sigtryggr has brought down to the study and fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her stomach flutters at laying in such close proximity to him, but true to his word he never touches her. Shame blooms hotly in her chest as each of the days pass and she finds herself yearning for it.

He brings her food, and the hopelessness of the situation looms over her as with every meager meal the bread tastes more stale.

“Read to me, little warrior,” he requests, reclining on the settee, his forearm slung over his forehead.

She grouses, hunger pangs causing her stomach to rumble painfully. “I cannot concentrate,” she whispers.

“What is the matter?” He asks, sitting up to look at her.

“I am hungry. I’m always hungry.”

He nods, stepping towards her and offering her his share of the bread.

She looks from his outstretched hand to his face uncertainly. “What will you eat?”

“I will manage, and you will read to me,” he tells her, as she takes the offering and he settles back down.

She smiles to herself at the gesture, warmth spreading throughout her. So she eats, and she reads to him.

Sigtryggr disappears each day, leaving her alone in the study. She only leaves to bathe and to relieve herself, but she is perfectly happy to stay put and await his return, especially when she is all too aware of the alternative.

Each day when he returns he brings news of the continuing siege. King Edward and the Wessex guard surround the walls of Winchester, but will not attack as his sons are being kept captive in the chapel. They have yet to yield to Sigtryggr’s demands for land.

She fiddles with the cross around her neck, eyeing the Mjölnir that sits around his carefully. “Can there not be a peaceful resolution?”

"It is more difficult to live peacefully with enemies than to fight them,” he tells her.

“But we live peacefully,” she retorts.

“We are not enemies, little warrior.”

The sentiment makes her heart flutter, though there is the lingering question in the back of her mind; what are we?

He leaves her alone again as usual one morning and she busies herself poring over maps to pass the time.

She turns when she hears footsteps, expecting to see Sigtryggr but instead it is a man she does not recognise. He appears Saxon, so she cannot understand why the Danes have allowed him to move around the estate so freely.

The stench of ale upon him as he draws closer is nauseating. His eyes hold malicious intent as he advances towards her, and her blood runs cold at the sight.

She stands, backing away from him. “Whatever you are planning to do, please reconsider,” she pleads, “Sigtryggr will punish you if anything happens to me.”

“I have allied myself with the Danes,” he slurs, “but at what cost? They treat me like a dog, while Sigtryggr coddles you. Tell me, whore, is your cunt really that good? Perhaps I ought to find out for myself.”

She yelps as he lunges for her, grabbing her and pinning her against the desk. Fury flashes through her as she struggles against him, attempting to free herself from his hold.

“Whatever treatment they give you, you have brought upon yourself, traitor,” she spits.

Her head snaps to the side, a sharp sting spreads across her cheek as he strikes her.

She barely has time to adjust her focus before she feels him forcefully being pulled off of her.

“Eardwulf!” Sigtryggr snarls angrily. “Fucking coward!”

His fist makes impact with Eardwulf’s face knocking him to the ground, before he is dragged away.

She curls up on the furs, shaking as tears stream down her cheeks, waiting for her heart rate to calm. What could have happened to her if Sigtryggr had not returned when he did doesn’t bear thinking about.

She is unsure of how much time has passed when he returns.

“Are you alright?”

She turns towards the sound of his voice, gasping when she sees he’s covered in blood. Rushing towards him, she places her hands upon his face. “You are hurt…”

Softly he grasps her wrists, keeping her hands where they are. “This blood is not mine, and Eardwulf will not hurt you ever again.”

Her lips part in shock at the thought that he has killed for her, saved her life twice now. She studies his face, taking in the stormy blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips.

She allows her gaze to linger there for just a moment too long, embarrassment making her hot, eager to distract herself. She traces a finger over the scar that runs the length of the left side of his face.

“How did this happen?”

“A man tried to take my eye during battle,” he explains softly, “so I took his life.”

“But you were hurt.”

“Injured, yes. Left with a scar, yes. But very much alive.”

“As am I, thanks to you.”

She drops her hands from his face and he steps away from her, pulling off his blood soaked light armour and clothing.

She feels her throat run dry at the sight of his bare torso, all lean, lithe battle hardened muscle, adorned with scars. She longs to trace her fingers over each of them.

Looking away, she feels ashamed for harbouring such thoughts and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing ache in her core.

As night falls and Sigtryggr lays asleep beside her, the feeling that lingers between her legs has yet to subside. It is maddening, robbing her of rest. Every time she closes her eyes the image of him stood bare chested before her enters her mind.

She has never touched herself before, it is impure to do so, yet she needs relief or she is sure she will go mad.

Sparing a glance in the darkness towards Sigtryggr, she makes sure his eyes are closed before reaching a tentative hand between her legs. She lets out a shaky sigh as her fingers make impact against the sensitive flesh.

She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do, but finds that a combination of rubbing the area and bucking softly against her hand feels most pleasurable, so continues to do that, holding her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she makes.

There is a feeling that builds within her, a zenith that she feels she must press towards, so she continues in earnest, until finally she feels something within her release and her entire body shudders, a soft moan stifled against her lips as white hot pleasure rolls through her body.

Laying there afterwards she does her best to calm her breaths, feeling guilty for having done something so depraved.

She is startled by Sigtryggr’s voice beside her. “If only you’d beg, little warrior, I could do that for you.”

Her breath hitches and she quickly turns away from him. Not knowing what to say, she feigns sleep, clutching her cross and praying silently that he’ll forget.

She is grateful when he speaks of it no further, and life goes back to normal, or at least what normal is for them.

That is until a couple of weeks later when Brida storms her way into the study, clearly having grown impatient with the lack of progress being made.

“It has been more than thirty days since we captured Winchester, and your negotiations with the Saxon King are not working, Sigtryggr,” she glowers at him, “the time for talking is over. We are killing more captives.”

She does not miss the way that Brida’s eyes linger upon her as she says this, a shiver of fear causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh.

“I will choose who we execute, not you,” Sigtryggr tells her.

“You cannot protect this Saxon forever,” Brida retorts.

“Oh, but I can,” he says, placing himself protectively between her and Brida. “She is mine, and I will decide what happens to her.”

Brida scoffs, turning and leaving. Sigtryggr follows, leaving her alone to ponder the fact that he has once more saved her life.

When he comes back several hours later, he looks so tired. The expression he wears is one of defeat and she feels her heart ache for him.

“Read to me,” he says softly, sitting heavily upon the settee.

She regards him quietly, she wants to comfort him. She wants to comfort herself. She has grown weary of denying him.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing, she crosses the room, and places herself upon his lap, her thighs astride his.

“What are you do–”

His words are cut off as she presses her lips to his eagerly, before pulling away. “I’m begging, Sigtryggr, please. I–”

He surges forward, kissing her again, his mouth possessing hers hungrily as he grasps her hips, lifting her as he stands to deposit her onto the makeshift bed upon the floor, his body caging hers in against the furs.

“I knew you’d give in, little warrior,” he whispers against her neck, kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone.

His fingers toy with the hem of the shift she wears, a silent plea for consent in his eyes as he looks at.

She swallows thickly and nods, nervousness and excitement fluttering ceaselessly in her stomach.

He pulls the garment over her head, throwing it to the side before sitting back on his haunches to admire her.

“Gods…you were worth the wait. So beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

She squirms beneath his gaze, turning her head away at the intimacy of the gesture, feeling shy and uncomfortable.

“Look at me,” he tells her softly. His fingers grasp her jaw, turning her face back to him.

Slowly he undresses, until he is as naked as she is. She feels the familiar ache between her thighs as she drinks in the sight of him, chiseled and battle hardened.

“Now we are equal,” he reassures her.

He reaches for the cross around her neck, toying with it between his fingers, before giving a quick, hard tug, causing the cord to give way. “What we are about to do is no business of your nailed god,” he tells her, tossing it to one side.

He kisses her once more, slower this time, their mouths saving the feel of the other’s against it. Trailing featherlight kisses down her body until he reaches her breasts, he wraps his lips around one of their hardened peaks, sucking gently.

The sensation causes her to moan, a pleasurable sensation shooting through her body, pooling into wet warmth between her legs as she arches against him.

Sigtryggr repeats the motion on the opposite breast, before descending further down, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

She freezes up when he grips her thighs, placing them over his shoulders so that his face is level with her most intimate of parts.

“What…what are you doing?” She asks anxiously.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says matter of factly, making pointed eye contact.

“You cannot do that,” she protests weakly, “it is an unclean thing to do.”

He grins at her, shaking his head slightly. “Christian,” the word leaves his mouth as a half hearted insult, before he presses forward.

The first swipe of his tongue against her folds causes her to gasp, her hands burying themselves in his hair as he uses his grip on her thighs to pull her closer, his tongue moving against her firmer, deeper, faster.

A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, the vibrations causing her insides to clench as she bucks against his face, chasing the edge of oblivion that his tongue is pressing her towards.

He sucks at her pearl, before laving his tongue over it and she cries out as she spasms against his mouth, ecstasy numbing all of her senses as he continues to lap at her.

Once she relaxes, he pulls away, sitting back between her legs, his chin slick with her juices. His fist runs over the length of his cock as he takes in her blissful state and her eyes widen as she sees the size of him.

He is thick, long and slightly curved. She has never looked upon anyone’s manhood before and she trembles as she wonders how it will possibly fit inside of her.

Sensing her trepidation, Sigtryggr caresses her cheek with his palm. “Relax, little warrior, I have prepared you well.”

He presses the head of himself against her entrance and she braces herself, but then he stops. Her eyes flit to his questioningly.

“Beg for it,” he whispers.

She whines, wanting to hide her face in furs that they lay upon.

“Beg,” he says again, more insistently.

“Please,” he pushes forward, aided by her arousal and release, “please,” he pushes forward again, more of her swallowing him up, accompanied by the sensation of stretching and the slightest of stings, “please,” he pushes forward once more, finally sheathed fully inside of her.

She realises as he settles on top of her, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of him, that this was merely a means to distract her so that she wouldn’t focus on the possibility of it hurting and grow tense. She smiles, stroking the wild tresses of his dark hair. Always so cunning.

He withdraws his hips slowly, before carefully pushing forward again. He repeats the motion several times, watching her face carefully.

As her breathing quickens, her brow relaxing as her jaw begins to slacken, he increases his pace, hips snapping against hers faster and faster, their kisses frenzied as they pant into each other’s mouths.

She feels him throb inside of her, the sensation pushes her back towards the precipice she’d fallen over earlier, but before she reaches it he is pulling out, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend across her belly.

He wipes her clean with a blanket, discarding it before laying down beside her and pulling her into his arms. A satisfied ache settles within her, she feels she could fall asleep like this, but his voice lulls her back to full consciousness.

“I have released the King’s sons back to him,” he tells her quietly.

“What will happen now?”

“He is sending a warrior named Uhtred into Winchester to negotiate terms, if I accept those terms then my men and I will move on.”

Her heart sinks. She cannot bear the thought of him leaving, not now she knows what it’s like to be in his arms. “Oh,” is all she is able to muster, pressing tighter to him.

They fall into a quiet doze, until he gently squeezes her shoulder. “I must go and speak with Uhtred.”

She watches sadly, quietly, as he dresses. He leans down to kiss her before he leaves and she pushes her lips eagerly to his. If he is to abandon her then she will cling to every last moment until he does.

When Sigtryggr returns later, she is dressed in her shift again, though her cross remains discarded. She is seated by the window, staring listlessly out of it.

He carries a bundle of clothing in his arms and she looks at him curiously.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, deepening her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discussed terms with Uhtred and we have reached an agreement. I will leave Winchester, on the condition that you accompany me…not as my prisoner, but as my woman.”

She grins, running into his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As they ride away from Winchester, side by side on horseback, she does not feel as though she is leaving her life behind. On the contrary, it has just begun.

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