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yanderenightmare · 4 months ago

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♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, dehumanization, dollification, patronization, condescension

♡ FEM reader

This is his playroom. It’s got puzzle-piece foam flooring and is filled to the brim with all sorts of different toys—including you. He’s got stuffed animals, pretty dolls, toy soldiers, Lego builds, and a gaming station with all types of fun—and parental safety restrictions, of course, no talking to strangers for you. Your controller is a pretty baby pink, and his a cool camo-green. But today, they’re left on the floor, untouched.

Because today, he only wants to play with you.

“You’re gonna be so pretty…” His voice is as grating as always—synthetically childish, making you grit your teeth. Sitting with you between his legs before the mirror, working diligently.

You look at the floor to avoid your reflection.

He’d gotten you a brand new baby-blue dress and painted you himself—done your eyelids up in matching clear skies, black lashes moth-like and fluttery, cheeks a rosy pink, and lips a sheer gloss extra plump and pretty—no need for tint—you bite them so cutely, they’re already his favorite color. Your hair’s done up in curls and ringlets, so bouncy and soft, beribboned with plentiful white bows.

“This color suits you so well. Makes you look like a cake-topper. Bite-sized. I could eat you right up.” He hums behind you, fiddling with the many intricacies, doing them up perfectly—no rush.

Looking up, the person staring back at you looks no different from a life-sized porcelain doll. Pristine, mint condition, fit to be put behind glass. In your frilly dress, petticoat and stockings. Just like Alice down the rabbit hole.

The only thing that betrays the illusion is the leather collar on your throat and the chain running from it to the middle of the floor. But no matter.

He’s got a giddy smile on his face— chest swelled with pride at his work. You’re his most prized possession. You really are! There isn’t a single toy in this room that can compete with you.

He’s not wearing anything special to match. Bedhead, undressed, still in his pajama pants. Why wouldn’t he be? This is his playroom, after all—his downtime—where he can be a boy with his toy. Though, calling him a boy isn’t exactly right—what with him being nearly in his thirties. Not to mention that he’s about two heads taller than you, with abs like an athlete, toned and chiseled and hard to the touch, hard enough to strain your wrists when he bears down on you. Oh, and that thing in his pants.

You bite your tongue and steal yourself. It would be easy to cry, but he only gets weirder about it then. So you stifle it, even though you look so stupid you want to act like an animal. Tear the dress to shreds and rub your makeup into a mess—scream, bite, spit on him. You’d done all that once before to no avail other than punishments that still keep you up at night. Once was enough. He didn’t play nice with you.

But then again, when does he ever?

“Hmm, think I’m done…” he announces after having dallied with the lace of your corset for a quarter-hour—it’s so tight you have to appreciate every breath. “Time to have some fun.”

He treats you no different from a doll either. Scooping you up into his arms like an inanimate object and carrying off to the princess bed—the one that looks like a girl’s birthday cake with a veil on top, and mountains of pillows all too soft.

He places you down on top of the duvet and it seems to swallow you like an ocean. He dives after, covering you like a fishnet. You take a final breath before he can drown, your hand on his chest, holding him at a distance.

“I was thinking, uhm…” you start, the words coming out odd, barely recognizable as your voice—only noticing now how long it had been since you’d spoken last. “I was…” you restart, but it’s still no easier. His eyes are large and unblinking, staring down at you as though he’s just as surprised as you are to found out you speak. “Hoping we could play… a little differently this time?”

He blinks at the request, having fallen completely still above you.

“Really? How?” The suddenness of his words make you flinch. You don’t know what you had expected—maybe a smile and something dismissive. It had been a while since he’d spoken directly to you like that—and not to himself in absentminded comments about you.

You recover some time, seeing him stare down at you all expectantly in wait. He follows when you guide him into sitting instead of looming over you, putting yourself in his lap—straddling him. “Mh, like this. Maybe?”

It’s a gamble. He’d never had you on top before, nor ever shown an interest in it. Setting aside the time you’d been sprawled on your belly over his thighs, his hand riddled in your hair and his other hand branding your ass with his very own toy company logo.

His expression is unreadable—perhaps a little confused if you were to take a guess.

“Oh!” he erupts with a smile you hope is the good sort. “You mean I play the toy and you the master?” He laughs brightly, falling on his back with a hand over his face, cackling through his fingers as though it were the most absurd proposal he’d ever heard.

But despite his obvious amusement, you still feel it—his toy poking into you from beneath.

He settles after a moment. “Alright then, why not?” Looking up at you—his hair a tousled mess splayed upon the bed, eyes as gleeful as the quirk on his lips. “Who knows… it could be fun.”

He props his arms behind his head, lounging comfortably.

“I did call you a cake-topper, after all,” he snickers. “I’ll lie perfectly still, like a good toy, while you play with me. Sound good?”

You can’t believe how open he was to it. Still a little apprehensive, you nod your head.

And then the game begins…

He doesn’t exactly stay true to his word. But you suppose that would be too much to ask. His head still rests pretty on the pillow with his eyes closed, smiling in satisfaction—for now, sated with your performance. Groaning in absentminded bliss, “You’re right. This is fun~”

But he hadn’t stayed perfectly still like he’d said. He’d reached out when you’d finally begun riding and now his arms keep you snug against his chest, fine-pressed sweaty skin against your frilly bust, more in a lock than a hug. It makes it kind of difficult to do what he wants, but you try your best—knees and toes planted in the mattress for stability as you jerk your hips on his lap. It’s awkward, but riding him like this is still better than the alternative, after all.

You keep your arms around the back of his neck, resting your face in the cradle it creates beneath his chin, panting lowly—eyes closed in focus away from the pain, brows tight with your tongue between your teeth, trying to maintain the rhythm despite the blossoming ache that’s started to spread from your hips down your thighs—another ill sting in the small of your back crawling up your spine. It’s hard staying bent over like this, and your movements are turning sluggish…

There’s a sigh from above you, pitchy and just awful. “Aww, is it really time already?” he whines—previous satisfaction dwindling—bordering on something else entirely now, the opposite and so much worse—boredom with a hint of disappointment—a spoiled child with a toy that’s run out of battery.

You shake your head, burying your face in his neck and tightening your grip, stealing yourself with newfound strength to maintain the tempo you had before while muffling out a desperate, “No, I can keep going—”

He lets out another sound, this time in thought. “Hmm...” It doesn’t give you much confidence—how lax a sound it is—as if he isn’t even close to being spent yet. “I don’t know… You’re so slow. I’m gonna get soft if this is all you got, y’know?”

He starts moving—sitting up. He takes his own hold on your hips, and you know what that means. And you can’t handle being played with, not when he damn near breaks you each and evert time.

“No, wait! I can keep going, please, just a little longer?” you insist, both palms pushed flat on his chest with your round eyes looking at him hopelessly in plead for a second chance—even though you know he isn’t one with the patience to give you one.

He stares blankly back, big-eyed in surprise at your outburst. Though still not convinced it would be worth humoring you. If he was being honest, he’d enjoyed it more than he thought he would but had now had his fill and wanted to take charge as usual and finish the job. However…

Oh, you’re being so uncharacteristically cute today—and that pathetic look of desperation on your face is truly something else…

He smiles deceptively softly, so brightly it reaches his eyes. He very nearly looks innocent like that, but you know him too well—so well that the sight of his lips curling gives you nothing but a churning stomach.

“Okay then, doll. You convinced me.”

Suppose it doesn’t hurt letting you have your way sometimes. You have been on very good behavior lately, after all. He ought to reward you.

“I’ll be your toy a little longer.” He murmurs with a lazy smirk, nose-kissing you—patronizing, as though he’s doing you a big favor.

It doesn’t grant you any peace, and neither does the way he keeps his hold on your hips, rubbing smooth circles into the fat leisurely, letting you know he wouldn't be removing them—it serves as some type of encouragement as you start moving again.

It’s easier now when you’re upright. Holding his shoulders, you can jump rather than buck—up and down, up and down, up and down—it’s simple enough. Or it was for a moment, at least, before he planted your hips down.

“Not like that,” he shakes his head softly. “Like this.” He moves you after his will, wanting you to grind instead—putting you back in square one.

Your movement staggers, and you mask a wince with a moan—fuck, your muscles are so sore, maintaining this movement is enough to make your loins scream, feeling all but set on fire.

With one hand keeping you seated, the other takes hold of your leash and pulls you in close, his lips on the dew of your rouge-dusted cheek—you feel the grin, and like prey threatened by a hunter’s teeth, you shiver in respect of it. “Come on, dolly, ride or die, faster,” he simpers, voice laced with mockery and amusement.

Your thighs are shaking now, tightened up in anguish, begging for a break—soon to take it without your permission. How much you can take reaches a point, and everything goes slack not a second too soon.

“And now you’re done,” he snickers hotly under his breath, planting a kiss on the side of your glossy lips while you exhaustedly and gingerly take your break with a feeling of defeat. He speaks low, and you dread every eerie lick of his words, “My turn to play.”

You want to protest, but you know it’s no use. He’d made up his mind now, and challenging it any further would only turn you into a nuisance—toys are supposed to enjoy being played with, after all—best take it with grace and shut up before he reminds you.

He flips the both of you around with ease, reclaiming his spot—on top. He loves you like this, splayed out beneath him like a puppet—just waiting to have all your strings pulled.

It was good while it lasted, you think—maybe if you get better, you can make him finish and not have to endure what comes next.

“Don’t pout, dolly—that was fun,” he kisses you lips as they start to tremble. “But you suit being my toy so much better.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Mirio ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo ♡ HQ – Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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lassieposting · 1 year ago

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Been thinking a lot lately about romanced Astarion post-spawn ending.

Because like. The Funnest™ thing about cptsd is how much of it gets delayed. When you're trapped in a lengthy, ongoing traumatic situation, you do not have the ability to process and start healing your mental wounds. Your brain and body go into survival mode, and all that matters in the moment is that you somehow cope with the horrors. He wouldn't have been able to even begin dealing with the physical, mental and emotional toll of two hundred years of torture, brutalization and dehumanization while he was under Cazador's control; he is in constant danger, surrounded by sharks in the water, and survival means not letting them smell blood. He can't afford to fall apart, to show weakness. He is shockingly functional and competent in-game, partly because he has to be to work as a game character, but also partly because...it do be like that, to some degree. When death, for whatever reason, is not an option, you just have to shut down and keep going. People adapt in order to survive, and when we learn that showing an "injury" (physical or psychological) only gets us punished, we learn to hide it.

Early-game Astarion is terrified - of Cazador, of Godey, of being hunted down by his siblings, of being staked or sold off at the first opportunity by Tav and the other companions, of turning into a mindflayer, of another painful transformation, of losing himself when he's only just regained his autonomy after two centuries, of what Cazador will do to him if he ever finds him - the man is overwhelmed by fear. He's on thin ice as a vampire, and he's not going to give them any more reason to want him gone. Survival instinct is still in control, and in this new situation, crafting some fragile safety for himself means not only selling his body for protection, but also being useful. Clear-headed. Good in a fight.

Endgame Astarion finds himself in a completely different situation. The time-sensitive overarching threats - Cazador and impending ceremorphosis - have been dealt with. He has a loving, supportive partner he's really starting to feel safe with - Tav/Durge has proved that they're on his side, that their affection is genuine, that they don't just want him for the one thing he's been told he's good for. They've told him they're going to help him find a workaround for his sun allergy. He's getting fed regularly. He has time to stop, and breathe, and just. Recuperate.

For the first time in 200 years, he is safe.

And it will probably take a while to catch up, during which time he will seem to be coping really well, but at some point, his brain is going to realise that he's safe, and it's going to finally start processing the sheer fucking horror he's been through. Since I haven't seen anyone talking about this particular fun aspect of cptsd, allow me to offer u some thoughts on issues Astarion and Tav might end up dealing with in the months/years postgame, during the

✨ Delayed Trauma Response ✨

Memory Gaps: Astarion realising, as he opens up to Tav, that there are entire years or decades of his life from which he has only a handful of memories. Great big blank stretches where he has no idea where he was, who he was with, what was happening to him. Some of the gaps cover years at a time where he was so dissociated and shut down that he just didn't retain any memories of what was going on around him. Some are shorter periods of particularly horrific torture that his brain has deliberately blocked out to protect him.

Recovered Memories: At some point, years into the future when he's done A Lot of healing, he might find that every now and then, a fragment of those lost memories will unexpectedly come back to him. He'll catch a particular scent on the breeze, or overhear a specific phrase in the street, or cross paths with someone whose face is oddly familiar, and he'll get a glimpse of an acute horror he'd filed neatly away where it couldn't hurt him anymore. He very rarely remembers all the context to those flashes of his past. He might recall that he was punished, but not what he was punished for, or he might remember words spoken by a greedy conquest, but be unable to recall the man's face.

Dissociation: Tav knows going into this relationship that Astarion has basically made an art out of dissociating during sex. They also know, from their shared encounter with the drow twins, that he's not great at enforcing his own boundaries - he'll always say he'll speak up and back out if he stops having fun, but in practice he rarely does; he's not used to having the option of saying no to his partner, and being punished if he tries. So they know there's going to be some practice and experimentation and negotiation necessary there, to figure out the rough limits of his comfort zone. But once he starts really processing, there may be days where he just checks out completely. Tav will touch his shoulder, and he'll startle and apologise - "Terribly sorry, darling, I was miles away for a moment there." And Tav will gently point out that he's been sat in the same spot vacantly staring into the middle distance for hours. They've been checking in on him occasionally and this is the first time he's responded. It's unsettling, to say the least.

Lost Time: Astarion was very young when he was turned, physically mature but emotionally juvenile. He was basically an overgrown teenager, in the phase of life where elves are just starting to learn who they are and what they want, and figure out their place in the world. But he never got to do that, because he spent his formative young adult years in a world where everyone became an abuser, where his only means of surviving was to smile and charm and obey while even his basic human dignity was stripped away. He learned that communication is based on manipulation. He learned that the powerful can do whatever they like to the weak. He learned an incredibly toxic, abusive way of life, and that was his family dynamic, his everyday life, for as long as he can remember. Now that he's free and safe, he's realising that the world doesn't actually work that way and that he's now far behind even shorter-lived races in social/emotional development. He's grieving for the person he could've been. He's grieving for the life he could've lived. He's grieving for all the years he already lost, and the ones he'll lose in the future as he flounders to catch up. A decent chunk of his life was stolen from him, and that's time he will never get back.

Flashbacks & Night Terrors: Specifically the kind where your brain convinces you that an injury you had a long time ago is actually an injury you have (or are receiving) right now. There are nights where he'll wake Tav in a panic, because his back feels like it's on fire, he can feel every freshly-carved wound dripping blood and he's in so much pain he doesn't know what else to do. If Tav looks, they see nothing out of the ordinary - old, long-healed scars, same as always. But the pain and the fear and the distress are all very real to him, and all they can do is try to comfort him, cover his back with cool damp cloths or healing salves, remind him he's safe now and they're not leaving him.

Boundary Shifting: Sometimes, Tav can come up and hug him from behind, and he'll melt into them a little bit and go all soft and happy. Other times, he might flinch away or go rigid at the same gesture. A lot of the time, it really depends on how he's feeling on the day, but at least a little bit of it is deliberate - he's pushing to find the limit of just how much autonomy Tav is willing to give him. He wants to know at what point they'll stop respecting his "no". Will they accept it if he doesn't want a hug? If he wants to sleep in his own room tonight? At what point will understanding turn to anger at being rejected? From the drow twins four/fivesome, we also know he's got a tendency to push his own boundaries, and jump into things he's actually not ready for, and Tav would be the one holding his hand through the fallout as he tries to figure out what his own boundaries even are.

Frustration! So, so much frustration. He wants to be Over It already. He wants to move past everything that ever happened to him and never think about it again. He hates that Cazador still has a grip on him, even in death - he doesn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of dwelling on all his punishments, his cruelties. Sometimes, that frustration is going to explode outwards at Tav - he'll get angry at them for coddling him, or find something small to start a fight over, or he'll set an unreasonable boundary and try to defend it because he's still learning what healthy boundaries look like. Sometimes, it will implode inwards, and that won't be about Tav at all, but they'll get the brunt of it all the same - it might come out as self-loathing or self-punishment, and he'll react by doing something stupid, like trying to drive them away, because having a secure, relatively healthy relationship is terrifying and the instinct is to destroy it before Tav can. There will be yelling and angry tears and deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms, and they'd have to work through that. Trauma is ugly, and Astarion is right at the beginning of a very long journey towards healing.

Abandonment Issues: Astarion wants the relationship to be one between equals, but he's kind of got Tav on a pedestal all the same. They saved him. They helped him get rid of Cazador for good. They chose him and love him despite a wealth of better (in his eyes) options, and all his baggage. They stayed with him even when he has very little to offer them. We know his vanity and obnoxious self-absorption is a fragile attempt to obscure the fact that his self-esteem is in the dirt and he has virtually no self-worth, and there are a couple of occasions in-game where it becomes clear that he's afraid of losing the one person who somehow considers him lovable. After seeing Sebastian and all the other conquests, he begs Tav not to hate him, saying that he did what he had to. If he has a rival for Tav's affections, and Tav informs him that they broke up with the rival to be with Astarion, he's shocked and the first thing out of his mouth is, "You ended things with them for me? Why?" And if Durge tries to break up with him for his own safety, his facade drops and he immediately asks if he did something wrong. So while he's not afraid to argue with Tav, if something happens - like an angry outburst - that upsets or angers them, and he thinks he's at risk of losing that one steady, stable person in his life, he might well cling and overcompensate to try and repair what he thinks is a fracture in their relationship. He'll fawn or beg or crawl into Tav's bed to "apologise" and "make it up to them" because, well, very occasionally it worked on Cazador. With patience and good communication and lots of repeatedly driving the lesson home to overcome 200 years of education to the contrary, he will eventually start to believe that "I'm really pissed off at you right now," does not equate to, "You are the worst mistake I've ever made and I am leaving you."

Panic Attacks: I feel like honestly he'd get some symptoms of these on a fairly regular basis, but he's never been given any option other than just trying to power through them. He's used to realising he's shaking, he's used to feeling like he's watching himself from outside his body, or like he can't breathe even though he doesn't need to. He's very familiar with the sickening fear in his gut, so intense it makes his head spin. He's not used to being comforted or reassured about them - he thinks they're normal. Tav disagrees.

Anyway, cptsd is messy and complicated and often looks very different from person to person so these will not represent everyone's but these are just some ideas for what the ongoing recovery process might make them work through, based on the aspects I'm most familiar with.

Projecting? Who's projecting? I'm not projecting. Shut up.

#bg3 #bg3 headcanons #bg3 meta #astarion x tav #astarion x durge #mom said it's my turn to project on the blorbo #astarion ancunin

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blasphemousclaw · 3 months ago

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ok I keep seeing takes that shadow of the erdtree fumbled the hornsent because they made them too unlikeable and unsympathetic and enabled all those “total hornsent death” weirdos but I wholeheartedly believe that the writers have been portraying the hornsent sympathetically from the very beginning. like just because the story spends time on the darker aspects of hornsent society doesn’t mean that it’s arguing that Marika and Messmer were in the right? in fact I think it’s pretty obviously arguing the opposite?

some of the first sights you’ll see in the Shadow Lands are the scorched ruins, which are surrounded by hornsent grave markers — wooden stakes each with a horn affixed to it, horns being seen as sacred objects in hornsent society. the victims’ shades (by the look of them, ordinary people; farmers, merchants, and laborers) can be found wandering around the Shadow Lands and are often non-hostile; they can be found kneeling, weeping, stacking small stones, or clasping their hands in silent prayer.

there’s a courtyard in Belurat completely filled with hornsent graves, and it’s also the place where Queelign invades you… the sheer number of graves here is horribly sad, and the fact that Queelign attacks here even after all those people were killed honestly makes him seem like an absolute monster

just look at this menace. knocking over the graves of the people he murdered. shame on you Queelign

further into Belurat there’s a very small, missable room where you can pick up the Dried Bouquet talisman:

“A quaint bouquet of dried flowers, offered to a small grave. Raises attack power when a spirit you have summoned dies. The sorrow that flows from the untimely demise of a loved one is a tenderness shared by all, regardless of birthplace.”

this description is pretty directly saying like, “hey, these people are human beings just like you who grieved the loved ones they lost, who couldn’t sympathize with that?”

my personal favorite examples here are the scorpion stews, which are given to you by Hornsent Grandam after defeating Divine Beast and wearing its head:

Scorpion Stew: “Scorpion simmered in a black soup. Traditional meal of the hornsent. Boosts physical damage negation temporarily and gradually restores HP. Once made with love by a certain elderly woman for the family table. Having long gone cold, this soup gives off a rank, sour smell.”

Gourmet Scorpion Stew: “Scorpion simmered in a black soup. An exquisite dish chock-full of mouth-watering scorpion claws. Boosts physical damage negation temporarily and gradually restores a great amount of HP. The thoughts and feelings of the cook melt and blend into the stew, but those who can distinguish the taste of love are few and far between. "Partake, partake, until thou art sated.””

how can you claim that the hornsent are dehumanized when grandma literally cooks you a traditional hornsent meal made with love!!! how heartbreakingly sweet is that!!! especially with the dialogue you get from Hornsent if you share the stew with him:

“What’s this? Do you think me in need of alms? Ah… but this dish. Tis fare o’ the tower. I remember fondly this kin-clad scent. …Brings back memories I’d all but forgot. This, by my troth, is but a dismal copy. Indeed, I think it rather plain to see… things once broken can never be the same.”

we’re presented with the image of a delicious traditional meal that hornsent families used to cook and eat together, and then we remember, Hornsent Grandam is all alone, she has no one but us to cook stew for, and Hornsent has no family anymore to share his stew with.

before wrapping this up I want to mention Leda’s dialogue about the hornsent because I think it describes the situation pretty well (surprisingly well maybe, given what she’s like):

“Long ago, Queen Marika commanded Sir Messmer to purge the tower folk. A cleansing by fire. It’s no wonder the hornsent holds the Erdtree in contempt. That aside, man is by nature a creature of conquest. And in this regard, the tower folk are no different. They were never saints. They just happened to be on the losing side of a war. But it’s still a wretched shame.”

the hornsent were not a perfect society. far from it. but no society is perfect, and the hornsent need not have all been saints for what happened to them to have been wrong. no person has the right to act as judge, jury, and executioner for an entire civilization of human beings. if people want to take the very worst of hornsent society as representative of their entire population and argue that every single one of them deserved to die then I’m afraid that’s their problem, because the game absolutely does not agree with them

#elden ring #shadow of the erdtree #hornsent #hornsent grandam #needed to get this out of my system bc ive seen so many inaccurate and bad-faith claims about the dlc that im losing faith in humanity

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kngrose · 1 month ago

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can we get some bully headcanons for sevika? Please 😫🥵

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘

WARNINGS: bullying, harassment, implied degradation, implied dehumanization, implied power dynamics, abuse of power/position, abuse, violence. be safe, heed warnings!

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : anon………… you might be onto something…

When it comes to bullying you, Sevika takes it to a different, almost sadistic level. There’s something particularly unsettling about the way Sevika derives enjoyment from your discomfort and pain, especially because she perceives you as weak and vulnerable.

It’s not enough that she’s already double your size, her sheer height that towers yours, and her mass— inclined top to bottom with muscle. Or that she could easily snap you in two if she so pleased.

She’ll be testing the waters at first; bumping your shoulders harshly when she passed you, hard enough to make you stumble back. Or tripping you occasionally, watching your arms flail fruitlessly to catch yourself.

Because bullying isn't simply about asserting dominance; it’s about relishing in the power she holds over the situation. It’s about drawing a reaction out of you, it fufills her in a way nothing else does.

She’ll step up her game once she realizes a little bump on your shoulders just isn’t enough. Now, she’s spewing insults and making harsh threats. Talking poorly of you amongst others in your presence; all to make you acutely aware of the hierarchy. The dynamic. She’s the one in control, you don’t get to ignore her.

And there’s never a sense of empathy or remorse in her actions—only a dark satisfaction that feeds her ego and solidifies her position of power over you.

She’s harsh, she’s cold. She incredibly insensitive. What really makes Sevika stand out is the fact that she takes her time, patience is a virtue. She’s calculated with what she says and does; makes sure its always something that’ll hit the nail on the head.

When she speaks, it’s laced with a cold, condescending tone. She finds content in making you feel small, belittling your every attempt to stand up for yourself. Her words are like ice, cutting through any bravado you might try to muster.

She’ll give you orders, ones that are humiliating and degrading. Ones that almost dehumanize you. Dont walk towards her, crawl. What reason do you have to walk anyways? Not like you’re going anywhere she isn’t. And in addition to that, there’s no need to take a chair either, you’ll be just fine on your knees at her feet. She doesn't need to raise her voice; the venom in her tone is enough to make your stomach turn.

She makes it very clear that you’d better do what she says.

And if you hesitate? That’s when Sevika leans in, her proximity a reminder that she’s always in control. The heavy threat of physical violence is there, lurking in her body language, and that’s usually all it takes to make you pliant. You have no idea what she’s capable of.

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to break something."

When she does decide to escalate, it’s a careful and well thought out move. She might corner you in a quiet, isolated spot, where your fear is palpable, and she can enjoy the way your breath hitches when you realize there’s nowhere to run.

She’ll impose her massive size on you, blocking you in. Trapping you. It’s maddening, not know what her next move is.

And if you try to fight her, she’ll be elated. She couldn’t miss that small fire erupting in your eyes. A look nothing short of sadistic etching it’s way onto her face. It’s thrilling, she thinks. It’s almost cute, watching you aim poorly executed blows at her face and chest; your form is horrible, you’re doing more damage to yourself than anything. She’ll snicker, because it’s funny, and because she knows it’ll discourage you.

She’ll relish in this moment, she loves to watch the fire dim.

“Feeling brave, puppy?” She’ll sneer, and she’ll push you. Hard. It’s sends you backwards, just barely keeping your balance. Its the first time shes used her full force on you. “Fight me, then.” She’ll follow up with another shove, this one knocking you off your feet.

And she’ll bend down, gripping the collar of your shirt to reel you back up. “On your feet. Fight.” She doesn’t even have to hit you, she realizes. She’s just tossing you around, pushing and shoving and pushing and shoving. Watching you hit every corner in the room. “Fight back.” She’ll bark, but she knows that you won’t.

She can see it manifesting on you, clear as day. You’re tired; you can hardly keep your balance up. There’s small bruises forming on your shoulders and arms; from being shoved into different surfaces.

But there’s something else she notices as she grabs you off the floor again, your scared, tired eyes meeting hers.

That fire, it’s gone.

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collaredsoldat · 3 months ago

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Gentle Hand.

summary: Soldat has a panic attack.

a/n: This was supposed to be posted before the other one I just posted, but I got impatient lol. So it might sound a little out of order, once I have all these parts out I'll put them in order. He's getting through it, you're being patient. Unedited. ;; wc: 3.4k

There were a lot of complicated things with Soldat.

Significant complications with his health, for starters, which caught you off guard given his status as a super soldier. You had initially assumed that his enhanced physiology would grant him a far greater resilience compared to an ordinary human, as had been proven with the likes of Steve Rogers. However, the treatment from HYDRA had somehow managed to infiltrate his system so profoundly and extensively that it had wreaked havoc on his entire physiological makeup, leaving him in a severely compromised state.

The issue of malnourishment was addressed through a carefully planned regimen of intravenous treatments, much to Soldat’s dislike. This approach was complemented by a gradual reintroduction to solid foods, a process that required meticulous attention and patience. The goal was to slowly accustom his system to regular nutrient intake without overwhelming his weakened digestive tract. Not to mention the fact that Soldat often refused food or that his body simply could not handle it, even in small amounts.

Honestly, re-feeding him was a whole other problem you had to tackle.

A similar strategy was employed to combat his severe dehydration and restore proper fluid balance. You also noticed that he experienced significant difficulty in swallowing, a symptom that hinted at potential damage to his esophageal tract or neurological complications affecting his ability to consume liquids normally.

Then, there were the myriad of wounds that covered his body. Stubborn injuries that had been persisting for a duration that far exceeded your initial expectations and caused you considerable worry. You found a small measure of solace in the fact that the majority of these injuries, while numerous, consisted primarily of superficial cuts and bruising.

Treating these wounds was far from easy. His behavior during treatment sessions mirrored a cornered wild animal, skittish and unpredictable, making each attempt at care a delicate and often extremely stressful. You didn’t want to stress him any further than he probably was in a stranger’s home, with a stranger, but you needed to at the very least keep the wounds from bleeding everywhere.

He lashed out at you with his metal arm, swinging wildly without any real force behind it. You could instantly discern that his actions were driven by sheer terror rather than malice. His eyes were wide with panic, darting frantically around the room, and it was evident that he wasn't actively trying to cause you harm. As you approached with the antiseptic and gauze, he bared his teeth in a defensive snarl and let out a feral hiss, his metal arm swinging once more in a desperate attempt to keep you at bay.

He had backed himself into the corner of your bathroom, the face he couldn’t go anywhere was frightening him just as much as you were. "Easy there, Soldat," you murmured, your voice steady and reassuring. "You're not scaring me. These wounds need to be cleaned and treated." Your words were calm and gentle, but they seemed to do little to soothe his frayed nerves.

In another display of agitation, he swung his arm downward, connecting with your tile floor. The impact was forceful enough to shatter the tiles into several jagged pieces, the sound of breaking ceramic echoing through the room. He fixed you with a glare that was clearly meant to be intimidating, but you could see right through it. His expression was a forced mask of hatred, a poor attempt at appearing dangerous. He was trying so hard to maintain this façade of aggression, but his fear was as obviously visible beneath the surface.

"Listen, Soldat," you said, your voice taking on a firmer yet still compassionate tone. "If you really wanted to harm me, we both know you would have done so by now. Your behavior isn't fooling either of us." You gestured to his injuries, your expression softening. "Now, please, let me tend to these wounds. If we don't bandage them soon, you're going to end up bleeding all over the place. That can't be comfortable for you. And I would really appreciate it if you didn't stain my carpet..."

His face held a stubborn, forced scowl, but also an undeniable air of resignation. He relaxed at your approach, albeit marginally, allowing you to come closer. Sharp, audible breaths exited his nostrils in rapid succession, betraying his lingering apprehension. You knew he was tense so you offered reassurance, "You're alright, I promise this won't hurt. We just need to take care of these."

Your words seemed to have enough of a calming effect as you carefully began tending to him, finally able to assess and treat his injuries. As the moments passed and he realized your true intentions were solely to help, not harm, his demeanor shifted. He became increasingly receptive to your ministrations as each cleaning session came, and he allowed you to clean his wounds and change his gauze without resistance.

But there was one thing you couldn't help but notice, and it was perhaps the biggest hurdle of them all. An almost violent aversion to certain actions and decisions.

To the outside eye, they appeared completely random, and they did to you too. At first.

Soldat refrained from doing anything, no matter how mundane, without first seeking your explicit permission. Something as simple as taking a seat or reaching for a glass of water seemed to require your approval.

At first this behavior confused you, but as you observed him more closely, you started to understand a little but more. HYDRA, while you knew very little of his experiences, did a number on his psyche. He was grappling with intense internal struggles, and in an attempt to cope with his sudden freedom, he was projecting his deep-seated need for structure and guidance onto you. By relinquishing control over even the most basic decisions, he seemed to find a semblance of comfort and stability.

This realization left you with mixed emotions.

On one hand, you felt a twinge of discomfort at being thrust into this unexpected role of authority. The weight of his dependence on your decisions was not something you had anticipated or necessarily desired.

Yet, on the other hand, you couldn't deny the visible relief and calm that washed over him when operating within these self-imposed boundaries. Witnessing how this dynamic seemed to provide him with a sense of security and ease, you found yourself reluctantly gave into.

Despite your internal reservations, you knew that this arrangement was serving as a crucial coping mechanism for him during what was clearly a difficult time, even if it had begun from something awful. So, setting aside your own discomfort, you made the conscious decision to lean into this role, at least for now.

Your primary concern was his well-being, and if this is what he needed to feel safe and begin healing, then you were willing to adapt and provide that structure for him.

His comfort level around you was noticeably increasing with each passing day. Gradually, he began to emerge from the bedroom where he had initially isolated himself, seeking out your company in subtle ways.

Your presence seemed to have a calming effect on him, acting as a source of reassurance in his new environment. He made a conscious effort to be in the same room as you, his actions betraying a growing desire for proximity.

He maintained a considerable distance for a while, positioning himself at the far end of whatever space you occupied. He often watched you, or sometimes he’d allow himself to nap, he never spoke. You chose to ignore him most of the time, not wanting to give him too much attention and spook him away.

Time progressed and you noticed a slow but steady shift in his behavior. Like a cautious animal gradually acclimating to a new habitat, he inched closer to you day by day. He continued his gradual migration until he finally felt secure enough to position himself right beside you.

One particularly lazy afternoon, he slowly made his way towards you, his steps heavy with hesitation. Upon reaching the living area, he carefully lowered himself onto the floor adjacent to the couch, his eyes fixed downward on the carpet. Eventually, his gaze lifted, settling on the television screen. He watched the program you had selected, you couldn't help but notice a glimmer of curiosity dancing behind his eyes, his engagement slowly growing with his surroundings.

You had tried many different offers and encouragement, but he refused to make use of any furniture in the house. The comfortable couch remained untouched by him, and the inviting bed you prepared for him went unused night after night. He had ripped the blankets off and curled up on the floor instead.

His reluctance to using the couch and the bed made you start to think. Had he been conditioned to believe that he wasn't allowed to use something as basic as furniture?

You remained silent, not uttering a single word as you observed him sitting there, seemingly without any discomfort. After a moment of hesitation, you decided to break the silence. "You know, you're more than welcome to sit up here with me," you suggested, your voice soft and kind. His head lifted ever so slightly in response to your words, his eyes glancing at you from under the bits of hair that fell over his face.

The soldier's gaze met yours, his eyes filled with a mixture of doubt and confusion. His frown deepened, etching lines across his forehead as if your words were spoken in a foreign tongue he couldn't quite decipher. You gently patted the empty cushion to your left, emphasizing your point. "Really, you can sit up here if you'd like," you reiterated, your tone warm and encouraging, hoping to dispel any lingering uncertainty he might have.

Several minutes pass and he doesn't budge.

You decide to just let him sit there if he wants to, observing his actions without comment. You didn't want to make him do something he didn't want to do anyway. So you turned your attention back to the show playing on the screen, watching she shitty adult cartoon full of jokes and clichés. But you had to admit, it was pretty funny. You felt something beside you, the subtle shift in the couch's cushions as his silver prosthetic makes contact. The furniture dips ever so slightly as the soldier cautiously lowers himself onto it.

His movements are painfully slow and deliberate, as if he's treading on eggshells, anticipating that you might suddenly change your mind or lash out at him at any moment. When he finally settles, his posture is noticeably stiff and unnatural, not to mention his obvious aversion to sitting flat on his ass like a normal person. His wounds and injuries were brutal, and you knew he didn't like to sit often. But right now it seemed like he was forcing himself to do so.

The discomfort radiates from him, filling the air with tension. He sits ramrod straight, muscles visibly taut beneath his clothing, and his eyes are wider than you've ever seen them, pupils dilated and darting around the room. It's as if he's desperately searching for potential threats or escape routes, his entire being on high alert. The sight reminds you of a cornered animal, teetering on the edge of fight-or-flight, barely containing the urge to bolt from the room at the slightest provocation.

"Soldat, it's alright. You're safe here. You can sit here, I said you could," you said in a gentle, reassuring tone, attempting to alleviate his visible anxiety. Your voice was recited soft and steady, hoping to create a calming atmosphere. Soldat still tensed up as you adjusted your position. His reaction was immediate and he recoiled as though anticipating a blow, his body language screaming of deep-seated fear.

His breathing became erratic, each inhale and exhale a struggle. His hands trembled and gripped the cushion with such force that the knuckles on his flesh hand turned white. It was clear he was desperately trying to maintain his composure in what he perceived as a threatening situation. The sight of his internal struggle tugged at your heart, you couldn’t believe something as simple as sitting on the couch could cause him to be this distressed.

‘Assets sit on the floor!’ A heavily armored combat boot collided with its nose, it heard a crack, felt the warmth of thick red ooze running down its face and throat, tasting the metallic flavored substance. The rusty tar. ‘Try to get up here again, and I will chain you up to that fucking stump outside. See if you can withstand below zero all night.’

Its handler really hated when it sat on the furniture. Used a bed. Used a chair. Its handler liked to threaten and hurt it.

He liked it to sit at his feet, like a good asset should. Be silent, be obedient, be subservient and pleasing for handler. Make sure he is satisfied and serviced well. Maybe then it will get to sleep? Maybe it would get a blanket tonight. Maybe it wouldn’t have to serve the team tonight.

Or not.

Concern etched across your features as you observed his distress. "I promise you, everything is okay," you reiterated, your voice laced with sincerity and compassion. However, as you shifted slightly to face him better, it became apparent that this small movement was what he had been unconsciously anticipating. The second you made that tiny little shift in the cushion, he leapt to his feet, his sudden movement causing him to stumble. His knee collided painfully with the coffee table, but he seemed oblivious to the impact.

Backing away from you, his eyes darted wildly around your apartment, resembling those of a cornered animal searching desperately for an escape route. There was panic in his gaze, his chest heaving with each rapid, shallow breath.

Unable to maintain his stance, he sank to his knees, his legs unable to support him any longer. His hands flew to his head, fingers entangling themselves in his long hair, gripping tightly as though trying to anchor himself to reality. His breathing had become so labored and quick that it appeared he was on the verge of hyperventilation, fighting for each breath as though he were drowning on dry land.

He cowered away from you as you approached him with worry, his body surrendering to you.

'Stupid fucking asset! Did they fry out all of your common sense, huh? I said NO sitting on the furniture!' Handler's voice thundered through the room, each word laced with venom and contempt. Its wet nose collided violently with his boot for the second time, the impact reverberating through its skull. A sharp, searing pain pushed into its face, and it wondered if a fragment of its broken nose had been forced inward.

Its handler seized a fistful of the asset's hair in a vicious grip and yanking, forcefully dragging it across the floor. The wooden planks, rough and splintered, scraped against its skin as it was hauled towards the dilapidated door of the safehouse. This ramshackle structure was their temporary refuge for the night, a necessary evil in the unforgiving Siberian wilderness. The biting cold of the subzero temperatures was a constant source of irritation for the American team, who were ill-equipped to handle such extreme conditions.

As its handler stepped outside, the asset felt the icy bite of a frozen chain wrapping around its neck. The metal was chilled to an impossible degree and seared its skin on contact. The unexpected pain elicited a cry of surprise and agony from the asset but it was cut short as the chain constricted, squeezing tightly and cutting off its air supply.

Panic set in as it gasped and clawed desperately at the unyielding metal, its lungs burning for oxygen. Just when unconsciousness threatened to overtake it, the pressure relented, allowing it to gulp in precious air once more. The asset's mind raced, recognizing the depth of its handler's fury in this brutal display.

Its handler secured the other end of the chain to an old tree stump barely visible through the snowbank. The makeshift anchor stood amidst piles of chopped wood, all buried under a thick blanket of freshly fallen snow. The wind howled mercilessly, its icy fingers clawing at both the asset and its handler. 'I'll come back in the morning,' he spat, the words barely audible over the roaring gale.

As its handler retreated indoors, the asset felt the blood on its face begin to crystallize, the crimson stream halting its flow as the subzero temperatures took hold. The relentless wind continued its assault, driving icy particles into every exposed inch of skin. With no other option available, the asset curled into itself, seeking what little warmth it could generate as it resigned itself to enduring the long, brutal hours of frozen misery until dawn.

At least it didn't have to service anyone tonight.

He remained motionless, neither pleading nor protesting.

Its handler hated when it begged most of the time. Sometimes he did like it, but it didn’t want to risk angering you by opening its mouth. No. It should only do that when its handler commands it. Otherwise, it was a whore.

In his mind, he braced for the inevitable feeling of your hand roughly grasping his hair, forcefully dragging him away to face some cruel punishment. How could he have the audacity? Sitting beside you on the couch, as if he dared to consider himself your equal.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly. After several long, dreary seconds that felt like an eternity, he summoned the courage to steal a glance at you. His eyes were partially obscured by strands of unkempt hair, peered out cautiously. His breathing remained ragged and uneven, though he made a conscious effort to quiet it.

Its handler preferred silence, after all.

This thought, ingrained deeply within him, only served to heighten his anxiety.

"Soldat, breathe... it's okay, you're safe here." Your voice broke through the silence, gentle and reassuring, though tinged with a noticeable tremor as you witnessed his breakdown. "It's okay. I'm here. No one else but me. You are safe." You repeated these words, emphasizing them as you carefully lowered yourself to the ground beside him.

The soldier’s hyperventilation persisted despite your gentle efforts to speak to him. You remained undeterred and continued to speak, hoping that somehow your words would penetrate the fog of fear surrounding him.

Or the thick snowbank slowly freezing its skin.

"Whatever you're seeing right now isn't real, it's in the past," you explained, your voice soft but steady. "You're here, in my apartment. It's just us. No one is going to hurt you." You inched closer, gradually closing the distance between you and his huddled, trembling form on the carpet. Your movements were slow as you consciously made the effort to be careful and not to startle him further.

He heard you, the absence of pain confused him, but it also provided some soothing to his pure panic. You were telling the truth.

You weren't going to hurt him.

Soldat's gaze met yours once more, his eyes filled with a profound sadness as he gradually descended from the heights of his attack. His breathing, still irregular and labored, came in erratic bursts, each sudden intake of air punctuated by a noticeable hitch. To your shock, he began to inch towards you, his movements hesitant yet deliberate.

Under his breath, he emitted soft whimpers, struggling valiantly to maintain his silence as he had been engrained to do. His entire form quivered violently, reminiscent of someone caught in the grip of an intense chill, and without warning, he allowed his weight to collapse against you, seeking solace in your presence.

A muffled sound escaped him, barely audible as it was absorbed by the fabric of your shirt. Your arms encircled his trembling frame, careful in case he didn’t want you to do so, but you felt no resistance. As he muffled, your ears pricked and you carefully leaned your head down a bit. Your cheek gently brushed his forehead, your mouth close to his ear. "What is it...you can tell me." You whispered, waiting for him to speak again.

Given the other times he had spoken, you braced yourself for Russian, but those concerns dissipated like morning mist when he finally found his voice and spoke. His words were simple, he murmured out again, the admission barely above a whisper and surprised you when they hit your ears.

"I'm cold."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover images from Pinterest. I do not claim them as my own.

Let me know if you'd like to be added/unadded anytime.

#bucky barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #the winter soldier x you #captain america the winter soldier #catws #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes one shot #blythewrites⛓

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lokischocolatefountain · 3 months ago

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Honey, I'm Home || For The Right Man

Fandom: The Last of Us Pairing: Joel Miller x Trad Wife!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: dom!Joel, sub!reader, rich!reader, master/slave dynamics, name calling (slut, cunt, whore, fucktoy, bitch-- it can't get worse folks), use of honorifics for Joel (Sir, Daddy, Master-- a hattrick!) Joel keeps reader in check, domesticity kink, mention of exhibitionism, boot humping, boot worship, collar and leash, chastity belt, mention of anal, use of buttplug, objectification, dehumanization, crawling, facefucking, kicking, cockwarming. (I think I got everything but lmk if I missed stuff) Word count: 4.8k Summary: Joel comes home to freshly baked dessert and a good little wife eager to serve in every way possible A/N: Look, don't be a trad wife irl. It's nothing like this. It's dangerous and will tire you out in the worst way possible. Remember this kind of Joel Miller is tragically not real. Heed the warnings.

You swiped a finger on the inside of the glass bowl, free to lick up the leftover brownie batter now that it was baking in the oven. You looked over at the clock, disappointed to see that it hadn’t moved even a little since the last time you looked.

You were still getting used to it, being home all the time. Being a housewife wasn’t something you thought you’d ever do. You hit the ground running after graduation, climbing the corporate ladder and making more money than you knew what to do with. After reaching the top and buying everything you could ever dream of and more, life got quite boring. Nothing brought joy or satisfaction anymore. Many a therapist and mental breakdowns later, you decided that you were done. Unable to bear the boredom of your career, quit your job and moved to one of your properties in Texas.

That was when Joel Miller walked into your life. Or rather you called him into your life after seeing his number on a pamphlet. Miller Constructions. Tall, gruff, muscular as hell and all southern gentlemanly, he had your attention from the very first day. Miller Constructions was only a local business that he ran with his little brother. But he had good reviews online and your own neighbor’s kitchen renovation was a testimony to Miller Construction’s quality work.

With no job or entertainment, you’d set your eyes on the handsome contractor. As he stripped his shirt, arm muscles bulging in his white vest, you sat on your couch with a book open and watched to your heart’s content. But if anyone asked you the names of the characters in the book, you would draw a blank.

One thing led to another and a few years later you were in the bedroom of the house he renovated for you, wearing his ring and getting ready in front of the dressing table he built you from scratch. You stood bare in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but the steel collar with his name engraved and matching chastity belt he kept you locked in when he was away. It was a reminder of the kind of life you’d built together, of the role you’d readily accepted in your home.

You went through your extensive lingerie collection, all chosen to surprise him and make you feel beautiful. You took a sip from your glass of wine and set it down carefully on the dressing table before reaching for something you hadn’t worn in a little while. A bright red set that drove him fucking insane when you first wore it. It was from last year’s Valentine’s Day and you’d taken him to a restaurant, private booking with just you and Joel dining there for the night. It was expensive as hell but you had cash to throw away and it was worth it for his reaction.

Once dinner had been served and the waitstaff left, you took your coat off to reveal that you’d been practically naked underneath. The lingerie set was a corset top, strapless with your tits almost falling out and the back open in a heart shape. The corset boning was covered in bright red silk, standing out against the soft sheer lace around it.

Heat rushed to your cheeks when memories of the night flooded your mind. It hadn’t taken him long to forget the fancy food, bend you over the table and have his fill of your cunt. When he got close, he put you on your knees and came on your face, marking you as his. For the rest of dinner, you wore him on your face, eating all the courses of the meal and talking to him casually about everything under the sun like it was normal.

A second wear of the lingerie set could only lead to another amazing night of debauchery. You grabbed the matching lace panties and slipped it on over your belt, the pair a skimpy one with too little fabric to cover up the essentials. You put the corset on next, struggling just a little to lace it up all by yourself but managing nevertheless. A pair of sheer black stockings, red lips, red bottomed Louboutins and your look was complete.

He didn’t care much about makeup. The man couldn’t even tell you were wearing seven different products on your face the first few times. But he always noticed a red lip. Always liked having the visual of bright painted lips stretch around his impressive girth.

Your stilettos clicked against the hardwood floor as you turned in front of the mirror, checking your appearance from every angle to make sure you looked your best. You could greet him in your old university tee and a pair of shorts with your hair up in a bun and he’d still gather you in his arms and kiss you senseless when he came home.

But you liked going the extra mile for him every now and then. Be something soft, pretty and pliant to come home to after long days of hard labor under the sun and idiot subcontractors who got on his nerves.

Just as you’d sliced the brownies and left them on a wire rack to cool, you heard his truck pull up into the driveway. You sprinted to the door as fast as you could in your impractical shoes and took your position at the door. A wide smile plastered on your lips and your thighs rubbing against each other in a pavlovian response to his arrival.

Joel’s eyes brightened when you opened the door and he laid his eyes on you. “Goddamn, honey… Gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” he said, wasting no time in wrapping a muscular arm around your waist and pulling you into a kiss. You relaxed in his embrace, moaning softly when he caressed your bottom in his large hand. He threaded his fingers through your hair, keeping you flush against his chest as he tasted you. You heard him kick the door close, chills running through you as you realized you’d been on display to the entire neighborhood all this while.

You were the first to pull away, breathless from his kiss. Yet you stayed close, his nose brushing against yours and his warm breath kissing your cheek. You sighed, taking in his heady scent of sweat, his cologne, and wood shavings. The thing that screamed Man, Man, Man. The thing that had you begging to suck his cock every evening when he was only your contractor.

He hung his truck keys on the hook by the door and picked up the leather leash that hung from the hook right next to it. He hooked the metal end of it to the ring on your collar and tugged you forward, making you giggle as you crashed into his chest.

You unbuttoned the first button of his flannel and licked your lips when you saw his chest, tan and marked by little brown spots from the treacherous sun that couldn’t help but kiss him. You staked your claim with a kiss on his chest and licked your lips, the salty taste of his skin enticing you even more. No matter how many times you had him, you felt the same excitement that you did the first time you submitted to him. That Friday night when he stayed longer than usual to finish retiling your bathroom so it’d be ready for the party you were throwing the week after.

“I missed you so much, baby,” you confessed, looking up at him from his chest. He was handsome as hell with his soft curls, beautiful brown eyes, kissable lips, and patchy beard. Before him, you had a preference for men with full beards. But you liked Joel’s better now. Especially the little heart shaped patch where hair refused to grow.

“Missed you too, darlin’. Get on your knees now,” he said, tugging you down by your leash. You sunk down to your knees and looked up at him, heart swelling with joy at the view you had of him. He was handsome from every angle, but fuck he looked powerful towering over you like a God.

“House smells real good. You bake for me again?” He asked, petting your head just as gently as the tone of his voice.

“Mhmm,” you hummed as you wrapped your arms around his leg and pressed your cheek to his knee. It was all the satisfaction you never got at the job you quit.

“Sweet little wife, working so hard for me huh?”

“Mhmm. Heated up the leftovers from last night but I wanted to make something new too. Knew you’d need something nice to come home to, Daddy.” He never demanded anything of you despite the absolute power you handed him. He ate what you gave, whether it was good or not, whether you cooked or ordered take out. It only deepened your need to serve him.

As you already had leftovers for dinner, you decided to bake instead. A good thing that came out of the expensive baking classes you took. You liked sending the remaining dessert with him to work where he proudly distributed them.

He’d never tell you, but you knew he got off on it. His staff knew you, the boss’ sweet wife who cooked the most delicious things. You played it up when they were around— when they came by for signatures, when you visited his worksites with his lunch. You giggled more for him, touched his arms and smiled adoringly. You dressed provocatively- low cut tops that showed your cleavage, tight jeans that hugged your ass, skirts that were too short ro bend in.

“Come home to you everyday, don’t I? My everythin’ nice.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, a shy smile fighting to surface despite your best efforts.

“That how you speak to your husband?” He asked, leading you to the dinner table you’d arranged with plates, cutlery, artfully folded napkins, and the flowers from him. You crawled beside him, enjoying the discomfort in your permanently bruised knees. He took a seat and you knelt next to him, pussy already slick as he tethered the leash to the table he made to accommodate it.

“I don’t know, Joel. Maybe you should do something about it if you don’t like it. Can’t just leave your wife at home and expect nothing to change. You need to maintain her.”

“Maintenance, huh?” He snorted, tugging you close by your collar and kissing you. He held you in place with a firm hand right underneath your collar, his grip on your throat reinforcing his ownership over you.

“Turn around, let me see what’s mine,” he said, patting your cheek twice. You obeyed, turning around on your knees and bending over to have your face down and ass up.

He pushed your panties aside and you rolled your ass in the air so the jewel lodged in your hole glinted bright. He gripped it, coaxing it out gently before pushing it right back in. You whimpered, pressing your cheek to the floor and looking back at him as he played with you. He thrust the plug in and out, his devilish eyes giving away just how much he enjoyed debauching you. He liked the contradictions in you. The good little wife who stayed home and cooked and cleaned. But also his filthy little whore that stretched her ass to take his cock.

“Kept it in all day, baby?” he asked, pressing on the plug.

“Yeah, Daddy…” you said, looking away at the grains on the wood flooring as you smiled.

“Good girl,” he said, patting your ass once again before letting your panties snap back in place. Your smile widened, proud that you’d done a good job.

You’d never taken a man in your ass. Not that none had asked before Joel. Some even tried to force themselves in, pretending it was accidental when you yelled at them. The thought of a cock there, where it wasn’t meant to be, where it would be at least a bit painful… It scared you. Your boyfriends and one night stands had no incentive to be good to you. But it was different with Joel. He was your Master and you trusted he wouldn’t do anything to damage his property.

You were his in every way but you needed him to take more. To have a part of your body that wasn’t meant for fucking trained to take his cock… For every inch of your body to be transformed into a plaything for him. It was the utter, complete submission you craved.

“So proud of you,” he said, turning you around to face him. He bent down, staying close so you could feel his warm breath as he spoke to you. He kissed behind your ear where he knew you to be sensitive, making you shudder in response.

“Need to stretch it out good so when I take your ass one day, I won’t split ya’ open.”

You whimpered, cunt clenching as his words morphed into images in your mind’s eye.

He served himself dinner, heaping enough on his plate for the both of you. The gentleman that he was, he fed you first. You were his bitch at his feet, being fed and pet, but you were still a typical husband and wife sharing stories of each other’s day.

You asked him about his day and he vented about some idiot using the wrong setting and overheating a drill bit so much it snapped. He asked about your book club and complimented the meal even though he’d already praised you for it last night.

He rinsed the dishes and set them in the racks to dry while you went upstairs to fetch his fresh boots. The nice soft ones he never wore outside and sanitized thoroughly after each use. You placed them by the coffee table, your eyes connecting with his as you did. He smiled and returned to the dishes, a knowing look in his eyes.

You headed to the mini bar to prepare drinks. Joel’s drink never needed preparation- just a whiskey, neat. But you liked something fun every night courtesy of your newfound interest in mixology.

⌘⌘⌘

Joel reached into his shirt and pulled out his chain. It was one of your first presents to him. It was gold and had him stuttering his words when he got it.

He was not used to having a rich girlfriend. He’d always dated within his economic group. No surprise since not a lot of rich women liked contractors without a higher education. And as a traditional southern man, he liked to be the one to buy gifts for his woman. Liked to provide, to take care of his people. It took time to adjust to having a woman who liked just as much to buy him stuff and take care of him with meals and massages. One who took spontaneous trips to his worksites just to give him a bottle of homemade lemonade when he most needed it.

Care was a one way street for him. But with you, he learned to accept some care for himself. It began with you cooking meals for him when he renovated your home. It wasn’t the most delicious. You had no experience cooking back then, but he was completely taken by the care you showed him. Just a man she hired. You had too many rooms in your fancy mansion to do shit like that.

Quickly it had become routine. You spoke to each other about your lives. He told you about starting work straight outta high school after his parents’ death and he learned why you’d moved to Austin. The more days he spent renovating your house the less it felt like work. Especially since that one night you got on your knees and let him know that you would be happy to relieve his stress.

Ladies usually played it coy, or at least that was his experience. But you were unabashed. Bold. You didn’t drop hints and play games. You dropped to you fucking knees and offered him your mouth to fuck. It surprised him how attracted he was to your assertiveness.

Like the other things he accepted from you, he accepted the gold. You liked how it dangled from his neck as he plowed into you. He liked that it was a counterpart to the collar he put around your neck.

It now held the key to your chastity belt. He pulled your panties off, plucked the key from his chain and unlocked you. Most mornings, he locked you into your belt before kissing you goodbye at the door. In the evenings, he opened you like the best fucking Christmas present.

He wasn’t too strict with it, finding integrity and trust a more powerful tool than fear. You knew there was a spare set of keys to the belt and collar in a drawer if you needed them. You trusted him enough to lock and collar you without disrespecting you and he trusted you to not remove it without good reason. He trusted you to not lie and you trusted that he would handle your actions with kindness.

He slipped the heavy steel belt off and placed it by his side on the rug. Knelt behind you, he bent down and kissed your pussy lips, already wet and needy though he hadn’t done anything but wiggle your plug a little. He made out with it just as he would your painted pair of lips, his tongue parting your folds to enter you, tasting your arousal.

“Remindin’ me why I call ya honey…” he whispered into your sensitive skin, making you tremble against his lips.

“Why you gotta bake me sweet treats when you got me my favorite between your legs?” He asked, wrapping his lips around your nub before you could answer him with snark. You buried your head in a couch cushion, muffling your sounds. But in the quiet of the living room, Joel could hear the pretty little whimpers you made for him.

He groaned, his neck hurting from the awkwardness of the angle. He got back up from under you and slapped your ass thrice in quick succession. “Up. Put your panties on and change my boots.”

He sat back comfortably on the couch and enjoyed the view of you as you got to work.

Work boots off, you laced up the house boots and dropped your face to the ground, your ass pushing up. You pressed your lips to one boot and then the next. Then you licked it from the tip up, looking up at him for approval as you traveled up. He looked nothing less than absolutely pleased, his fingertips brushing his jawline and his smile soft at the sight of your devotion.

He tipped your chin up with his boot and caressed your cheek with it. “My little slut loves my boots, huh?”

You nodded and nuzzled into it, grateful for his attention. The warmth of his smile morphed into arrogance. From your loving husband to the man who knew he controlled your every breath and was ready to take advantage of it.

“On your ass, slut. Spread those legs and show me your cunt.”

You sat back, the coffee table supporting you as you spread your legs wide. When you moved the wet gusset of your panties aside, his eyes zeroed in and he tongue swept over his lips. You felt your cunt drip into the carpet, the shame of being so aroused by worshiping his boots only making the situation worse.

He slid his boot between your legs and pressed it against your hole. “Tell me. Why do I need to keep you locked?”

“Because I’m a slut,” you admitted, beginning to rub against it. You knew you were a lot to handle. You lived a life of restrain and shame before you found Joel. Joel freed you to chase your desires and allowed you to devolve into a slut. Since then you thought of nothing but filling your holes. He had you addicted to his cock and whining for it like a wild animal. If you didn’t have Joel to take full command of your body, you knew you would do nothing but rub your cunt raw.

“Yeah that’s right,” he said, leaning close. “But you are my slut. I know you won’t go around letting other men use your holes. So why do I keep you locked?”

“B-because I’m so wet I can’t think, Daddy.”

“Mhmm. That’s right. Now why does Daddy need you thinking?” He said, cupping your cheek in his callused hands.

“C-cause I need to keep the home. I need to cook and clean.”

He shook his head. “Don’t need your brain working to do that, baby. What d’ya need to think for?”

“My projects. I need to think for my projects.”

“Exactly. Good girl. You need to finish the portrait for your art class next week, don’tcha?”

You simply nodded, happy that he kept track of your tasks. Sometimes you forgot. You got lazy and procrastinated, turned your hobbies into a source of stress. But Master guided you and held you accountable.

“And you love your furniture so much. Your Persian rug, your designer sofas, the hardwood floor I laid down. What’ll happen if I don’t keep this hole locked?” He asked, tipping his chin up.

Your mind began its descent into the void of lust as the sensations between your legs eclipsed all else. Yet you managed a response. “I’ll r-ruin it.”

“Mhmm. Can’t have you ruining our home. I know how much care you put into it,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “How well you take care of it everyday,” he said with a kiss on your cheek. “It’ll all be ruined if you leave a trail of slick behind you when you’re on your knees cleaning the front.”

You nodded frantically, words slipping beyond your abilities.

“Now tell me why I need separate house boots.”

You opened and closed your mouth, but nothing got to you past the cruelty of his boot and your slick panties on your clit. His had slipped from your face down to grab your neck and you gasped.

“Answer me, girl. Why do I need these boots?”

“B-because of me.”

“Mmm. Why?”

“Bec-because I’m a shameless bitch,” you croaked out as his hand constricted around you. “I need to fuck m’self on Master’s boots,”

“That’s right,” he said, allowing you some air. “I can’t go out with my work boots smelling like pussy. Can’t let my men take a whiff of my slut now, can I?” he taunted, giving a light kick to your pussy. You gasped, the kick electrifying your every nerve.

“You want more?” He asked, head tilted and a mocking smile playing at his plush lips.

You nodded frantically, your cunt thrusting into the air as you sputtered, “Yes Sir, yes please.”

“Shameless whore, asking to be kicked in the cunt,” he snorted before he kicked you again. You shrieked and closed your legs shut, pain and pleasure alike traveling from your core to every part of your body. When your brain recovered from the shock, you opened your legs again.

You reached between your legs and rubbed yourself, intending to soothe but distracted by the waves of pleasure from the contact.

“Fucking slut,” he said, slapping your hand away and replacing it with his own. He alternated between slaps and rubs of your cunt. The sting of pain morphed into jolts of pleasure until the two became so indistinguishable from the other that you didn’t know what you were craving. You took what he gave, your body grateful to accept anything that came of his touch.

The hand on your neck squeezed and let go at unpredictable intervals. Every constriction of airflow was a reminder that you were just a toy at his whim. He decided if you came, he decided which hole he’d use, he decided if you’d take your next breath.

“Look how you’re dripping all over my hand,” he said, his hand glistening with your shame as he brought it up to you. He smeared it over your face, a sob escaping your throat as you smelled your desperation.

You inched closer to him on your knees and rested your cunt at the tip of his boot and humped. Up, down, up, down. There was no bliss like it.

“Like a fucking bitch in heat,” he muttered, laughing to himself when you whined. “Imagine if your former subordinates could see ya now. Wouldn’t even recognize their ballbusting boss. Maybe we should have ‘em over.”

You shook your head in denial, but your cunt was more truthful, clenching harder at the thought of having an audience to your subjugation.

“No?” He mocked as he worked on your corset top. The hairs on your body stood up as the air cooled your sweating torso. Your breasts bounced free, jiggling as you fucked yourself on his boot.

He took one in his hand, fondling it before letting go with a slap. You yelped, inching closer and trapping the bootlaces under you. He took turns with them, squeezing, slapping and pinching.

“Please!” You cried, not comprehending why you were begging.

“I know, baby. I know…” he said, the softness of his voice contradicting the cruelty of his fingers that tugged at your nipples.

“Need t— Hnngg!”

“I got you. Give into it, Cunt. Just be the fuckhole you were made to be.”

A wild sound escaped your lips and you fell back. He caught you, holding you up against the coffee table.

Your cunt still rutted, autonomous and in control of you. Just a cunt, just Master’s fuckhole. With that reassurance, the world disappeared and you found euphoria that you could never experience without him.

All the tension in your muscles evaporated to join the anxieties he fucked out of you, leaving behind you a carefree fucktoy.

Brains all fucked out, you could do nothing but comply as he rearranged you on your knees. Light illuminated his face and sounds of a cheering crowd and a fast talking man echoed in your empty head.

He squeezed your cheeks, forcing your mouth to open. A cold glass pressed against your lips and you lapped up the drink, grateful for something to quench your thirst. He pinched your nose, laughing as your hole gasped wide open for air.

He lined his cock up with your hole and thrust in, your lips stretching tight to accommodate him. He allowed you air once again and you moaned around him, grateful for his benevolence. Though your hole was accustomed to him, the walls trembled. But you persevered, needing to show Master you were grateful for letting you breathe. You took him inch by inch, stopping only when your head was on his lap and your nose pressed against his balls.

You breathed in his scent, masculine and overpowering. Tongue darted out every now and then to lick his balls. Cunt pulsated in the joy of submission when he moaned and whimpered. Every now and then he fucked your face up and down his cock and gave you air but mostly let you be.

Time had passed but you didn’t know how much. No world existed beyond him, no purpose other than warming his cock in your hole. Eventually, he stood up and held your head in both hands, thrusting in and out with no regard for you. Pathetic sounds escaped your burning throat and your lips lost its bright red color as your lipstick ran with your drool. Mascara and eyeliner ran down the sides of your face with your tears, turning gray when he released his spend on your face.

Face covered in his release, you crumbled at his feet, your arms going around his legs. You couldn’t bear to be alone in this state. His hand came down, caressing your sweat soaked hair as he whispered comforts.

“Did so well for me, Darling. So fucking perfect…”

“I love you,” you mumbled, looking up at him through foggy vision.

“I love you. More than I can show. Let me take care of you now. Bath and then bed, alright?”

You nodded, cheek pressed against his knee and loath to let go of his legs. He didn’t hurry you,but allowed you stay where you were until you decided to get up. There were chores to be done, you were sure but you knew he would take care of it. It was a worry you no longer had. All that mattered was that you served him well. No stock prices and market conditions. No early mornings and hours stuck in traffic jams.

Nothing to do but please Master, nothing to be but holes and tits. You were free.

⌘

Masterlist

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bump1nthen1ght · 3 months ago

Text

A Very Monstrous Kinktober (2024) Day 4 - Public Sex

Kink: Public Sex

Pairing: F!Reader x M!Alien

Other Kinks: Kidnapping, Light Bondage

Warnings: Non-con, Forced Exhibitionism, Dehumanization, Drugging/Aphrodisiacs

Word Count: 1598 words

Kinktober Masterlist

“Rise and Shine, Sweetheart!”

The shining collar around your neck yanks you forward, tugging you to take a couple timid steps on shaky feet. Suspended as you are, arms pulled up and over your shoulders, only your tip toes touch the floor. It’s a blessing in disguise, really, as you don’t think your addled mind could move your body on its own.

“Hello? Anyone there?” A hard, carapace covered hand taps your cheek, much like one would to a dog. It’s the closest thing you’ve gotten to skin contact in three days, your face sinking into his palm with a breathy sigh. “Damn, that stuff we gave you was strong, wasn’t it?” The speaker pulls his hand away and you lean forward, already missing the touch. It’s the only thing keeping away the simmering heat, the fever concocted by whatever serum was in that vial they poured down your throat. Your captor is merciful, rubbing his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “Don’t worry, sweet human, I’m gonna make you feel good real soon.”

Your captor wrings a hand around a rope, yanking it with a flourish to pull back the ornate set of curtains on this grand stage. The sudden change in light almost blinds you, has your drunken self blinking spots away as you take stock of what's in front of you.

Like your captor, the crowd is made up of a collage of humanoid figures, all adorned by differing shades of carapace. Not quite like insects, yet not quite like humans, each a mish-mash of mammalian limbs and pincers, or wings, or tails. They twitter and whistle in shock and awe at the sight of you, like spectators at a freak show.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlebug, tonight's big ticket item is this young human, all the way from Gaia-214! Ain’t she a beauty?” Your captor squishes your cheeks together, showing off your soft skin and plush lips. The crowd oohs, several of them leaning forward. “She’ll be the last item to be auctioned off tonight, but we wanted to give you special folks a little demonstration of her many capabilities. It’s not often we get humans this far out in the galaxy, and we thought it was only fair our lovely clients know exactly what they're paying for.”

The chain holding your arm yanks once again, forcing your chest up and outward. Your nipples press against the sheer little bra they have you in, pert and dangerously sensitive. The crowd coos once more, fully bought into your captor’s smooth words.

That same hand from before rubs the back of its knuckles down the side of your face, tracing a sensuous line across your neck and chest, finding it’s place right on your hip. You buck at the sensation, goosebumps running across your neck as you feel your captor’s breath blow across the back of it.

“That’s a good girl.” He whispers low and sultry, just for your ears. “Give ‘em a show for me.”

You wish you could resist, scream and cry and beg for mercy. But the drugged stupor they have you under is strong, the feeling of your captor's body pressing against your back enough to have you grinding back into him. Clawed finger tips rub small circles into your pelvis, feigning softness like a lover, gently pressing his crotch into your ass. All you can feel is exoskeleton, but there’s a hint of something softer slowly peeking out.

“If it’s one thing humans are known for, it’s their plush bodies, isn’t that right everybody?” The captor gropes at one of your tits, pushing it up and out of your bra cup and teasing your nipple. You gasp, chest pushing into the grip. The crowd murmurs in agreement, fascinated by the way your tits mold under the pressure. “Their bodies are pliable, warm to the touch, and-” You yelp as the showman pinches down, rolling your nipple between his forefinger and thumb, “-Very sensitive.”

Slick pools at your cunt, sticking the inside of your thighs together. The miniscule thong they gave you is soaked through, the measly string doing nothing to cover you up your center. The captors hand moves to your other tit, clamping and circling around your areola. The crowd shuffles in closer, watches drools dribble down your chin.

“But something less commonly known is that these three factors also apply to their insides. See?” Your eyes go cross as the captor finally slides a hand down your pussy, pulling aside your g-string and spreading open your soaked lips. Essence drips between them like honey, your pussy bared to the entire crowd. “A nice, wet, cozy hole for you and anyone else you desire to slot into. Just like these tits-” The captor gropes you again for good measure, “This human’s cunt can be stretched and molded into shape. But of course, don’t just take my word for it. Allow me to demonstrate.”

An armored arm wraps around your stomach, abandoning your tits to heave you up and bend your upper half forward. You whine at the lack of nipple stimulation, but your brain quickly catches up when the hot head of an alien cock presses against your cunt. Gone is the feeling of carapace, replaced by the unsheathed and soaking dick of your captor, notched right at your entrance.

“Now, as you can see-” There’s a warm exhale as your captor starts to push his cock inside, slow and tempered, “-the human body can accommodate many sizes, but this one is especially-” The captor’s voice catches, exhaling another heavy breath as he stretches you open, the clenching of your walls catching even him by surprise, “-flexible.” He finally sheaths inside you, hard edges of his hip bone digging into the fat of your ass.

You can’t hold it in anymore. The last bits of your sanity have left, the drugs becoming all too powerful. Shame gone, your tongue lolls out like a dog, and you slam your ass back on your captor’s hips. He wheezes, claws digging into your sides. But you don’t stop with one measly hump, no, the drugs have you all revved up and you're ready to ride.

“She has a bit of a v-voracious appetite, ladies and gents-hngh!” Your captor tries to slide himself out an inch or two but you're not having it, hooking your ankle around his calf and using it as leverage to shove him back inside. A trilling noise vibrates up his chest and across your back, not too dissimilar from a purr. The audience gasps, one alien woman throwing a hand over her pincers. “Hah, hah.” Your captor pants, eyes darting between your jiggling ass cheeks and the crowd he’s meant to be advertising you to. Carapace digs into your skin as your captor tightens his grip, trying his best to hold you still. But even he can’t resist your slutty grinding, the circling of your hips over his phallus. His cock twitches inside you, gushes of something slimy leaking down his shaft. Once he has you in place, snug against his hips, he takes some power back and begins to thrust. You let out a long, drawn out sigh as that pressure hits against your g-spot, that tingly feeling spreading down from your stomach.

“Y-yes, she would be the perfect addition to any home with a more, ahh~, e-energetic owner.” The captor says, now bouncing you on his bony thighs like a sex toy. Your eyes have clenched shut, too lost in bliss to even look at the captive audience. If you did, you’d see hasty transfers to bank accounts, partners begging for an early anniversary present, and some just full on drooling.

“F-fuck, I’m close.” Your captor whispers, you’re not sure to you or a stagehand somewhere to the side. “Okay, pretty human, let's end with a bang, huh?”

Your eyes shoot wide open when two fingers finally slide down to your clit, puffy and aching. His pace is rough and fast, quite indelicate, but your sopping core doesn’t mind. Caught between arching back on his dick and grinding your button onto his rough fingertips, your brain begins to short circuit. Your pussy walls clench tighter than ever before, and your captor's cock practically bounces with how much it’s twitching.

It feels so good, too good. You think you’re gonna-

“Aa-ah!” You shout, whole body going numb as you squirt for the very first time in your life. The audience all gasps, and your captor smirks against the back of your neck. You can’t care, feeling one second away from blacking out.

“Here it c-comes!” Your captor grits out between teeth, giving a few more tentative thrusts before something explodes inside you, gushes of it coming out the sides of your cunt’s vice grip. Long streaks of it drip onto the stage, running down the sides of your thighs like a nectar.

Your captor dismounts with a squelch, cock slipping back into it’s sheath as he catches his breath. Your body falls heavy, only supported by the chains holding your hand up. Drool slips down your chin, mind crawling at a snail’s pace to return to sanity.

“Alright.” Your captor pats you on the ass like a prized stallion. “Bidding for this little lady will start at 4 million credits! Be sure to stay for the whole auction for your chance to bring this special one home with you.” Your captor draws a long line up your spine with his finger, auctioneer voice faltering just a bit, eyes digging into your skin. “Trust me, she’s worth it.”

#my writing #reader insert #monster x reader #monster romance #female reader insert #alien x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #x reader

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pretzel-box · 5 months ago

Note

I really love reading your works!! Could you write something with Sebastian and a plus sized reader? :}

A little pick-me-up

Words: 1,1k

Tags: Plus-Sized/Chubby reader, reader gets bullied for a short moment, positive affirmations from Sebastian

Authors note: I feel like Sebastian is insecure about his looks and will definitely stand up if someone gets bullied for their appearance.

Sebastian had never been one for company. In the depths of the Hadal Blackside, solitude was often a blessing rather than a curse. But today, as he sorted some of the newly recieved data in his shop, his mind started preoccupied itself with the latest group of recruits sent down to this watery hell. Urbanshade's current victims by avoiding prison time by jumping straight into their death.

The sound of muffled voices reached his ears, a mixture of cruel laughter and low, taunting whispers. He tiled his head and saw them coming out of the vent: a group of three, clad in the standard-issue diving suits, mocking you who was visibly uncomfortable, shifting awkwardly under their jeers.

"Maybe if you stopped stuffing your face, you wouldn't have to squeeze into that vent," one of the voices sneered, the words dripping with malice.

"Yeah, it's like you're taking up all the space and getting us stuck," another chimed in, their laughter echoing off the metal walls.

The target of their bullying—a chubby figure, their diving suit snug but by no means too tight—stood there, visibly shrinking under the barrage of insults. In other words, you. Your head was lowered, trying to keep their composure, but Sebastian could see the way your hands clenched into fists, the way your shoulders hunched as if trying to make yourself smaller.

Something snapped inside him. Maybe it was the memories of his own mistreatment, the endless experiments and dehumanization, or maybe it was just the sheer injustice of it all. But before he even realized what he was doing, he was moving toward them, his long tail scraping against the floor, the low rumble of his approach silencing the laughter.

The bullies looked up, their expressions shifting from amusement to confusion, and then to fear as they recognized who was bearing down on them.

"If I were you, I would shut up," Sebastian growled, his voice low and dangerous, the tone leaving no room for argument.

The leader of the group tried to stammer out some sort of excuse, but Sebastian wasn't interested in hearing it. His eyes narrowed, and the bullies took a step back, their bravado crumbling under the weight of his glare. Without another word, they turned and scurried away, their retreat almost comical in its haste. Instead they rushed to grab the keycard and went back into the darkness of the vent.

Once they were gone, Sebastian turned his attention to the person they had been tormenting. You were still standing there, shoulders tense, clearly bracing yourself for whatever might come next. But Sebastian wasn't like the others.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softer now even when he kept his usual stoic face, the edge gone.

You looked up, your eyes wide with surprise. Then you nodded, though it was clear that the encounter had rattled you.

„Y-Yeah... thanks," you mumbled, your voice small but sincere.

Sebastian could see the pain in your eyes, the way you were trying to hide how much the words had hurt. It was a look he knew all too well—one of vulnerability, of being made to feel less than what you were.

"Don't let them get to you," he said, his tone firm but gentle. "People like that... they're the ones with the real problems. You don’t owe them anything."

You looked at him, studying his face as if searching for any sign of mockery or hidden intent. But all you found was honesty, and maybe a little bit of understanding.

"Thanks," you repeated, a little stronger this time. "I guess... I just wasn’t expecting that."

Sebastian nodded, his eyes softening as he took in the sight of you. He could see the strength it took for you to stand there, to not crumble under the weight of your teammates’ cruelty. It reminded him of his own battles, the way he had been broken down and yet somehow still found a way to keep going.

"People here can be cruel," he said, his voice low. "But that doesn’t mean you have to let them define you. You’re more than what they say, more than what they think."

For a moment, there was silence between you, the oppressive atmosphere of the Hadal Blackside lifting just a little. Then, you nodded, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Thanks, Sebastian," you said, your voice steady.

He gave a small nod, and for the first time in a long while, Sebastian felt a sense of camaraderie, of connection with someone else in this forsaken place.

"It’s… it’s not easy, but I guess you just have to keep moving forward, right?"

"Yeah," Sebastian agreed, nodding a little too quickly. "That’s right. But, uh… there’s something else I wanted to say." He paused, fidgeting with the belts around his chest with his large hands, his fluorescent eyes flicking to you and then away again. "I know it’s not easy to hear stuff like what they said. But… I just want you to know that… well, I think you’re…"

He trailed off, his cheeks darkening as he struggled to find the words. The usually stoic and composed Sebastian was visibly flustered, and it was clear that he was venturing into unfamiliar territory.

"I think you’re perfect just the way you are," he finally blurted out, his voice softer, more earnest. "Your size, I mean… it suits you. You’re… you’re strong, and you’re real. And… I like that."

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden confession. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he was nervously fiddling with the item in his hands, clearly out of his element. It wasn’t often that someone like Sebastian, someone who had seen so much darkness, would say something so vulnerable, so genuine.

"Sebastian," you started, your voice barely above a whisper, "thank you. That… that means a lot."

Sebastian looked down at you, his expression a mix of relief and embarrassment. "I’m not good with words," he mumbled, glancing away again. "But I just wanted you to know… you don’t have to change anything about yourself. Not for them. Not for anyone."

You smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made something in Sebastian’s chest tighten. "I won’t," you said, your voice steady. "And… thanks, really. It’s nice to hear that from someone who… who actually sees me."

The tension in the air slowly dissipated, replaced by a comfortable silence. Sebastian, still a little flustered, busied himself with rearranging a few items on the table next to him, trying to act like he hadn’t just said something so out of character.

But there was no denying the shift in the atmosphere. The connection between them, once tentative and fragile, had grown a little stronger. And as they spent the rest of the time together in the shop, it was clear that, for the first time in a long while, neither of them felt quite so alone.

#sebastian solace #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #sebastian solace fanfic #roblox pressure

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annabelle--cane · 7 months ago

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Feel free to ignore this ask. What do you think is the sluttiest Magnus episode is?

there are a few obvious answers here. mag 06, for the worm clubbing and worm sex. mag 32, for being consumed by what loves you (also worms). mag 153, for all the lovey dovey touchy feely sweet slick bodies intermingling (not worms this time). mag 89 could also work as a non-corruption option, for all of jude's descriptions of heat and flesh and agnes.

there is much to be said about mag 160 and the sexual undertones of dehumanization and the stark vulnerability of the body. I have certainly spoken before about the freudian quality of mag 200 and the implications of kissing your lover before impaling him with a blade that he had just used to penetrate another man. also, there's a point during season two where the audio suddenly jumps up in quality and all the statements gain a very sensuous whispered-in-your-ear feel to them, which inherently gives them a certain eau de slut.

but for my final answer, it's gotta be mag 118, for the sheer flirtation and provocativeness of martin deliberately trying to goad elias into entering his mind and leaving him in tears. that is slutty.

#gracefully-uncouth-thespian #tma #answered

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moodymisty · 1 month ago

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Author's note: What are you gonna do? Kinkshame me?

Relationship: Mortarion/Fem!Reader (to call it a relationship is kind of a stretch you only have his last name cause the vet paperwork requires it)

Warnings: NSFW, Nonnegotiable pet play (hampter), Degradation, Dehumanization, Kidnapping(?) Stockholm syndrome, Brief mention of reader having enough hair to put into a hair tie, Collar and leash, I dunno this is weird, This is totally unrelated to the Morty and his hot wife fic as much as his (future)wife would be down for being his pet, Inspired by @lemon-russ and her Mortarion pet fic series <3 and by inspired I mean like half of this fic is the exact fucking same cause i had trouble with the last half

The festering, bloated form of the Imperium was good for something, Mortarion thought.

Logistical tasks were nightmarish beyond all belief, shipments of requisitioned goods sent from place to place in the thousands if not millions. Many shipments disappeared outright; A planet now without food, a desperate front line without weapons. Efforts doomed purely on logistical error due to the sheer amount of traffic having to be handled.

It made slipping things between the cracks quite easy, however.

The box in Mortarion's hands is small by his standards, but for a human it would be quite sizable. They had offered to bring it to his quarters but he instantly refused, and Garro reiterated to the serfs that no one- including his own men- were to be near let alone in his quarters.

Not anymore.

When he enters the privacy of his chambers his shoulders relax slightly, and he hears the soft jingle of thin metal. It's quiet now- it used to be far louder but now that your cage is a bright display of plush blankets and toys, only weight on the exterior of the cage, and the metal of your collar, create any noise.

He smiles at the wide, excited look in your eyes, your fingers wrapped around the thin bars as you rise to your knees. The little dress you wear is still clean but a decent bit wrinkled, an array of lace and frills.

He'll have to change it; Along with a myriad of other chores he'll need to go after leaving you alone for so long.

"How are you, my little pet?"

You perk up and eagerly watch as he comes to let you out, but not too eagerly.

He doesn't like when you yelp and rattle the bars. He always wants you to be quiet above all else, especially during living hours.

"I have some new things for you, excited? Sit, and I'll show them to you."

You obediently listen legs curled to one side and nod, watching as he lowers himself to the floor on one knee. He grimaces and his bones crack and pop, but he manages. You look at him a bit worried, but you know he'll be fine.

You always love when he gets new things for you; New blankets, new pillows, new toys. Whenever things break he's always quick to get you new ones. It's so exciting to see what wonderful and colorful things he gets you from all of the places he's been, stuffing your life so full of plushness, soft fabrics and pastels.

The corner of his bedchambers your cage is in far more filled that it was when you'd first arrived, stuffed with spare things and little lights. If you were to just look at him, it would be almost funny; How lively and cute your home is in comparison to himself. His desk directly adjacent to you is solid wood, covered in burns, stains, and various bottles and jars.

In the moment it's nice, the free food, the blankets, the security; But when you think about it, its...

It's humiliating.

Degrading.

You feel less than human, though you suppose that's his intent; If anyone you knew ever saw you like this crawling around on all fours like a-

If any were alive.

Your planet was vicious, unforgiving. How you'd survived as long as you had was a miracle. To live there was to scavenge and fight for day to day survival, no thinking of the long term. You don't know if anyone you knew has even survived in few months you've been gone.

Has it been months?

Here, you're showered in plush toys and blankets, bowls and bowls of food. By a primarch no less. You were plucked from the sky by a being that from the sparse teachings of your forgotten planet was a man of incomprehensible power, a military of thousands at his disposal.

You even have a heating pad; Mortarion keeps the switch within your grasp after you wouldn't stop whining for him to turn it on.

For all intents and purposes, you're pampered. You are his pet, but you're safe, well taken care of, and loved.

It could be worse.

...could it?

You are still fully cognizant of that past life, before him. But why would you yearn for it's return- to a nightmare of struggle and fighting- when here, you're pampered and pet and fed until you're plump? You don't have to worry about anything. Your primarch does it all for you. Here you can sleep in a warm bed, eat your food and wait until master he returns and you can get some time out to stretch and play.

If you're very good, and he doesn't have any duties that take away his time, he'll let you sleep on his bed with him- not complaining when you crawl up to lay your head on his thigh.

He's been busy for a few days now, multiple nights you haven't seen him leaving you alone in the dark. It gets lonely, but you're patient- napping in your bed or playing with the myriad of toys he's given you. They keep you busy, but your little mind always wanders back to worrying if he's left you forever.

Reaching for the latch of your cage he undoes it and chuckles as you eagerly crawl to the entrance, almost visibly vibrating from excitement.

It's been days, and now he's going to let you out! You struggle to contain the excitement.

He opens the box and briefly shows you a peek of the things he's gotten you, before he gets distracted by something else.

"Your hair is such a mess. Come out."

He doesn't put a leash on you, letting you come out and stretch your legs a bit before getting back down. He sits at his desk, and motions for you to come by hitting his thigh.

When you do so, he begins to undo the tie in your hair and try to redo it. You wince a bit and move, earning a grunt of displeasure from him that turns into a mild coughing fit. Once he's finished coughing and clears his throat, he speaks at you.

"Stop wiggling."

You try to hold perfectly still as he fixes your hair, styling it the way he likes it. Sleeping in your bed for the past few days has made it messy, and you didn't have the tools to fix it yourself. Master does it for you anyways. He does it the way it should be, same with your clothes.

When he's almost done, he gestures for you to turn around so he can judge his own handiwork.

Something on his desk however begins making noise, and he looks in it's direction with no small amount of disdain. When he looks back at you, he grips your jaw and mushes your cheeks upward. It doesn't hurt, but it is a bit uncomfortable.

"Be quiet."

You nod- at least as best as you can.

He lets go of you and reaches to touch the device, and a voice starts talking.

"My primarch, Lord Fulgrim is attempting to vox you."

He lets out a loud sigh, clearing his throat once again. The dry scratchiness of it is palpable.

"Is it important?"

The man on the other side makes a contemplative noise, while Mortarion's rough skin brushes against the little hairs just in front of your ear. You tilt your head in the hopes he'll keep doing it.

"Lord Fulgrim did not specify when asked."

Mortarion pets you just a bit harder.

"...Let him through."

There's silence for a moment, before the voice acknowledges Mortarion and cuts away. A different voice fills the air a few moments later.

"Leaving Terra so soon Mortarion?"

The voice is smooth, melodic, and amused at Mortarion's expense. You continue to kneel silently between his legs. You lean against his calf a bit, lazily looking up at him. He looks down at you as he talks.

"I have many things that require my attention far more than your stupid parties, Fulgrim."

The voice on the other side chuckles, smooth and music-like.

"Fair enough. Guilliman and Lion were the same." He huffs before speaking again. "You think any of them would even miss my presence?

You perk up, but remain totally silent.

You missed him!

You missed every moment he was gone. Your cheek pushes against his leg harder in an attempt to show your thoughts without words, wrapping your arms around his calf, and he rewards you with a brush along your cheek. You smile happily.

"Probably not, though I could say that about more of the primarchs than just you." The voice quiets for a moment before speaking again. "Safe travels, Mortarion."

The voice is gone now and Mortarion returns his full focus to you, so you assume it's safe to make noise; Though you don't just in case.

"Good girl. You behaved." He looks at you. "Want a treat?"

A treat? Everything he gives you is so yummy, you nod and eagerly await whatever he's giving you. He gets up for a moment to retrieve it, before handing it to you.

You've tried taking food from his hands before, but he prefers if you just eat it from his fingers.

You take the treat, the yummy flavor hitting your tongue the moment your lips pull away from his fingers. There's a small something a bit hard in the middle, but you just chew through it. It doesn't effect the flavor in any noticeable way.

While you do, he latches your leash on the d-ring of your collar. You don't complain, just watching curiously as you chew your treat. He stands a few moments later, the leash wrapped around his hand.

"Come here."

You move to where he's going before the leash has a chance to snap taut, crawling onto his bed and onto his lap when he ushers you there.

"Did you miss me? It's been a few days."

You eagerly nod, hands gripping the fabric of his tunic. His lap is too big for you to straddle outright, so you straddle one of his thighs instead. When he raises that thigh, you instantly whimper at the feeling of pressure on your core. He sighs.

"Only a few days and you're already pent up again."

He sounds almost irritated, but he's quick to push around the fabric of your little dress to press his fingers against your cunt.

He toys and fiddles with your folds until they're nice and slick, whimpering in his grasp and trying to grind harder on his hand. Once he's done playing with you, he undoes the ties of his trousers to pull out his cock. It's half hard,

He leans back, pushing you until you almost straddle his hips and his cock lays rising between your thighs.

"Go on, pet."

You're so beyond pent up, even the toys he gives you weren't enough in the days he was busy. So it isn't long of grinding your sloppy cunt along his shaft before you're desperately trying to shove it inside of you, your master watching keenly as you move about awkwardly.

After only a minute or so of sliding up and down his cock do you feel a shudder run through you as a small orgasm rides up your spine, whining and biting your lip. Just the act of slipping him inside of you and feeling the stretch was so much, sinking into your tight heat. Your hands grip the material of his clothes tightly as he coughs, trying to hold them in enough to not be too loud for you.

"Poor pet, do you need more things to keep you busy while I'm gone?"

He mumbles something under his breath, something about an implant, but you're too busy trying to fuck yourself on him to really understand what he's mumbling about through the wet, sloppy noises.

It probably isn't stuff you should care about anyways. He handles all the complicated stuff, you just enjoy the things he gives you.

He tugs on the leash once, and you feel the fabric dig into the nape of your neck as you're pulled forward. You're beginning to tire, hips aching and sore. You slow down and grind down on him, groaning between your breaths.

"Do I spoil you too much? Are you getting lazy?"

No! You aren't lazy, just tired. Your mouth hangs slightly agape open mouth breathing, as he watches you.

"Keep going, pet."

You try and gather enough strength to continue, feeling his cock shift inside of you. His groans are louder and he accidentally begins pulling on your leash as he tries to steady himself with his arms, pulling you a bit forward as he finishes inside of you. The warmth and the feeling of his hips bucking up into you and jostling you around is what pulls another orgasm from you, whining over the sound of his groans.

After a few moments he slowly pulls from you, and you clench around nothing at the hollow ache, and feel some of his cum slip from you and dribble onto his cock.

He's quiet for a moment, before he sighs. You perk up expectantly waiting for what he has to say.

"You can sleep out tonight."

Your excitement is explosive, stretching your back with a squeak he finds endearingly cute. He needs to clean your cage he says, after a few days of not letting you out, the blankets are wrinkled and food crumbs are dusted around. Some of your toys need to be refilled with whatever treat was inside of them or some of another variety cleaned entirely, a thought that fills you with joy.

He lays a blanket on the foot of his bed, one of yours, and you move to sit on it and watch as he goes to change his clothes for sleep. When he returns and climbs into his bed, you watch eagerly before crawling closer.

You curl up next to his left thigh, laying your cheek against it. You look up at him and see the hollowness of his features.

He's so ghostly, yet he treats you so well. You've tasted and seen things you never knew existed.

Life...

It could be worse.

You could be scavenging for scraps- now you're curled up on your master's bed.

He reaches down and brushes his hand across the top of your head a few times, petting you. You push into his hand in a way that makes him chuckle.

"Good girl."

#im not tagging this with anything cause like. dear lord #mywriting #Mortarion and his pet plotline

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