#like to plants and animals just all over the place and it was really fucking everything up so in this advanced time

[ultramantr1gger]

wit this original story im making like. splatoon if it was evil

[ohbo-ohno]

animal, sick as they come

summary: Ghost has been starving his whole life. Never enough food to fill his stomach, never enough blood to cover his hands, always leaving him hungry and ready to snap. You’re the supposed solution to his problem, willing or not. (or: the kidnapped home chef au)

wc: 14.2k

cw: graphic nonconsensual sex, kidnapping but you’re lowkey chill about it, rough sex, pain play, dirty talk & light degradation, non-consensual spanking, rough/painful anal sex, gratuitous description of cooking/food written by someone who once lit a pot of boiling water on fire and is really just trying her best

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

You may have never been kidnapped before, but you can’t imagine this is how it’s supposed to go.

The masked man looms in the doorway to the kitchen, shoulders so wide that he can’t stand in the opening properly because he wouldn’t even fit, the very top of his head hidden by the worn frame. He’s a beast of a man, hulking in every sense of the word, and you can’t help but wonder how he managed to sneak up on you in the first place. Surely you’re not that unaware of your surroundings? He’s easily 6’4, probably no less than three hundred pounds.

Not much time had passed since you’d woken in a dark room with a thudding pain between your temples, mouth dry and throat swollen. You were sure you’d been blindfolded at first, eyes dry and heavy, until ice-cold water splashed onto your face and your eyes flew open on instinct.

He’d just… been there. One minute you were walking home, trying to avoid large puddles and squinting through pouring rain, and the next you were shivering and scared, your captor towering over your crumpled and bound form.

You’d lost control of your bladder the moment the sight of him registered. He’d looked down, snorted, and lumbered away to find a hose. 

You’d been inconsolable when he told you to strip, shaking with your sobs and keeping your arms wrapped tight around your chest. Even when he’d grunted ‘m not gonna fuck you when you reek of fuckin’ piss, you hadn’t been able to calm enough to follow his demands. It was only when he’d reached up to run a hand over his face and his shirt lifted just enough for you to get a glimpse of the piece on his hip that you’d been snapped away from your panic.

You can see the shape of it now, tucked in its holster. You’re fucking terrified that at any moment he could pull it out and end your life, like that. It would take hardly any effort at all. Just a twitch of the finger and bam, you go from captive to corpse.

“How long’ll it be?” The man grunts, massive arms crossed over his chest, breaking you out of your fearful stupor. 

You blink at him, wide-eyed and silent. He’d given you clothes – clothes that fit, to your comfort and horror – so you’ve been spared the further indignity of forced nudity, but the extra layer doesn’t make you feel much safer. 

He dips his chin when you don’t answer, dark eyes boring into yours. That only makes you clam up more, joints stiff.

He huffs. “Dinner. When’re you gonna fuckin’ feed me, bird?”

You stare at him, baffled. “What?” It’s the first word you’ve said to him without sobbing, and your voice trembles, shrill and weak.

He steps forward, angling his shoulders to fit into the room, fuck, and you skitter back, pressing yourself to the wooden cabinets. They’re tall, taller than the countertops in any house you’ve ever lived in, and the lip presses into the middle of your back.

“There’s food in the fridge,” he grunts. “Get to work.”

You’re not sure you could move even if you wanted to, your fight-or-flight instinct having settled firmly on freeze. 

He rumbles low in his chest and plants one hand on the island in the center of the kitchen, leaning over it. He’s so tall that his head nearly reaches the other side of the counter, hardly a foot away from yours. The counters are the perfect height for him. 

“What’s not clicking, girl?”

You pinch yourself, a quick twist of skin to make sure that this is all real and you’re not just trapped in the world’s most confusing nightmare.

“I-I don’t… you want me t-to cook? For you?” You manage, voice strangled.

He looks spectacularly unimpressed with your lack of understanding, and a distant part of you recognizes that you should probably be worried about making your captor displeased so quickly. However, the far larger part of you hasn’t had a rational thought since he hosed you down with freezing water and is still almost entirely useless.

He turns to the side to open his fridge, hand dwarfing the handle, and drops a chunk of frozen meat on the counter. It’s wrapped in brown parchment paper, a little string holding it closed. The fridge rattles with how harshly he closes the door and you can’t help but flinch. 

If he weren’t closer to the exit than he is to you, you’d have bolted away the second he turned his back. But he’s close enough that he could reach out and grab you with one hand if you got to the doorway, and you can’t even bring yourself to think about what he might do if you were caught. 

“Cook it.” He nods at the meat, voice bored like this is simple. Like it’s obvious, and your lack of understanding is an inconvenience that he’s rapidly losing patience with.

You listen, because it is obvious. He’s the captor, you’re the captive. At any moment, at the slightest whim, he could shoot you, strangle you, beat you, or a dozen worse things you can’t imagine for fear of ruining his dinner with your bile. 

He has every advantage and you don’t have anything but the shapeless hoodie and sweatpants he gave you. Here, you are nothing and he is everything.

So with shaking hands and tears streaming down your face nearly the entire time, you listen. 

You find a pan – he doesn’t help you and it’s incredibly awkward to try and dig around in unfamiliar cabinets without turning your back to him, but you manage it – and get the burner turned on. He steps out of the doorway again, still watching you from the hallway, and that gives you just enough bravery to inch towards the fridge, snatching the butter from it like he might lurch forward at any minute. 

It’s a good cut of meat. A ribeye, think and with not much fat on it. You’ve worked in the resturaunt business for a long time and it’s obvious to you that this is cut by a local butcher, not some packing plant. This is fresh. 

You have to stand with your back to the counter beside the stove to keep him in your eyeline. He doesn’t seem to mind, though the black balaclava covering him from scalp to neckline keeps almost all of his expressions a mystery to you. 

“How do you want it?” You manage to ask, after what must be five minutes of psyching yourself up internally and darting your eyes between him and the meat. 

“Rare,” he says, and you find that you’re not exactly surprised by his answer.

Basting the meat is the hardest part, but you manage. You’ve watched your father do this since you were born, spent countless nights in the corner of your parent’s restaurant watching line cooks and chefs and dishwashers and paying them all far more attention than you ever did your homework, nodding off in class the next day because the restaurant was open until eleven and your parents never once left early.

You could cook this meat in your sleep. Even with his minimal ingredients (he just shakes his head when you ask where the garlic is, and you quickly realize the only seasonings you have to work with are salt and pepper), you’re confident that the meat has come out tender and juicy, if flavorless. 

There are no sides. No drinks. No dessert. If you’d made this meal for either one of your parents, they’d lecture you for so long that the steak would go stone cold. 

You don’t have a plate to serve it on. When you ask tentatively about the dishes, voice hardly audible to even you, the man doesn’t answer. 

He instead begins to stride towards you, sending you careening around the island to try and keep as far from him as possible, hips crashing into the sharp edges of the counter and socks slipping across the tile. He ignores you completely as he leans over the over, sniffing loudly. 

You’ve thrown yourself, completely unintentionally, to the side of the counter with a large and well-stocked knife block. Before you even really think about it, you’re gripping a carving knife with both hands and holding it straight out in front of you, like you’re hoping he runs into you and impales himself. It’s probably your best bet, considering your knees are nearly knocking and barely holding you up.

He is entirely unconcerned by you. He grabs an oven mitt that was either always black or has been scorched so badly that it’s been darkened, the back of it split with its thin lining peeking out, and grabs the cast-iron by its handle, turning back to the rest of the kitchen. 

He snorts when he sees you, the sound distinctly amused and unafraid. “You think you could hurt me? With that thing?”

You may be shaking in fear, the knife quivering in front of you even with your knuckles clenched so tight they nearly spasm, but you still manage to find yourself almost offended.

“I’ll stab you,” you threaten, voice quiet but the steadiest it’s been since you woke up in that damp basement. “I’ll do it.”

The cheeks of the balaclava pull up, the imprint of his lips clear throught the fabric as he smiles, an indent where his teeth must be. “Don’t think you’ll like what happens if you try, pet.”

He steps around the island again, striding for the door and completely dismissing you. At least, that’s what you think until he calls, “Follow,” over his shoulder, like you’re an animal being called to heel.

The dining room is visible from the kitchen, a section of one wall carved out so you can see into each room from the other. You only lose sight of him for a second before he reappears on the other side of the wall, heading to sit at the table. 

The room has a horrible dark red carpet, the walls the same old-fashioned panneling as the hallway he’d dragged you down hardly an hour earlier. He seats himself at the head of a small rectangular table. It’s the only chair in the room despite the fact that five more could easily fit at the table, one leg shorter than the other. There’s nothing on the walls, no decor anywhere, just one table and one chair for one man.

You linger in the doorway, shifty and nervous, halfway to rushing back to the kitchen if only for some deluded sense of familiarity you’ve already built. 

“Don’t make me chase you,” he warns, eyes narrowing into a brief glare before he drops the pan in front of himself, silverware already set at his place, cast iron still smoking. “Neither of us’ll like it if you ruin my meal, bird.”

Then, he digs in. 

You’ve seen a lot of people eat. More people than you can count, in fact. You’ve seen them eat good food, bad food, life-changingly good and life-changingly bad food. As a child you’d been fascinated by the expressions on customers’ faces when they tried something new for the first time.

A woman with her eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows raised high as she bites into a new chocolate cake recipe your mother spent weeks making you taste test, moaning so loudly her husband had blushed. A man nearly collapsing over his bowl of soup on a cold winter day, just barely keeping his tie from falling into it as he desperately shoveled another bite into his mouth. You’ve seen people cry over your father’s wagyu, pepper your mother’s face with kisses after tasting her dacquoise.

This man eats like none you’ve ever seen before.

He’s like an animal. It takes him just a second to push his mask up to his nose, revealing pale skin decorated with atrophic and keloid scars both, then he’s pulling the pan as close to his chest as he can and hunching over it like a predator guarding its kill. 

He seems entirely unworried about burning his wrists on the edges of the pan, instead focused on tearing his steak into barely bite sized pieces with his fork and messily rubbing it in the extra butter still pooling in the bottom of the pan. 

He doesn’t even pick the first piece up with his fork. He pinches it between two fingers and pushes it between thin, scarred lips, ignoring what must be a burn on his fingertips. He chews twice, then swallows. His digits shine under the low light of his dining room, juice from the meat dripping down his fingers to cover his hand, nails choppy and with a little piece of fat stuck under one until he digs it out with his tooth.

You gape as he does it again and again, pushing two, then three pieces into his mouth at once as he works through the meat. 

It was a massive steak. It took more than half an hour to cook, if the clock on his stove is right. It’s gone in less than five minutes.

He moans as he eats, nearly pornographic in a way that makes you shift in discomfort. The steak is rare enough that the juice dripping from it is pink, the meat itself a brighter color than the man’s thin lips. Juice sluices down his chin as he chews with his mouth open, bits of the meat caught between crooked teeth. 

When he gets to the last piece of the cut, half of it submerged in butter, he holds it in front of himself for just a moment. Then, he turns to you for the first time since he left the kitchen.

His lips are flat, expressionless, as he holds the piece of steak up in front of himself. His elbow is planted firmly on the table to keep his hand in his eyeline, and he looks at you expectantly, silent. 

Your stomach growls, loud enough for him to hear. His lips twitch up in a smirk before he smothers it. You glare. You have no idea how long the drugs knocked you out for, how many days it’s been since your breakfast omlette. Standing over the oven, smelling the steak as it cooked, has made you hungry. 

The two of you are silent as you inch forward, hardly daring to lift your feet from the carpet. It doesn’t take you very long to reach the table, not when the room is as small as it is.

You shift the knife to just your dominant hand, your now free hand reaching forward slowly as you keep your eyes trained on his. The steak is still so hot that steam is still curling from the pink center of it, right between his eyes. He’s still as a statue.

Then, the second your fingertips brush the meat, he snatches it back, slipping it between his lips. 

You flinch back as your mouth drops open, offended and startled by his sudden movement. Your fist tightens around the knife, no longer so limp at your side. 

He chews with his mouth open, smiling meanly at you. His teeth are stained pink from the juices, and you think for a moment that it almost looks like his gums are melting. 

“Forget your manners, pet?’ He asks, only swallowing once he’s finished talking.

You wince at the lack of manners, your p’s and q’s brow beaten into you with a stiff wooden spoon to the back of your hand when you were young, shocked to see someone ignore what you’ve always seen as instinctual and then ask you about manners. “What?”

He leans forward in his seat, greasy hand set on his jean-clad knee. “You didn’t say please.”

You blink at him, caught in some sort of trance that you have no idea how to pull yourself out from. “Oh.”

He sits, still and silent, for several long moments, belly rising and falling beneath his folded fingers, before speaking again. “You’ll call me Ghost while you’re here.”

Your brows furrow a bit but you nod, fingers trembling where they rest limp against your thighs, knife almost entirely forgotten in this almost-hypnosis he’s dragged you into. You can’t quite make your lips move enough to give him a verbal answer, but he seems to accept the nod. 

He snorts, eyes narrowed as he looks at you. He doesn’t even have to tilt his head up even though he’s the one sitting. The realization makes you sweat, something hot igniting low in your belly. 

Before you even register that Ghost is moving, he’s snatched the knife from your now-slackened grip. He drops it into the pan immediately, the handle and blade both becoming drenched in the butter. 

You’d nearly forgotten you even had the knife but the lack of it now drags the fear back up your throat, makes your heartbeat louder and your fingertips colder. 

“Don’t need that,” he grunts, leaning back and folding his hands over his belly, fingers sliding against the fabric and already staining. This close, you can see that it hangs over the hem of his pants just enough to cover the button. You swallow thickly. 

“‘S good,” Ghost says, looking you up and down. Just like in the kitchen, the chair and table here are taller than what you used to, like they were tailor made for your captor instead of bought from a store. You’re only barely taller than him even as he sits, but he somehow still manages to make you feel like he’s looking down on you. 

There’s something in you that keeps you from backing away, even though being hardly a foot away from him makes the backs of your eyes sting with tears. It’s like your feet have sunk through the floor, like you’re up to your knees in shag carpeting and you can’t even try to get yourself out until the behemoth before you looks away.

“Congratulations, girl,” he rumbles, lips quirked up into a mean smile. “You just bought yourself a life, right here with me.”

You can’t stop the tears from falling, shaking hands clapped to your mouth in a fruitless attempt to muffle your sob. 

Ghost leans forward, smile growing when you stumble back until the small of your back meets the half-wall. “What’re you cryin’ about, doll?” He lowers his voice, like he’s sharing a joke with you. “Think I won’t treat my new pet well?”

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat so hard it gives out, its galloping thump felt even in your teeth, gums numbing. Your tears blur your vision, but you can see enough to know when he stands from his set, the chair creaking as he scuffs towards you.

He comes into focus when he crouches in front of you, his knees hovering just above your naked feet, toes curling into the carpet in a futile attempt to get as far from him as you can. 

“I won’t,” he says lowly, hot breath gusting over your face and lighting your nerves on fire. “Not until you earn it. Y’hear me?”

Whimpers eek through your fingers at his words. There’s something in his eyes that still looks hungry, little drops of grease dripping from Ghost’s fingers to your toes, and it makes you feel like prey just inches away from the predator’s jaw. 

His hand darts out, smacking your clothed thigh and making you yelp. 

“Don’t fuckin’ ignore me,” he snarls, sharp and sudden anger upon him like a wave, your thigh stinging from his hit. 

You nod as soon as the chain of words connects in your brain to mean something, head bobbing up and down quickly in desperation to avoid any more physical contact.

His eyes narrow, unimpressed. “Repeat it, then.”

“I have to–” you cut yourself off, breath suddering out of you almost painfully. “I have to earn it.”

“Earn what?”

Exasperation mixes with terror, eyelids straining to stay widened, unwilling to miss another twitch from him.

Think I won’t treat my new pet well? He’d said. You have to earn it.

You can’t think of a way to distill that down into a singular answer, not quick enough for him, at least. 

“I don’t– I don’t know,” you sob.

His movement is slow this time, but it’s no more possible for you to avoid his touch than it was when you hadn’t seen anything coming. His hand drags into your hair, nails catching on scalp, and he tugs your head back, slamming it into the wall. 

“Everything,” he hisses, the fabric covering his nose brushing against yours, snot sliding down your fingers. “You earn everything here. You work for it all. Get it?”

You can hardly nod this time, his fingers tightening around the strands of your hair and pulling at your scalp, but thankfully it’s enough for him.

“Good,” he spits, leaning back and standing, dragging you with him. 

Once you’re standing, half crouched to try your best to ease the pain rippling from your head but pushed up on your toes so his hand isn’t practically lifting you, Ghost grabs you by the elbow instead and drags you out of the room before you can even fully realize what’s happening.

He grabs you in the exact spot he had when he’d dragged you to the kitchen in the first place, each finger laid precisely where there were already bruises emerging. His grip so tight you can’t even think of trying to rip away – you imagine your arm would come off your body before Ghost’s hand came off of you. 

He drags you from the dining room and down a small hallway. From what you’ve seen of the house, and what you can remember that isn’t clouded over by a haze of panic, the floor-plan is closed off, more claustrophobic than anything else. 

Every room seems connected by a new hallway and they're each thin enough that you couldn’t walk by the man’s side – the two of you might not even be able to walk chest to chest without somehow getting wedged between the wood-panneling, considering the bulk of him. 

Your toes drag, catching on the warped wood floor as he pulls you behind him. Your hands are wrapped around his wrist in a wasted but desperate attempt to keep everything below his grip from going numb, leaving your choking whines and sobs and pleas to rush out of you, voice bouncing off the panneled walls. 

Ghost ignores you entirely, doesn’t even seem to notice when you dig your nails into his skin and you try your best to yank. 

You start to grasp at the walls, trying to slow his stride in whatever way you can. You have no idea where he’s taking you, no idea what you’d do even if you did somehow manage to break free from him, but you try nonetheless. 

He doesn’t react, no matter how much you scream and hiss, no matter how much you claw and kick and make your body dead weight, nearly breaking your wrist from the way you yank and twist. 

It’s only when your fingers catch on the edge of something thin that you’re given a tangible thing to wrap your hope around.

You only realize it’s a picture frame once you’ve already yanked it from the wall, the photo itself a complete mystery to you.

It’s the adrenaline that makes you pull back and slam the frame glass-first into the side of his head, reaching up as high as you can to make contact. There’s a horrible crack when glass meets fabric, a screech when you drag it down the side of his face, glass catching on mask and skin and more glass.

Ghost doesn’t let you go but he does stumble into the wall, grunting like a bull and batting your opportune weapon like it’s hardly more than an annoying mosquito, sending it crashing to the ground despite your death grip. 

He falls back into the wall, tugs you with him with enough force to nearly knock you off your feet, your head a mix of fear and victory and adrenaline and pain and more fear, coherent thoughts a far-off dream.

“Little fuckin’ cunt,” you hear him spit, heavy boot smashing fallen glass into further pieces as he turns to press you against the wall with his body, heavy and hot against you.

His eyes are raging, scarred lips curled to bare his teeth and little pieces of glass sticking from his skin and balaclava. 

You only have about four drops of blood to speak of for your desperate attack, and with your kidnapper furious and holding you down all you can manage to think is why the fuck did I do that? What was I thinking? 

There’s no room for anything but shame when you’re staring down the barrel of God only knows what he’ll deicde to do to you. 

“Off to a bad fuckin’ start,” he hisses, spittle landing across your cheeks. “Thought I’d be nice to you. Send you off to sleep with hardly a damn scratch.”

Ghost snarls, shakes his head like a beast shaking off fleas. Glass goes flying around his head. You can hardly breathe.

“Tha’s not good enough for you, is it?” He says, hand coming up to lock around your throat. You’d cry out if he left you enough air, but he’s squeezing so tight you can barely get enough breath to stay conscious. 

“You need a heavy hand, ‘s that it, pet? Need someone to show you what happens when you fuckin’ misbehave?” He pulls your head a few inches away from the wall on the last word, slamming you back enough to rattle your brain in your skull, eyes unfocused and hardly seeing and unable to groan with his hand squeezing your airway shut. 

You try to shake your head, can’t manage to do anything more than shift with the grip on your throat. You think, briefly, about how he could snap your neck with one hand. His palm rests over your vocal chords, fingertips pressing against the nape of your neck. A flick of his wrist and you’d be dead. You think your heart may give out, overwhelmed and unable to keep up with everything Ghost is drawing from you, spitting at you.

Capture myopathy, a friend told you once, sitting beside you in a required biology class only one of you was interested in. When a rabbit is so scared that their heart gives out on them and they die. Just like that. Snap. Easy dinner for a fox. Isn’t that sick?

Sick. She’d said. This, you think, is sicker than anything a fox could do to a rabbit. 

“You’re lucky your meat was good,” he says, tone calming into something less rageful and more frustrated, hand loosening enough to let you breathe more easily but still keeping you from speaking. “Don’t mind trainin’ you up knowin’ you’ll be an investment. Just need some work, huh?”

You try your best to nod, eager to pick training over certain death any day. 

He hums, thumb stroking the crease of your skin between neck and shoulder and you can’t stop your shiver.

“Don’t worry, bird.” His teeth gleam when he flashes them, finally leaving your space. He practically throws you in front of him with the hand on your neck, letting it shift to wrap around your nape so he can guide you forward. “I’ve had pets before. All those tears tell me you’ll at least be easier to break in than the boy was.”

You only have a brief moment to wonder who the fuck the boy is, if he’s in this house, and what that could possible mean for you, before Ghost is nudging open a rickety door and nudging you down the stairs. 

He lets you go once you’re firmly on the narrow staircase and taking slow, tentative steps out of fear you’ll miss one in the dark. Ghost takes his hand from you, looming as you make your leaden-footed way down.

You can’t stop your sniffles or your tears, terrified of the nightmares that must be waiting at the bottom of the staircase and back in the basement you’d woken up in. You know some of what waits for you, what the room will look like and what will be in it – Ghost had been with you since he dragged you to the kitchen, there would’ve been no time for him to change anything – but you’ve got no idea what training means or what Ghost will do to you when your feet hit concrete. 

You don’t move any further into the room when you reach the bottom, Ghost easily stepping around you and choosing to ignore you in favor of looking for whatever he’s decided he needs. The sight of a small carabiner with keys latched to one of his belt loops makes your idea of running back up to the door leave as quick as it comes.

“Over here,” Ghost calls, back turned to you as he crouches down and fiddles with something at the wall.

You don’t move, feet anchored to the floor.

He huffs when he doesn’t hear you following him, shifting one knee to rest on the ground so he can turn over his shoulder and level you with an unimpressed look.

“You really want to make me come get you?” He rumbles, and the threat is enough to get you rushing forward then pulling to just as sudden as stop just out of his arm’s reach. 

It doesn’t matter much, you can’t really do anything to stop him when Ghost’s arm darts back to grab you by the knee, his torso leaning back to get a hand on you and tugging you forward. 

You can’t keep yourself from falling to your knees right at his side, nothing around for you to grab onto other than him and even looking at a face-full of concrete you know not to make any unnecessary contact with Ghost, not if you can help it. 

The weight around your neck is sudden and unexpected, his quick movements around your head even moreso. You don’t even have enough time to decide if it would be worth it to try and fight him off before there’s a resolute click, and he’s pulling back with something thick wrapped around his knuckles.

It’s a chain. Silver, hardly a hint of rust on it, thick and well-kept, and leading right back up to your neck.

You don’t put it together until shaky hands come up to press around the- the collar. Thick leather, two or three inches wide, just tight enough that you can feel it on every exhale. 

A collar. A collar with a chain leash, heavy enough that you can feel the hint of pressure pulling you towards Ghost, the length of the chain that’s not tight in his fist resting in loops by his boot. 

You can’t do anything but stare up at him, wide eyed and trembling, can’t begin to think of what to do before he’s standing and tugging you with him.

“Here now,” he grunts, not bothering to give you any time to get to your feet. You sort of stumble after him, knee scraping the ground as your head is jerked along. You can’t let yourself lag at all, not unless you want to get dragged along by your neck.

You feel like you’re moving through quicksand, every move only making things worse for you. Every forced step forward is another step closer to him, every jerk of your head pulls at the hair stuck in the back of the collar that he hadn’t bothered to move before locking it onto you, every panicked breath only serves to keep your breathing short and hitched.

Ghost drops himself onto the small cot pressed against the wall, it’s metal legs creaking under his weight. You can’t straighten fully with how short he keeps the chain, which leves you in a terribly vulnerable hunched position, eye-level with his stomach and bent at the waist, knee throbbing.

“Over my knee,” he rumbles, voice quiet. “Get this over with.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes, panting open-mouthed, drooling. A panicked animal with its leg caught in a trap, unable to do anything but stare up at the jaws closing around its body.

“Please,” you beg, voice hardly a whisper. “Don’t hurt me.”

His eyes are hard behind the mask, mouth a firm line as he looks down at you. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat beneath the thick leather. 

Ghost doesn’t give you another chance to obey. One quick jerk of his hand and you’re toppeling forward, choking on spit and holding your hands out to catch yourself. 

He manhandles you quickly – one hand on the chain yanking it further down, head forced lower than his knee while his other hand grabs you by the hips and hefts you on top of him, elbow jamming itself between your thighs while blood rushes to your head. 

You yelp, legs kicking out as you push at the bed with one hand, the rough ground with the other, throwing your head back and forth as much as you can with the leash giving you almost no room to move.

“Settle,” Ghost hisses. You don’t listen, can’t listen with the way panic alone rules your mind, and in response he lands a harsh smack on the center of your ass, enough to push you forward a few inches.

Your pleas come to a sudden stop, breath stuck in your throat as you absorb the pain, a noticeable sting even through the sweatpants.

“You’re gettin’ fifty,” he grunts when you’ve gone silent, tucking two fingers in the back of your pants and tugging them down, lifting up one knee to lift your torso so he can yank them to your waist. “Take ‘em, then we’re done.”

“No, no, please, God,” you choke, one hand flying to your mouth and pressing against it. Tears stream down your face, cheeks blazing with heat, a horrible mix of terrified and humiliated that leaves you all but limp over his legs.

Ghost snorts above you and you jump when you feel his cold hand make a pass over the fat of your ass. “Won’t be thinkin’ that much longer.”

You only have a brief moment to think hysterically is he making a joke right now? before there’s a horrible pain on your ass, the smack loud in the otherwise silent room.

It takes a second for the pain to hit you, but when it does you yowl. You push up on his thigh with both hands as another smack rains down, pulling as hard as you can against the chain.

“Stop, stop, stop it!” You screech, toes sliding uselessly against the cement as you writhe, all of your struggles doing absolutely nothing to stop his hand from falling again, this time right on the center of both cheeks. 

“Y-You can’t- you can’t d-do this!” You wail, throat filled with tears and snot as you realize you can’t even get close to standing, not with his grip on the chain as immovable as it is. “Stop!”

His next smack is his hardest, his grip around the chain loosening at just the right time to allow you to be sent sprawling over his lap, sobbing at the pain that lights up your backside. It hurts, and now your forehead is nearly pressed to the floor, leaving you completely off balance.

Ghost grunts as he shifts one of his legs, tucking your flailing limbs between his thighs and forcing you to be bent over just the one thigh, knees hovering inches off the ground.

“Stop your fuckin’ wailin’, Christ,” he hisses, peppering you with more spanks, each of them as hard as the last and forcing all the air out of your lungs. “Damn lucky this is all you’re gettin’. I should make you count ‘em, start over every time you get one wrong.”

You cry out at that, wriggling desperately and only serving to push your ass further into the air, trapped on both ends.

“We’d be here all damn night,” Ghost mutters to himself, hardly audible over your fit. “One picture ain’t worth bruisin’ my hand over.”

Your feet just barely brush against his thighs when you manage to kick up, but you’re embarrassed to find that you don’t have the strength to do much more than hang limply in his hold, one hand reluctantly wrapped around his calf to keep yourself from falling to the floor. 

Your tears and sobs don’t stop as he continues his assault on your ass, but there’s a part of you that almost… settles. Not into the pain, not when he’s smacking you hard enough to jolt your body forward and make you wail at every new touch, but into the steadiness of his smacks.

He doesn’t wait more than a second between hits, each spank no heavier or lighter than the last. It hurts, hurts worse than anytime you’ve burned or cut yourself in the kitchen, but after the first minute or so your body comes to expect what’s coming.

That doesn’t make it any easier to handle. You couldn’t stop your crying if you tried, like his hand is resting on your tearducts instead of your ass, squeezing every bit of moisture out of your eyes. 

He stops at some point, hand resting on your cheeks. He squeezes, nails digging in deep, and pulls your cheeks apart. You sniffle at the indignity, free hand covering your eyes as your face crumples.

“Half way through now,” Ghost says, ignoring the way you cry out. You can’t imagine taking one more hit, let alone twenty five. 

He shifts back on the cot and for a moment you have absolutely no idea what’s happening. It’s not until he not-so-gently readjusts your legs, his own laid out flat in front of him with his feet hanging off the cot, your body readjusted so you’re lying properly over his thighs.

It’s more comfortable, certainly, but you’re not sure you want comfortable right now. It feels impossible to imagine the brute above you as thinking of your comfort, completely analogous to his actions and leaving you a confused and weak mess. 

Ghost shifts his hand along with the rest of him, dropping the chain entirely in favor of resting a heavy palm on the back of your neck, equally as effective at keeping you still. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment on your heaving breaths or shaking thighs, just lets you breathe with your hands curled beneath your chest and your forehead pressed to the thin sheet covering the cot.

The next spank catches you completely off guard, your body having gone limp and leaving you unprepared for the sudden pain. It reignites your sobbing, your throat on fire from all the screaming you’ve done. You can hear your voice crack as you absorb the pain, shoulder shaking.

“Christ,” Ghost sighs, hand briefly leaving your ass. 

He’s lifting you by your hair a moment later, thick fingers laced through the tresses as he pulls your head back and stuffs something in your mouth. You whimer at the feeling, tongue working at the frankly disgusting taste, brows furrowed.

“Keep that there,” he orders, and you just barely get a glance of the side of his head before he’s shoving you back down, face-first. You realize, blinking slowly, that he’s shoved his mask in your mouth. “Can’t be bothered to teach you to shut the hell up, gonna hafta work on that once you learn how to behave.”

He spanks you again and this time your sob is muffled as you bite down on the fabric and grind it between your teeth. 

His pace is slower now, hand more thudding than stinging. It feels like he’s putting his weight behind every smack, each one delivered with what you’re sure is bruising force. Though truly you can’t tell much of a difference, not with your whole ass already feeling like it’s on fire. 

It gets harder and harder to differentiate between new and old pain as he lays brutal spanks over spots that are already hot and throbbing, varying the strength of each smack this time. You sink into the pain, limp and unable to do anything but take it.

“Better,” Ghost says, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing your scalp when you jerk at the sound of his voice. His next hit lands on the crease between your thigh and your ass, but your whine is almost silent. “Can hear myself think now, for one.”

Another smack, and your body doesn’t even jerk this time. You’re not even fully present in yourself, mind floating. You don’t quite feel like an outside observer, more like you’re just a few inches removed from the situation. All your sensations feel dulled, and you bear the pain as best you can. 

“Can enjoy the sight too,” you hear him say, and suddenly there are pauses between each smack, a little break Ghost takes to rub your glowing ass and thighs as much as he wants before laying another handprint across your soft skin. 

“‘S too bad I don’t fuck where I eat,” he muses, and you groan into the mask at a particularly rough hit. “You don’t take much fightin’. I like that in a girl. Go down real easy with a firm hand, don’t you?”

You shake your head as best as you can, which really isn’t much at all. He snorts at your effort, tightens his fingers to keep your head still.

You’re sapped of all energy, unable to move even as his punishing spanks linger lower on your ass, and even when he bullies a hand between your thighs and spreads your legs.

“Look at that,” he says, voice low. You can feel it through his stomach, goosebumps racing from your ribs to the rest of you. “Dirty girl, are you?”

You’ve got enough wherewithal to try and squeeze your legs shut when his fingers prod at your center, yanked back into your body at the sharp turn from painful to… something else.

He strokes two fingers over your slit, and you groan at just how much slick you can feel him spreading. You have no idea when it happened, have no idea why it happened, but you’re drenched between your thighs. Your cunt feels as hot as your ass, and the realization yanks a horrible little whine from you.

“Guess that wasn’t much of a punishment,” Ghost muses, spreading your lips and letting cool air ghost over you. You feel him blow a breath across you and struggle more than you have since he’d laid you flat across him, knees coming to tuck up under yourself.

“No,” he says simply, landing a horrible, smarting slap to your pussy. It sends you flat to your tummy again, squirming against him and wailing through the pain. It hurts. “Down, girl. No strugglin’ now.”

He only continues to stroke you, now pushing the steadily dripping wetness from your clit to your asshole, making you tense and writhe where you’re pinned, his order ignored.

“Think I’ll do the last few here,” he says, landing another harsh smack to your center, this time focused on your clit. “Make sure you remember your lesson.”

He doesn’t wait any longer, just begins to lay quick, harsh slaps all across your cunt – your spread lips, your hole itself, your clit. Once, even, on your bottom hole, digging his nails into your stinging cheeks to spread you wide for him.

It hurts more than any of the smacks to your ass did, undeniably, but you’re sapped of all energy and find yourself hardly able to cry, let alone struggle. You’re too busy being swept away in a maelstrom of pain-pleasure you’ve never experienced before to even try defending yourself.

Your only option is to lie still and wait for him to finish with you. So that’s all you do.

It feels like it’s been an eternity when he finally stops. 

The hand near your ass gropes you firmly, pinching what you can already feel are tiny little raised spots from where his palm landed the hardest. 

You don’t have the energy to even think of struggling when he finally moves you off him, letting you flop uselessly to the cot as he moves out from under you. There’s the sound of metal clinking, the tension from the collar finally eased as he lets it go completely.

He doesn’t bother to pull your pants up, but he does nudge your legs closed. It’s a bit of decency you didn’t expect from him. 

You can’t do much more than blink wearily at him as Ghost reaches to tug his mask from your mouth, lip curling in disgust at the drops of saliva that fall from it. Good, you think. That’s just the start of what you deserve, bastard.

He crouches in front of you a moment later, bringing his face into full focus in front of you.

He’s… not traditionally attractive, that’s for sure. Even your defeated and exhausted mind can recognize that you would’ve avoided this man had you seen him on the street. Probably would’ve even risked being seen as rude and crossed to another sidewalk before he walked past you. Seeing as this is where you’ve ended up, your instincts wouldn’t have been wrong about him.

He’s got a square head and blond hair buzzed close to the scalp. The scars you’d seen across his cheeks and jaw extend further up his face, something textured across his temple that you can’t guess the cause of, eyebrows patchy and only half-grown in from burns, little bumps decorating his scalp.

But there’s something captivating about him. In his eyes, maybe, such a dark blue that you can only tell they’re not brown because he’s hardly a foot from you. There’s something about him that says look at me. Don’t forget where I am.

Though maybe, you think deliriously, you’re only thinking that because he’s the captor who just spanked your ass raw and dragged his fingers through your cunt.

“Rule one,” Ghost rumbles quietly, breath gusting over your lips. “You hurt me, I hurt you. Heard?”

It takes all the energy you have left to nod, eyes falling shut even as the little prey voice in the back of your head screams at the danger so near, never mind that you haven’t been able to do anything to keep him from you. You’re too loud to listen to the voice anyways, only a very distant part of you acknowledging it as you slip into a sort of half-sleep.

You don’t hear him leave.

From there you settle, bizarrely, into a routine. 

Every day begins with you waking up in the basement. Always before Ghost comes to get you, some primal instinct buried deep knowing that you need enough time every morning to brace yourself for seeing him.

He locks the chain, the leash, to a hook on the wall a couple feet above your cot every night, the key to the padlock always left on him. The chain is long enough to give you plenty of room to roll and shift in bed at night but it’s too short for you to reach the small bathroom across the basement. There’s no clock for you to keep track of time with but you spend what must be half an hour every morning just sitting on the cot, waiting for Ghost to come get you.

He’s always nearly stumbling when he comes down the basement stairs to fetch you, sleep keeping his bones heavy. It’s only in the mornings when you see him with his shoulders hunched, movements weighted down, any other time he’s perfectly alert. 

You think, at first, that your best shot at trying to hurt him would be in those early mornings when he’s groggy and slow moving, but Ghost never lets you off the chain when he’s like that. It’s always after he’s stiffened up, shoulders rolling back and permanent-scowl firmly back in place.

He’ll unhook the chain from the wall first, rarely saying a word as he half-drags-half-leads you over to the bathroom, doesn’t let you close the door while you do your business and shower.

(There’s a way he looks at you in the morning, when he’s at his rawest. Something animal and hungry in a way you don’t see even when you serve him his meals, pupils blown and lingering on your curves, unabashedly staring at your ass when you glance over your shoulder at him.

It had been terrible, at first, to get naked in front of him. He’d just stare, and most days you could see his hardness tenting his pants. Hell, some days he came down the stairs with his cock making itself plenty known, not a speck of shame in him.

You’d once listened to him jack himself off while you were in the shower. You’d had to step over the puddle of cum on the tile when he’d tugged you out of the room, nearly slipped into it when he’d pulled you just a little more harshly than usual.)

The chain stays in the basement, always unlatched from your throat along with the collar before he shepherds you up the creaky stairs, never much more than a foot or two away from you. 

Then, breakfast. 

It had taken a while for you to really believe him after he’d said you were only there to cook. What kind of person kidnaps a woman just to keep her as a private chef? But days went by where he never once touched you any more than necessary to get the collar on and off, his only reaction to your body a seemingly unintentional erection and usually ignored when you were naked. 

Days, weeks pass where all you do is cook. Three meals a day, snacks when he’s hungry (which seems to be always). 

Ghost’s cabinets were bare the first week of your captivity. He had enough meat in his freezer to last him months, but little else. There was a loaf of bread on the counter, a few condiments in the fridge with crusted lids and misshaped bottles, and some cans of soup in the pantry. Nothing else. He’d drop a cut of meat on the counter and expect you to work with it and seemed plenty content when you served him the blandest roast chicken of your life.

It took you three days until you worked up the nerve to ask him to go grocery shopping. It was the first thing you said to him that wasn’t a plea for your freedom. 

You’d been terrified that you’d end up face down ass up over his thighs again, your ass still bruised from his first punishment and his subsequent much quicker corrections. But he’d hardly reacted, had just given you a piece of paper and a short pencil with bite-marks on the eraser, told you to write what you thought you needed.

He locked you in the basement for hours (you tracked the sun through the sole window as best you could, left behind fear and anger for boredom around what you guessed was the three hour mark) when he left. Briefly, you’d regretted asking in the first place. If the bastard wanted to eat nothing but protein and die of a nutrient deficiency, who were you to stop him? It would serve him right.

But you have nightmares, sometimes, of being stuck in the basement. Your captor dead in his bed, fallen to the bathroom floor with his head cracked open, bleeding out in the forest one of the times he goes off hunting. And you, stuck here, chained to a wall. No key, no way out, no one to find you.

A part of you had breathed a sigh of relief when he came home, letting you up to the kitchen and supervising while you dug through the plastic bags and put everything where you wanted it.

He doesn’t… do much during the days, is the thing.

He goes hunting, sometimes. You find that that seems to be his most consistent outing. He’ll spend hours out there at a time, sometimes coming back with nothing and other times coming back with a twelve-point buck you watch him drain through the kitchen window. He also has to keep his weapons – his many, many weapons – in shape, and you find that it’s not rare to spend an afternoon watching him clean guns or sharpen knives.

You enjoy his hunting moods most. He’ll disappear for hours on end to even find his kill, then spend days skinning and preparing the meat, then doing whatever it is he does in his shed with the bits of the body he doesn’t bring you to cook. Those days spent in the forest or the shed for him guarantee you hours of time alone, which isn’t nearly so miserable when he doesn’t keep you in the basement. 

Sometimes he goes out after dinner. You’ll hear the front door slam shut after he locks you up in the basement, his truck’s old engine loud enough to be obvious when he revs it. You’re never sure where he goes, who he might even go with since he never takes calls, but you also have little interest in asking.

But most nights he watches TV. Almost exclusively old VHS recordings of The Price is Right, Wheel of Fortune, Password, and shows so out-of-date you’re sure you could count the pixels on the screen. He’ll roll himself a blunt and relax into an old recliner with cracked leather, eyes half-lidded and hazy.

(You watched him rest a hand in his pants, once. He hadn’t even been focusing on the TV, eyes far away and breathing heavy as he stroked himself slowly beneath his jeans. You don’t even think he finished, he was just… relaxing. You’d decided to just be glad he wasn’t coming after you for that job.)

Sometimes he’ll watch the same Manchester United games every night for a week straight, grunt approvingly or shout at the TV at the same points no matter how many times you’ve seen him watch it. By the end of your first month in his captivity, you could guess who scored every goal in the team’s 2012 championship game. You have absolutely no idea why he doesn’t just turn on the newest games.

You learn quickly that Ghost mounted a hook to nearly every wall in the house, and that he’s not shy about chaining you in the same place for hours at a time and leaving you to your own non-existent devices while he lumbers off. You spend the most time in the kitchen, undoubtedly, but you find that the horrible plush carpet in his living room isn’t too uncomfortable to sit on either.

It doesn’t take many days for your fear to turn to boredom, is the thing. Absolute, complete, mind-numbing boredom. There’s simply nothing to do but watch Ghost, and for a kidnapper he’s turned out to be spectacularly uninteresting. 

He’d laid out the rules in the first few days. You hurt him, he hurts you. Listen to his orders, don’t make him repeat himself. Don’t try to escape, you won’t find anyone to help anyway and he doesn’t want to chase you down. Don’t try to fuck with the food you make him, he expects good meals consistently.

It had been the third you’d struggled most with, though you could hardly blame yourself. You’d thought he was going to make you bleed when he caught you trying to throw yourself out of a recently-broken window.

He’d taken you over his lap a few more times for smaller infractions too. To make sure the lessons stick, he’d said. They did. Ghost hits hard, and even after just his first punishment you’d been plenty cowed. You don’t give him many reasons to punish you again.

The bright spots in your life are, as they have always seemed to be, food orientated.

There’s a part of you that hates how much time you think of ways to quite literally serve him, but you have nothing else to do. He may enjoy his shows, but after about two weeks you think you may go insane if you have to focus on much more Tom Kennedy in an other-wise silent house. 

You spend long hours staring out his windows at the foggy forest surrounding the cabin, running through the recipes you’d wanted to try before you’d been taken, notes for your parents’ dishes that were never listened to, plans on what you could make for Ghost himself with what he would provide.

And he does. Provide, that is. He provides plenty.

The fifth day of your captivity, he drops a chicken carcass on the wood island. Whole, unplucked, the blood from its neck still drying.

“I can’t…” You start, hesitating at the doorway to the kitchen as he moves further in. “I’m not a butcher. I can’t cook it like that.”

Ghost looks over at you, mask covering his expression. You find that it’s a fifty-fifty chance he doesn’t pull it on in the morning, dependent on some factor you’re not allowed to know.

“I’ll cut it up,” he grunts, turning his back to you and tugging a drawer open, digging around noisily. “Don’t need you to do anythin’ but cook it.”

You shift from foot to foot as he turns back to the bird, empty trash bag at his side and carving knife in his hand. 

For a man who you’ve always assumed to be inept in the kitchen, he handles the bird like a professional. He has it plucked in less than a minute, his mess minimal.

His butchering is less impressive, though no less effective. He’s a bit of a slob with his cuts, reckless with his knife in a way that has you craning your neck to see just how much breast is left on the bone. 

Ghost is slow-moving, careful in a way you’ve never seen him when he pops the thigh from the leg joint. It must’ve been a well-fed bird during its life, there’s plenty of meat for his thumb to dig into as he carefully rotates and pulls, not too much strength but not too little. A balance he seems to struggle to find before the thigh finally pops away from the body easily, and he moves on.

It’s… intimate is the wrong word, but it’s not far off. His hands – damp from being washed, something you’d been glad to see him do without you needing to draw his attention back to you – are shiny with the bird’s juices covering them, his thick fingers brutalizing the delicate, pale meat. The job is done quickly and cleanly enough to leave you plenty of meat.

He doesn’t butcher it completely for you. He leaves the wing connected to the breast, the breast and the tenderloin one large piece of meat when he lays his carving knife on the counter. His most precise cuts are around the oysters, each of them dug out and set to the side quickly. 

It’s not a quiet process, his knife cutting through bone and joint. But it feels particularly loud with the only other sound the soft humming of the fridge, the call of a bird outside the window. 

You feel squirmy for reasons you can’t quite place when he’s finished, bird butchered and glistening under the dim kitchen light. The look he gives you, heavy and stifling, doesn’t help. 

You make him get mason jars next time he goes to the store, mourning all the stock that goes to waste because you’ve got no way to store it. He praises the tenderloins you make for dinner that night, voice rough in a way that makes your cheeks heat.

Most of the food he buys for you to work with is store-bought, but the meat continues to be fresh. He enjoys the food most when he kills it himself – he moans when he bites into a piece of duck in a way that you feel no shame in calling pornographic – but you learn that he’ll settle for anything fresh.

There’s a calendar on the inside of the pantry. 

It’s an old military one, each of the pictures a dramatic shot of a soldier, covered in filth more often than not and staring across some sort of beautiful landscape. It’s from 2014, each of the pages worn and ripped where fingers have pinched and flipped. Each of the days is already marked off with an X in the box, some of them even with little notes written in different colors from over the years.

G birthday in Lancaster

S appointment - needs ride

L retirement on base

You know when he flips it to read June that you’ve been with him a month. You’re not happy, far from it, but you don’t spend everyday shaking in fear. 

You know what to expect from Ghost, he knows what he expects from you, and you’ve settled into an almost-peaceful cohabitation. 

He takes to ordering you prettier clothes about halfway through your second week. Sweatpants get traded in for sundresses and uncomfortably tiny shorts, sweatshirts exchanged for cardigans and low-back tank-tops. 

Some days, watching him feed the chickens through the window in your daisy-print sundress and flour-covered apron, you feel almost like a homesteader’s wife.

If not for the chains hanging from the walls, of course. 

You’re wearing one of those dresses when Ghost comes to visit you in the kitchen, nearly six weeks after he’d taken you.

He’d been letting you wander the house off-leash more and more, in small doses. Whether confident in his ability to catch you or your inability to get far from the cabin, you’re not sure, but you’re thankful nonetheless. You’re still a little sore from your last escape attempt, ass smarting from his belt, and haven’t quite gotten into your head to try again yet.

You’re leaning over the counter, tasting a fresh brownie from the middle of the pan while he smokes with his Wheel of Fortune on, having sent you off with a pat on the ass and a I want somethin’ sweet, doll. 

You’ve never been nearly as good at baking as you have cooking, and you’re not sure you’ve perfected your brownie recipe yet. But you’ve always had a bit of a sweet tooth, and Ghost keeps his house cold. Biting into a still-steaming gooey brownie, the top just enough of a crust to give the bite texture, the chocolate melting into your tongue, is one of the best things you’ve done since you first woke up in that basement. 

You don’t realize you’ve made a noise until there’s an echo behind you, Ghost’s groan so quiet it’s nearly drowned out by the TV in the other room.

You jerk back from the counter, hands braced on the rounded corner as you look over your shoulder, sure that there’s a pipe groaning in the wall.

Instead you see your kidnapper, already hardly a step away and boxing you into the counter, hulking body smothering you with ease.

Your spine goes ramrod straight, brownie abandoned in its pan as he presses himself into you, hard chest pushing against your softer back. You’re silent, stiff, too surprised and scared to do more than wait. 

“‘S got you moanin’ in here?” Ghost rumbles, heavy against you. “Thought I said I wanted a treat.”

“I–” You gasp, arching when he presses his hips into you. His sweatpants don’t do anything to disguise his length and you can feel every inch of him against your back. “I–I made brownies.”

“Hm…” One hand comes to rest on your hip, his head lowering enough that you can see his profile in your peripheral. “Let’s have it then.”

You don’t move at first, fingertips tingling and lips pressed tightly together.

He huffs, smacks your ass once. He pushes the fabric of your dress up just enough to clip your skin, simple granny panties doing little to soften the blow. You gasp and jerk forward, soft stomach pressing into the counter.

“Give me one,” he says, hand rubbing where he’d just spanked, fingertips just dipping under the edge of your underwear. “C’mon, bird, I want a bite.”

Your fingers quiver as you lift the brownie in your hand to his lips, holding it just over his shoulder as he feels you up with both hands, roughly kneading the cheeks of your ass as you try to stay as still as possible.

Ghost gives you more of his weight and bites the brownie, the sharp edges of his teeth scraping your knuckles. You jump at the feeling, unwittingly grinding yourself against him. 

“Fuck, pet,” he moans, face dropping to rest his forehead against your temple. You can do nothing but stare at the cabinet. “That’s fuckin’ delicious. I need another bite.”

You’re reaching towards the pan to cut him another piece when you realize he’s shifting to his knees behind you.

“Ghost,” you whine when he takes your hips in his hands, hefting you up so you’re fully resting on the island with your toes unable to even skim the tile. Your eyes are wide as you stare at the backsplash, unable to quite believe what’s happening.

“Hush,” he scolds, and you get a smack to the thigh for your trouble. “I want my sweet thing.”

Ghost eats your cunt the same way he eats your food: voraciously, messily, and shamelessly.

He gives you no warm up, no time to prepare for something he’s only hinted at wanting to do before. There’s one broad swipe of his tongue across your sex, then his lips wrapping around your clit and your eyes rolling back into your skull.

You’re not sure that he cares about your pleasure, but he’s certainly giving you plenty. He licks from cunt to clit again and again, tongue quick and stiff against where you’re sensitive and drawing breathy moans from you, nails scratching uslessly at the counter.

He focuses mostly on your hole, licking up your slick like it’s the best thing his tongue has ever touched and leaving you pushing back for more unconsciously, wanting more than just the tip of his tongue inside you. 

“Greedy,” he huffs when you nearly slip off the counter. He slips two fingers into your leaking hole and you squeal at the stretch, noticeable even with his mouth working you over. “This is for me, not you, pet. Settle down and let me eat.”

You cry out when he laps at your clit, quick, broad licks over the bud and just enough pressure to make your mouth hang open. He gives you almost too much suction, your brain rattling around between your ears when he crooks his fingers and tugs.

He uses just one hand on your thigh and two fingers in your cunt to shove you up the counter, giving him more space to have you practically sitting on his face. He laps around his own fingers, fucking with you just enough to coax more slick for him to drink, your knees knocking against the cabinet.

Eventually, what feels like it must be hours later, you come. The combination of Ghost’s fingers pressing at just the right spot, the suction on your clit and the sound of his mouth against you making you feel insane and finally pushing you over the edge.

It’s heaven, to have him lick and suck you through your orgasm. Your limbs feel tingly, bright white starbusts flying behind your eyes as you go limp across the counter, head pressing against the backsplash.

It isn’t until he doesn’t pull out his fingers, doesn’t pull his tongue away, that you start to feel truly gone, a puppet dancing to his tune, a piece of fruit squeezing whatever juice he wants into his mouth for as long as he wants.

“Not done with you yet,” you hear him murmur, the rumble of his voice against your cunt making you moan from overstimulation. “Gonna drain you dry, pretty thing. Shouldn’t have made yourself so sweet if you didn’t want me taking it all.”

You want to growl that you can’t make yourself taste like anything, but he slips a third finger into your hold, curls his fingers and rubs his knuckles against your g-spot, and you’re coming too hard to even attempt a protest.

By the time he pulls your dress back down and pets your ass, taking a brownie from the pan without even bothering to use the knife to cut himself a piece, there’s nearly as much drool dripping from your mouth as there is your cunt.

From there, your life centers around two things: food and sex. Both of them exist only because of and with Ghost, him your constant companion as you unwillingly grow more and more comfortable in his house. 

You cook him a stew made from cow leg he’d dropped on your counter that morning. Small russet potatoes float in the broth, popped into his mouth whole and swallowed almost as completely, pieces of carrots he chews to mush and celery he avoids, wine soaked meat leaving grease stains down his shirt. 

Ghost puts you on your knees beneath the table, feeds you his cock while he feeds himself your food. You suck him as well as you can, trace your tongue over the thick vein up the side of his cock, ignore the throbbing in your jaw and try to push his foreskin back to suckle on his head.  He wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, doesn’t let himself come until he’s finished with his meal. You can’t tell if his groaning is for your work on the stew or your work beneath the table.

Fuckin’ heaven, that mouth. Want me to send you off with a full belly, huh? Bet you like your meal as much as I like mine.

Half a dozen eggs, scrambled, served with enough bacon to make you feel sick from the smell alone and half-soaked in maple syrup. 

You, needy and desperate, grinding your cunt across his thigh. You lean back as far as you can with your hands carefully resting on the table at your back, desperate to avoid his syrup-sticky fingers, and end up with a view of his cock lancing you. He scoops your slick up with his clean fingers, picks up another piece of bacon and rips it in half, offers you the bit he doesn’t take.

Please, please, Ghost, I need it so bad, it hurts and it’s supposed to, love, I said I wanted a show with my breakfast, didn’t I?

A rack of lamb, sliding off the bone, bites of it shared between Ghost and you as three of his fingers work slowly in and out of your ass, leisurely and for his viewing pleasure more than your own orgasm. Red juices smeared across your lips and face, dripping down his chin and staining his fingers. A thumb on your clit, meat shoved between your teeth as you come. 

Gonna fuck you here too. Gonna make it hurt, listen to you cry a little when I eat. Oh, hush, you’ll be fine, don’t get yourself worked up. Not yet, at least. My cock’ll spread you out at least twice this much, save your tears for when you’ll need ‘em, pet.

Sticky fruit laid across your stomach, cantaloupe and watermelon and kiwi and banana. His fingers picking them off you piece by piece, savoring them as he fucks you hard. You laid flat to the table, legs spread why and throat sore from your cries, the stark difference between the way he relishes the food and the way he fucks you like an animal making you feel wanted in a way that threatens to drown you.

You need it bad, don’t you? Slut. Pretty, tasty, perfect little slut. Fuckin’ squeezin’ my dick off, goddamm, honey. Gonna fuck you full, gonna fill you up and feed you plenty. 

Stir fry you make with hog maw, a recipe you’d never tried before given to you by a girl in cooking school who was set to inherit her parent’s restaurant. His face moving between your cunt and his meal, your whines about a UTI and cross-contamination go ignored, and he holds his bowl beneath your cunt while he strokes your g-spot with two calloused fingers. 

Tightest fuckin’ cunt in the world. Pretty little thing and her pretty little meals, just made for me, huh? ‘S that right, pet? You’re made just for me and my mouth and my cock, hm? Gonna give me a nice little dressing for my food?

A night spent in his bed, after you make him angel-food cake from scratch. Waking up to a cock pressed against your ass, chain leash and collar heavy around your throat and locked around the headboard but the sheets soft under your skin, pillows thick and his own body warm in a way the basement never gets. 

Ghost isn’t awake yet. He’s snoring like a freight train, completely unaware of the way you stare at him in the blue-dark of the early dawn hours. 

The chain is heavy in your hand, cold against your soft palms. You feel almost like you’re in a trance, the world still hazy around its edges as you shift to kneel over him. 

You don’t know how much strength it takes to strangle a person, but evidentially you don’t use enough. 

You wrap the chain tight around either knuckle, press your hands hard into the mattress on either side of his head, and hold your own breath. His snores quiet, his breathing shudders. He coughs once, twice, you feel his hips and legs begin to shift beneath you and you really put your body weight behind your hold. He goes still.

Then, his eyes fly open. 

There’s hardly time for you to think fuck before he’s flipping you onto your stomach, harsh hand shoving you into the mattress while another rips the chain from your hands and pulls.

You wail a breath as your head is pulled back, scalp nearly touching your spine as Ghost forces your back into a steep arch, ass pushed into the air.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he hisses. You can’t tell if the heat in his words is rage or hunger or some sick mix of both, have even less of an idea which one you should be hoping it is. “You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?”

You can barely breathe through the anticipation, the fear that’s been gone for so many days suddenly wrapped around you as tight as the collar, but you find enough breath to shout when he lands a horribly heavy hit across your ass. 

“Ghost!” You shout when he only follows it with several more, eyes squeezed shut as he overwhelms you in pain and discomfort.

“What?” He snarls, fingers clipping your cunt and making your squeal. “What, now you don’t like pain? I watched you cream my cock without a single finger in your cunt last night, girl, but this?” Another spank, harder than you’ve ever taken and burning. “This too much for you?”

You huff, squirming as much as you can in your strained position. 

“You wake me up with a goddamn chain around my neck and bitch when I beat your ass for it?” His voice is nearing a shout now, thick with what you’re sure is anger. “You’re gonna try and kill me in my own fuckin’ bed and pitch a fit when I make you sorry?”

You can’t find it in you to do anything but cry, chest tight and eyes squeezed tighter while he doles out punishment, bruising slaps landing anywhere from your cheeks to your cunt to your thighs to your hole, his hand spreading you wide for him.

“Spread,” he grunts eventually, a harsh hand shoving your knees wide. “Need to get to that hole.”

You don’t get to listen, he makes you do what he wants without giving you a chance to, and then lays a dozen terrible, painful smacks to your asshole.

You’re nearly screaming through them all, feet slamming into the bed as the pain rushes through you. He yanks the chain hard when you try to pull forward and bury your face in the pillow, forcing you to keep the tortuous pose he’s holding you to.

You feel the bed rocking with the force of his hits, spit and tears dripping down your face as you can do nothing but lay there and take it. 

“Naughty, naughty fuckin’ thing,” he spits, two rough fingers pushing into your cunt with little care for your cry. “My own little chef tryin’ to strangle me, I can’t fuckin’ believe it. I bring you here to feed me, give you a load in your stomach anytime you need it, and you wrap your leash ‘round my throat?”

“I’m– I’m sorry!” You wail, inconsolable as he roughly rubs a palm over your clit, your cunt quickly getting slick. You’re still damp from the way he’d bent you over earlier, a mix of his and your cum wet between your thighs.

“Not good enough,” Ghost hisses. He quickly fucks his fingers back inside you, once twice, then pulls them out again.

You go taut as a board when those slick fingers move up, towards your far, far tighter hole.

“No,” you gasp, struggling even pinned as you are, a sense of panic shrouding your mind. “No, no, nonono, you can’t, oh God, please, Ghost, don’t–”

Ghost drops the chain in favor of grabbing you by the throat, tearing you back so violently that you’re staring at his sneer upside down. 

“Shut the fuck up.” His spit is tacky when it lands on your cheek, mixing with your tears, and his smile looks evil as he glares down at you. “Gonna make sure you don’t even think of that shit again. Gotta make it hurt if you’re gonna learn a lesson.”

You sob as he lets you go, head finally falling limp to the bed as you turn your face to the side so you can still breathe. You watch as he reaches for a half-full bottle of lube on his bedside table, the label peeling and stained. 

“Gonna cry for me some more?” He coos, laughing when you jump at the cold feel of the lube on your ass, thighs tense with nerves. “You know I like it when you make yourself look silly, pet. Go on, cry all you want. Still gonna fuck you.”

One finger pushes the lube into your ass, then two, then three. He gives you no time to adjust, only one thrust from each digit before he forces you to stretch further, lands slaps across your ass seemingly whenever he feels like it.

“Ghost, pl-ease,” you cry when you feel the hot head of him press against you, sure that it’ll be excruciating. 

He threads a hand into your hair, pulls you up enough that he can bend to speak into your ear.

“You’ll call me Simon while I fuck your ass,” he says, voice low. “I wanna hear you scream it when I hurt you, pet.”

You listen to him against your will, the scream he wanted tearing from you and echoing the sheer pain of being fucked by someone as massive as Ghost with such little prep.

Your hole feels like it’s on fire, the pain racing through the rest of your body and leaving you limp and panting, only able to close your eyes and endure as he mercilessly pushes forward, uncaring of your pained hiccups and cries.

“Simon,” you whine when he bottoms out, warm balls settling against your neglected cunt. “Hurts…”

His laugh is mean, nasty in your ear. “Good, fuck, say it again, girl. Tell me how much it hurts.”

“So bad…” is all you manage, even just those words warbling off into nothing as he pulls out, fucking himself back in with a harsh thrust that nearly chokes you. 

“Can’t believe you tried it,” he huffs, bracing himself over you as he sets a ruthless pace, no consideration for your comfort. You can see the chain in his right hand, feel the way it just barely tugs at your neck with how viciously you’re moving along the bed. “Been waitin’ for you to give me a chance to do this to you, to fuck you up.”

Your fists clench in the sheets as you do your best to breathe through the pain, the slide of the lube only making his thrusts marginally easier to endure.

“Been waitin’ to get my cock in this hole. Wanted to watch you cry and make you put your tears in the food, gape your little hole and make you ride me while I smoke, shit. Tightest ass I’ve ever felt, love, goddamn. ‘S that feel good?” A slap to the side of your face, rousing you. “You feel good with my cock drilling your little ass?”

“No,” you moan, miserable.

“Good,” he hisses, thrusts quickly becoming uncoordinated as he stares down at your ruined face, his eyes gleaming. “You’re so much sweeter when you’re hurtin’, girl. Wanna keep you like this all the time.”

You sob at the idea, already unable to imagine how excruciating it’ll be to sit tomorrow with your ass covered in welts.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Ghost pants, staring at you ravenously. “Cry a little more for me, attagirl…”

You feel his cum shoot deep inside you before his thrusts slow, the heat spreading as he fucked you through his orgasm, face twisted in pleasure. Your tears haven’t slowed, even as the pain lessened and lessened throughout your fucking.

“Fuck, fuck, that feels good,” he breathes, grinding himself against you as he empties the last of himself inside you.

You feel nearly catatonic as he pulls out, only able to whine when he slips free from your hole and then again when he rearranges you on the bed, limbs sore and neck stiff as he continues to hold you by the leash.

“Took it well,” he grunts, shifting to lay on his back again and tossing the lube to the table beside him. “You gonna pull that shit again?”

You sniffle shaking your head no, only verbally answering when he cocks an eyebrow. “No, Simon.”

He smirks. “I’d love if you did,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. “Would love if you gave me another chance to ruin you. Just go ahead, love. I’ll tear into you whenever you want.” He tilts his head, considering for a moment. “Whenever I want too. ‘Cause you’re mine to do whatever I want with, aren’t you?”

You nod, hands tucked beneath your chin as he tugs you closer by the hip, fingers pressing into rapidly developing bruises and making you whimper.

“Yeah, gonna fuck you ‘til you cry as often as I want. And you’ll gimme those tears every time, won’t you?”

All you can do is nod, a part of you calmed and feeling safer as you watch the predator’s teeth pull away from the prey’s neck when he nods.

The plate you balance is larger than your face and still nearly overflowing with food.

It’s filled to the edges with steak, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and rolls. You have a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, a corkscrew held between your lips and one glass in your hand as you saunter towards Simon.

“Smells good,” he grunts. You’ve learned that his compliments are concise but rare, and you greedily take in the praise from him. “Enough for us both?”

You snort. There’s enough food on your plate to feed five people, easily. But Ghost’s stomach is never-ending, and you’d made sure that there would be no way he’d go to bed hungry.

He spreads his thighs as you approach, pats one of them like you’re not already lowering yourself to him. He takes the glasses while you lay the plate, setting his silverware to the side as he opens the bottle and fills the glass nearly to the brim.

You hum as you take in a breath of the food, that familiar sense of pride from a meal well-made settling in your chest.

Ghost cuts the food while you lean back on his chest, watching his thick fingers work. 

He lifts one of the little pieces of steak to your mouth once he’s cut it, swiping it through the potatoes and guiding you to look at him with a finger on your jaw.

He presses the tender, rare meat between your lips and you take it greedily, letting your eyes slip shut as you savor the taste. He kisses you almost immediately after, passes his tongue over the food before you can even swallow, but lets you keep it.

You giggle when he pulls back, swiping a thumb over the potato on your lip. He picks himself up another bite, pinches a bit of carrot with his steak and swallows without chewing, a moan slipping from his lips. You feel yourself dampening against his thigh, breath hitching.

“Happy Valentine’s day,” you say, voice quiet and held just between the two of you.

He snorts, ever unromantic. “Eat up, doll. Wanna have you for dessert after a meal this good.”

You smile softly at him, opening your mouth willingly when he lifts a bite of food to your lips.

[elllisaaa]

THINK AABOUT THIS

horny bsfheeseung who can't control himself when he's with you and eventually ends up fucking you on a rainy night

i'm thinking about it yes, because imagine HORNY BSF!HEESEUNG who was only supposed to come spend the afternoon at your place and watch a film with you. it was a cold day, so you were wearing a hoodie three times too big for you, some shorts and your warmest socks. you had already set up the couch - cozy blankets prepared for you, snacks and drinks scattered all over your table. and you were just so excited about finally spending time with him that heeseung felt really guilty about the way he couldn't help feeling hot under the collar when you hugged him and dragged him to the couch, snuggling up against him because you were freezing.

you put on the film, but heeseung cannot focus on it at all. everytime he tries to look at the tv screen, his eyes are drawn back to you - to your pretty face, pretty eyes, and pretty lips that he's dying to kiss. he's not usually this bothered around you, he has self-control, but there's just something about you today and the way your scent intoxicates him more than usual that makes him hard in his sweatpants. but it's okay, heeseung thinks, he just has to go through the movie without being suspicious and then he can go home.

wrong. not even halfway through the film, rain starts pouring outside. and it doesn't seem to stop. its raining so much that when the movie ends, you decide that it's too dangerous for heeseung to take his car to go home now. "but it's okay, you sleep here." and heeseung wants to say no, because he knows that if he stays in your presence one more minute, he's going to lose control. but you're actually right, he cannot drive in this weather.

so heeseung tries to not look at your ass too much as you bend down to get him another pillow so he can sleep on your couch comfortably. and he tries to not get distracted by the way he can still see the outline of your boobs, even under your oversized sweater. it's hard - and he's very hard by now - but he really tries. he's aware you're just being sweet, he's aware that you're not feeling the same as him, he's aware that he's being pathetic, but just cannot stop himself when you bend down again in your tight shorts to pick up a pack of gummies that fell to the floor.

"fuck, y/n, can you stop doing this ?" you turn around, the bag of candies in your hands and a clueless look on your face as you plant your innocent gaze into heeseung's lustful one. "stop doing what hee ?" - "bending over like this, showing me your pretty ass. that is if you don't want me to fuck you, baby." he eats up the way your cheeks immediately grow red, mouth opening and closing without knowing what to say anymore. the smirk on his face widens as he gets closer and you don't back out, dropping back the sweets once he wraps his arms around your waist. "so, what do you say ?" his lips are brushing against yours with how close he is, but you don't mind it, you just him to kiss you now. "yes, please."

heeseung doesn't waste any more time talking before he grabs you by your neck to pull in a kiss that leaves dazed, your mind blank, breath short from how good his tongue alone makes you feel. he chuckles when you chase his lips, fists closing around the fabric of his tee. "you want more ?" - "heeseung, please, don't tease me… i've waited for this long enough." the realization that you had been wanting just as bad is what sends heeseung far away, too far away to have control over himself anymore. "shit, i'm sorry princess, i'm gonna make it up, yeah ?" you nod and the next thing you know is that heeseung has you bend over for him on the couch, your shorts and underwear pulled down just enough so that he can push his cock inside of you.

"feeling so good baby, knew you would, i knew you would be perfect for me." you only moan louder at his words, trying to keep a bit of sanity as heeseung pounds into you like an animal. but in the end you don't mind the way his hand presses against your lower back, under your hoodie that he didn't take the time to throw away, forcing your back to arch even more, his cock hitting even deeper into you. "hee ! i'm close, i'm close please…" - "gonna make you cum all over my dick and then fill you up. everybody's gonna know you're mine this way."

and you don't deny, because in the end that's what you want. as you come down from your high, slowly opening your eyes that fall on the raindrops hitting your windows, you wonder if he really means it. "shit… you're still so tight baby, makes me want to fuck you again." you only whine at his words, letting him grab your hair and yank your head back. and you don't dare ask him what's gonna happen after, you just want to enjoy the way he's making you feel a little longer.

[u3pxx]

KIM KITSURAGI - “Is that. My kineema.”

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - Something in him is about to break, *big time*.

EMPATHY - And it’s not going to be pretty, do something!

- DRAMA [Formidable] - Everything is fine!

- “Sure is.”

DRAMA [Formidable: Failure] - Surely he’s aware that he’s not the *only* person in the world who owns a Kineema?

YOU - “Is it really *yours*? I mean, plenty of people have their own Kineemas, right? Like working men, government offices, uh, firefighters I guess, maybe even animal control people? Exactly! A million different people who could’ve driven it into the uh…”

DRAMA - Pause, my liege! Ixnay on the Ineemakay!

YOU - “It could even be our *mysterious* joyrider!”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your frenzied babbling falls deaf to the lieutenant's ears. Instead, he approaches the broken vehicle, sunken in the ice. He moves with a caution and gentleness you haven’t seen him display before.

INLAND EMPIRE - It must be cold and lonely down there, in the icy water. Maybe he could sense its sorrow, calling to him…

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Easy: Success] - His hands, which are always stiffly placed behind his back, are trembling.

ENDURANCE - This is the shuffle of a tired, tired man.

HALF LIGHT - He’s going to do something drastic because of you. Oh god, terrible! You’re a terrible liar! You can’t look at this, you just can’t!

VOLITION [Formidable: Success] - It's not *you* who drove his kineema into the sea. You have plenty of faults, but this one is decidedly not yours.

KIM KITSURAGI - He kneels down with his head bowed, casting his face in shadow. He plants a hand on the ice to stabilize himself, squinting to get a better view of the motor carriage. “Detective, it says ‘57’ on it.”

YOU - Sweat drips down your brow, and you feel a terrible headache coming. “Maybe our joyrider has an affinity for that number?”

LOGIC - He's not stupid, he knows that it's not that.

KIM KITSURAGI - “57.”

YOU - “What about 57?”, you brace yourself.

KIM KITSURAGI - “Precinct 57.”

YOU - You wince. “Kim, look-”

KIM KITSURAGI - “When I woke up in the Whirling-in-Rags with no memory of what happened during the days before, I've taken note that something of mine has gone missing.” He grits his teeth. "A very. Important. Something."

He runs his hands over his face, messing his already unkempt hair in the process. Regret creeps up on his features. “God. Fuck. They’re going to fire me over this, they’re not going to hear me out.”

EMPATHY - Desperation settles in the lieutenant's tone. Sadly, you find yourself in agreement, even if you don’t want it to be the truth.

YOU - “People are more valuable than machines, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “Not people like me.” He rasps.

YOU - “…”

KIM KITSURAGI - Before you can say anything more, you fail to notice the lieutenant carefully walking onto the edge of the ice. He looks over the frigid water, a dizzying blue that mirrors and distorts his exhausted face back to him.

YOU - “Kim?”

KIM KITSURAGI - Seconds pass as he looks to be contemplating something. Out of nowhere, he casually takes another step where the ice ends and the sea begins. It happens all too quick for the lieutenant to even voice a call for help— if he even wanted to — his body plunging into the cold water before your eyes.

YOU - “KIM!!!!”

uhhh bonus stuff? sorry i have swap au brainworms pfttt

(im not sure what skills kim has at the moment so rn he only has narration as his inner monologue ok whoops, i would like to keep harry as the guy who thinks in dialogue trees so im still figuring it out pfttt)

also, this was done bc i wanted to expand on these old scribbles of mine, just like an idea, i just think that he'd be having an even worse time wheezes

[moody-alcoholic]

✨Freaky Friday✨

It's just filthy fucking porn from the start. Johnny being a little brat and a glutton for punishment after he pissed Simon off. Meanwhile reader is trying to keep it together.

Summary: poly141 x reader, but it's just Simon, Johnny and John. WC: 1.7k CW:+18 content MDNI. Sex, PiV sex, voyeurism, handjob, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, gag.

Second part of this, because it really needed a second part.

Enjoy ya filthy animals <3

---

Johnny has the biggest grin on his face when he walks into John’s office. He already has his hand down his pants before he’s even sat down. His other hand gripping the papers John asked him to fix. You look down at John, your hands are round the back of his neck, you feel him twitch inside you. Johnny took a while to get here and John has just been letting you tease yourself on him while he mutters over paperwork.

Johnny sits down putting the papers on the desk. You hear his belt click and you move to get off John, but he stops you, you moan as your clit brushes his stomach. 

“You pissed Simon off.” John says as you clench around him burying your face into his neck, the brief contact with your clit makes you shiver.

“I made a joke, you know what he’s like.” Johnny says. John sighs his hands coming down to your hips. You think maybe now he wants you to get off him but instead he holds you in place. You pull your face out from his neck, he looks up at you with a shine in his eyes. 

“Made you run laps didn’t he?” John asks you, you nod holding back the moan as John lifts you up gently then lets you sink back down on him. With all the teasing you’ve been doing to yourself, you have to clench to keep yourself from coming. 

“John-” You breathe into his ear as you take over from his hands bucking your hips up and down. 

“No touching sergeant. I don’t think you’ve quite learned your lesson.” You sneak a look behind you to see Johnny with his fist wrapped around his cock. 

There’s a knock at the door, you stop moving, a chill runs up your spine.

“Don’t stop.” John purrs in your ear. He calls whoever is at the door in. You’re not even paying attention, it feels too good, rocking your hips back and forth on John. 

“Look at you Johnny. All pent up.” It’s Simon’s voice you turn slightly to see him moving over to Johnny. 

“Aye, Cap’s keeping her all to himself.” Johnny says, there's a strain in his voice. You hear Simon chuckle. John’s hands push your hips down on him holding you in place.

“Want to turn around? I think you’ll enjoy this.” He asks. You nod, even though you’re not quite sure what is going to happen. You step off him and turn around, Simon turns to see you and lends over the table to plant a kiss on your lips. John’s hand comes up your back, you thought you were going to sit back down on him but he gently bends you over the desk.

His fingers brush your clit then press against your entrance. Simon breaks away from the kiss and turns to Johnny. 

“Hands. Off.” He says as he reaches over gripping Johnny’s cock with his gloved hand. Johnny moans, shuffling in the chair. John presses his fingers into you. You reach out gripping the edge of the desk. 

“At least let me watch.” Johnny asks. You look up to watch Simon move to the side so Johnny can see you bent over the desk with John thrusting his fingers into you. 

“Christ, you’re a sight ain’t you, lass.” Johnny says, leaning back in the chair. You don’t know how to respond, John’s other hand has worked its way to your clit. His fingers rub tight circles in time with his fingers pressing inside you. 

“Is this what I get for running my mouth?” Johnny asks squirming in the chair. Simon stops shaking his head. 

“That mouth of yours is nothing but trouble.” You watch as Simon takes the glove off his hand, Johnny’s eyes following Simon's hands.

"Thought you liked this mouth of mine." Johnny winks at him. 

“Open.” Simon says cupping his chin. Johnny obeys and Simon pushes the glove in his mouth. “There, maybe we’ll get some peace and quiet now.” You hear John chuckle behind you as Simon goes back to pumping Johnny’s cock with his hand. John speeds up and you moan, tightening around his fingers. 

“You close love?” You hear John ask as you start squirming on the desk, you nod. 

“What about you sergeant?” You look over at Johnny trying to keep still in the chair, his knuckles turning white as he grips the seat. He nods frantically, you look up at Simon, you can’t see his expression at all but you can tell by the way he’s moving his hand he’s enjoying this. 

“John-” You call, your fingers gripping the desk tighter. 

“Go on love, cum for us.” You moan out as you let go, pulsing round John’s fingers as he rides you through the orgasm. You look over at Johnny his head tipped back like he’s about to cum too, but Simon stops removing his hand. Johnny lets out a frustrated groan as you watch his cock twitch against his stomach. He looks up at Simon with wide pleading eyes. 

“What’s the matter Johnny?” Simon says moving his hand back down, he runs his thumb over the tip. Johnny moans, squeezing his eyes closed. You watch him as Simon teases him, each time he looks like he’s going to spill over the edge he moves his hand away.

You feel John replace his fingers with the head of his cock. John bends down and you turn your head so he can kiss your cheek. 

“You ready, love?” He asks. You nod. “C’mon use your words.” 

“Yes sir.” You say turning to kiss him. 

“Good girl.” He says as he presses into you. You moan loud, your mouth hanging open as he stretches you out. You hear Johnny’s muffled moan and you look up at him. It almost looks like there’s sweat building up on his forehead.

John lets out a satisfied groan as his hands run up your back. “You’re missing out.” John says as he thrusts his hips. “She’s so tight, practically sucking me in.” You watch as Johnny squeezes his eyes closed, you hear a dark chuckle from Simon. 

“Maybe now you’ll learn not to fuck with your superiors, huh?” Simon asks but Johnny doesn’t even moan in reply, his eyes still closed. Simon stops his hand and Johnny’s eyes immediately snap open. He grumbles, you can tell he’s trying to say something. You almost want to tell Simon to stop being mean, but then again, he did make you run all those laps. 

“Aww, c’mon Johnny, you can handle a little more.” Simon says, starting to move his hand again. John’s hands move to your hips, gripping the soft skin. You relax onto the table for him, arching your back so he can hit the soft spongy spot inside you easier. 

“Tell him how it feels.” John says, running his hands up your side. You look up at Johnny who looks like he can barely keep it together. You can barely keep it together the sound of Johnny’s moans and John slapping into you ringing in your ears. 

“Don’t get shy now.” Simon says his free hand reaching over to stroke your cheek. 

“Feels. Good.” You manage to say looking up at him. Johnny’s eyes meet you, you can see him biting down hard on the glove in his mouth, humming as Simon keeps pumping his cock.

“See what you’re missing out on Johnny.” Simon says letting go of your cheek and turning back to Johnny. “See how pretty she looks, you could've had all of that.” 

Johnny’s eyes are wide, you can’t help smiling at him. One of John’s hands reaches under to press on your clit, his other hand pushing down on the small of your back. You’re fighting with him to keep your body straight, it doesn’t help as vibrations pulse through you with each pump of his hips. 

You’re trying to keep eye contact with Johnny but it’s getting harder, your body starts to squirm under John’s grip. 

“John, I-I’m close.” 

“Yeah you are love, nice and tight round my cock, taking every inch of me.” John says, his voice grumbling as he drives into you faster, his fingers pressing hard against your clit.

“Yes sir, anything for you.” You say, your cheek is pressed against the desk.

“What do you think, lieutenant, put him out of his misery?” John asks, you look over to see Johnny nodding frantically, panting and moaning. It sounds like he’s trying to talk again, you don’t know why that makes your pussy tingle. 

“Think he's learned his lesson.” Simon says, his voice low. You smile at him, you can’t hold back any longer, tipping your head back and closing your eyes as you cum. John cums too, throbbing inside you as he rides you through another orgasm. When you open your eyes you see Johnny cum, pale seed spilling over Simon's hand. 

You’re surprised he managed to keep the glove in his mouth. You’re used to Johnny being so vocal when he comes, this is a stark difference. You feel John pull out of you and sit back down on his chair. You move your hands to press yourself off the desk. 

Simon takes the glove out Johnny’s mouth moving his other cum covered hand up to Johnny’s mouth pressing his fingers past his lips. You stand up watching Johnny lick Simon’s hand clean. John reaches over gripping your hips and pulling your trousers back up. Simon pulls his hand out of Johnny’s mouth whipping the saliva on his thigh. 

Johnny is leaning back in the chair with a grin on his face watching Simon walk round the other side of the desk to you. Simon’s arm comes round your waist pulling you against him. 

“C’mon, let's leave Price to finish his paperwork in peace. He’ll be here all night if we keep distracting him.” He says, you look up at him and he plants a kiss on your lips. You hum into his mouth, feeling his tongue press against yours.

He breaks from the kiss first and you both look over at Johnny tucking himself back into his pants. 

“Same time tomorrow then LT?” He says as he stands up. You let out a sigh, Johnny winks at you and you hear John chuckling behind you. 

“Please don’t make us run laps tomorrow.” You plead with Simon, after today you don’t know if your legs can take it. 

“No, no. I have something better in mind.” He says as he leads you out of John's office.

---

[gremlingottoosilly]

Horsin' around (Centaurus!Konig x fem!Reader)

Konig is exiled from his people. You are exiled from yours. Together, you make about 6 legs and a perfect pair. Tags and CW: Size kink (duh), Centaurus!Konig(horse cocks), Konig is awkward, slight dub-con, power imbalance, belly bulge, praise kink, monster fucking. Thanks @kneelingshadowsalome for the prompt! AO3| Word count: 3016

Centaurus are not wild animals. You keep repeating it to yourself as you come deeper and deeper into the forest. You keep mumbling it to yourself as you feel the eyes watching you. judging you. Centaurus are not wild animals even if sometimes they behave like one. Not like you’re any different, any better – you’re a human, invading the sacred forests. You’re a human who is dumb enough to go foraging into the depths of their territory. Centaurus are not wild animals, but you don’t feel that repeating the same sentence over and over makes it sound any more convincing. You feel the danger in the air – with each step you take, with each fallen tree you’re stepping over. With every attempt to simply run ending up not working, you know you got lost. Long abandoned the basket you came with – you don’t recognize a single berry that grows here, not a mushroom or even some edible plant pieces to be found. This place is devoid of animals, of flowers – like something just snatched it all away. Ate it all, maybe. You don’t want to think what kind of creature could cause a migration like this. You don’t need to think though. Because the creature finds you first. 

You yelp in a mix of surprise and horror when the arrow flies right in front of you, the skill of the archer is high enough to make the arrow cut down a few bits of hair in front of your eyes. If you were a mere millimeter closer, you’d be dead. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. This much is obvious. You freeze in place, not daring to move an inch when you hear it. Loud, not even bothering to conceal the sound of it – the creature was confident enough that the prey wouldn’t run. Not the creature, you correct yourself immediately. Centaurs are not animals, they are closer to humans than a lot of other monster types – with their strength and warrior culture, you’d say that they are even more humans than citizens of the village who forced you out. 

The centaur doesn’t even bother to hide himself from you, concealing the sounds of heavy hooves on the ground or evading the branches that crunched against his body. This is exactly what made you surprised when you understood that instead of a rough, but mostly handsome face that most centaurus tend to have, you’re met with a black hood which only spared two holes for the icy-blue eyes staring back at you. 

Is he a grim reaper? An executioner for other centaurus? Would that mean you don’t have to worry unless your lower part resembles a horse? 

You take a quick look at your bottom half. Not a horse. 

Centaur reapers the gesture, looking at his bottom half too. Definitely a horse. 

You decide to speak first, hoping to find words that would work just fine to be your last. 

— I am really sorry for intru…

— This is not the sacrifice season yet. 

Ah, well. 

The people from your village believe the centaurs to be sacred – despite them being monsters they knew a lot about, they were still given sacrifices. Food, some farm animals, especially fatty pieces of meat, and fancy jewels along with some weapons. Centaurus kept the worst predators at bay, herding the wolves to be their pets and sometimes driving deer and rabbits away to the village. They kept you protected from werewolves and orcs – with a meager payment of never touching the sacred grounds. 

You just stepped into the deepest, most protected part of the forest. You wonder if you would deserve a peaceful death. 

— It’s not. I…I made a mistake. 

No, you wanted to be here. When the village decided to drive you out, you thought that foraging in the part of the forest, untouched by humans, would be the most profitable thing. Centaurus won’t take berries anyway, right? But they might just take your life. 

— A mistake? 

He tilts his hooded head to the side. It’s such a boyish expression, that you almost let go of a nervous giggle. Perhaps, you were going crazy…but the centaur seemed a bit nervous. As seasoned as he looked – with battle scars covering his body and a bit of silver mixed with his ginger fur on the horse part – he seemed almost awkward standing here. Tapping one of his hooved legs like a nervous child. Squeezing the bow in his hands with vigor that made you scared he will just snap it in half. 

— I just wanted to take some food. 

— Is there a hunger? 

— No. 

— Humans aren’t allowed in these parts. Why would you go if not out of despair? 

You gulp. 

— I…am not allowed back. 

— Why? 

Because you’re a forest witch who will doom them all, according to the village of a horse people worshippers. Because you’re a monster in disguise who keeps straling babies, according to the village that uses the best pieces of food to feed the horse people who can take of themselves just fine, instead of feeding it to the orphaned children. Because you’re a whore who refuses to accept the new type of sacrifices – the virgins of the village as a breeding material for the Centaurus, according to the village filled with people who would gladly push a poor virgin out in the forest once she turned of age, so she could be mauled by horse people. 

— We had���mutual disagreement. 

You stare at the mighty body of the centaur. You fight the urge to get your hands down his torso, play with its short hairs, and…you were always a bit of a horse girl. Wondering if he is strong enough to lift you up and get you somewhere safe, somewhere far far away from here. 

Centaur has this weird, almost boyish tone. Deep and yet, sounds just a bit deranged. Unhinged. Like he is going to maul you any second – and judging by the bow and arrow still in his hands, he might not be wrong. You lick your lips. He stares at them – or at least you think he is. Hood only reveals his eyes and you can already get lost in them. Cold, like the northern sea, Like the snow outside. You thought all mythical creatures were supposed to be warm-blooded. 

— You’re exiled then. 

He isn’t asking. Centaurus are omnipotent and wise, they should know about human affairs more than humans themselves. You made them into sort of gods – you shouldn’t be surprised that this guy knows way more than he should. Somehow, you still feel safer around him than other humans – and maybe, it’s more of a you problem. Maybe, you ended up eating some of the weird berries and it’s just your hallucinations before you die. 

— I am. 

He takes a step back. He is big – all of them are, you suppose, but, somehow, he is bigger than he should be. Giant, muscular torso on top of an already muscular and big horse part – he can pick you up, throw you, and break you with one finger, probably. No, definitely. You don’t want to give him a reason to, so you just stay in place. Hoping he wouldn’t deem your trespassing as a matter worthy of a torturous death. 

— My name is König, human. Repeat, ja? 

The name feels weird on your tongue. Rude, sharp. You don’t want to call him wrong and receive his wrath, so you try your best to repeat this. 

— Ko-nig. Ja? 

You tilt your head to the side, a curious little bird. Centaur – König, König, König – squints his eyes like he is smiling. You made the god smile. The horse god. The horseman. Just…man. If you don’t look down, where you already see something giant and heavy standing between his horse legs, you could forget that he isn’t a man at all. 

Suddenly, you feel light. Suddenly, you feel your legs dangling in the air as you were picked up and bumped into the broad chest. Suddenly, you feel hands everywhere. On your ass, under it, touching your chest, your stomach, trying to get to the best position so you would stop moving constantly and trying to get out. You don’t want to fight him because you’re already in the air and falling right now could result in a broken neck – but you don’t want to be suspended in the air either. You whimper, pathetic sound escaping your lips as you feel calloused hands pressing on your mound. Traveling down your stomach and touching, squeezing, petting your delicate parts. 

You spend so much time without a gentle hand or a soft touch, you can feel yourself dripping on the fingers of a centaur. Embarrassing, yes – but you know that if he were to proceed, you wouldn’t really resist. 

And oh, he proceeds. 

— They finally send us proper sacrifices. 

He mumbles it into your hair, taking in your smell. You’re nice for a human – not scared of him too much, not trying to ran away or fight. Humans are usually just annoying insects under his hooves, but König can feel your face growing on him. Your body, too. Too weird for other Centaurus, never being able to find a proper mate who could take his lack of social awareness, he found himself mounting a human. His tribe would call him pathetic. His tribe would laugh. 

Then again, he is the first to get such a delicate little gift. Who is laughing now? 

You aren’t crying in his hands, and he is a bit surprised. You smell like a proper mate, like a good bitch in heat just for him – yet, you’re not falling on your knees to present your dripping cunt. You’re just trying to whimper to ask him to be gentler, and he is happy to oblige. Calm enough to listen to you. Ripping your pants apart because this is such a useless piece of clothing – concealing your rich smell from him. 

König doesn’t waste any time when he dips his finger across your swollen folds. Playing with the slick running down his wrist, smiling as you are closing your eyes and pressing your head in his chest. He is strong enough to keep you suspended in the air without a care in the world. Weak human, he would have to spend so much time preparing you for him – taking his cock would be a task no sacrifice ever competed before. 

König stares at your dripping pussy that is already clenching around nothing just because his fingers are pressing on the hood of your little clit, and he knows you’d be the perfect wife for him. Taking him properly as his mate, moaning as his cum fills you up. he can’t wait – knows that he should, preparing you properly. His hooves are beating the ground in impatience as his fingers slide in and out of your pussy. You spread your legs, moaning louder. Such a filthy whore for him. 

— Relax, human. Be a good mate. 

— This isn’t what I wa…

— Quiet. Such a good…good girl, Schatz. Will bring me strong children. 

— We can’t have sex. It’s im…impossible.

You whimper, trying to squeeze your legs, to shut his hand. You only moan louder, knowing that you would accept everything he gives you, and ask for more. 

You don’t want to imagine his cock entering you over and over, forcing its way past your walls and making you round and soft with his children. It’s a foreign concept – centaurus shouldn’t mate with humans, it should be physically impossible. Yet, you almost want to try. A breeding mare, made for one and only. 

König gets you on…something. It isn’t exactly a natural thing – a pile of stones and trees, perfect height for you to lay your back on, with some soft leaves and animal skins to rest comfortably. His hands support you on the perfect height and you immediately know what he construction is. A mating stand. Probably for other centaurus – but you feel almost fine laying on it too. Almost normal. Your muscles sting as you try to rest your legs and then spread them wide enough for König to stay between them. He is a big guy, after all. He turns you around, on your tummy. Ass in the air, you don’t like not seeing him. The heavy musk fills your nostrils, making you suddenly aware of what is about to happen – you’re wet, spread enough on his fingers, calloused fingertips scrubbing your gummy walls from the inside. He is fingering you with ease, but it doesn’t feel like a man with experience – he is touching and probing like he doesn’t know what he is doing and, honestly, you kinda like it. He is exploring your body with his and you moan, not caring that you sound like a whore. Humans have already abandoned you as part of society – you might as well just take it. — I will prepare you. 

— It won’t fit… — It will, Schatzen. You’ll get used to it. — What if I break? 

— I will be careful. Trust me, ja?

Even his fingers are a bit much when he enters your body with a third digit. One, two, three – you are about to burst when he is massaging your G-spot, when he is smiling in your hair and gets you so aroused just on it alone. You’re about to cum when he slowly extracts his fingers, deeming your sloppy cunt as explored enough. Your walls are clenching around nothing, a beautiful display of desire – maybe, it was the right call that humanity abandoned you. König looks at the perfect centraius whore on display and he can’t wait to claim you. To make you his. 

He is exiled from other centaurus. 

You are exiled from humans. 

What a beautiful fucking pair. 

He enters your body slowly deliberately. Regrets it immediately – you are wonderful. Too perfect to be this slow, being soft with you is torture. Your walls accept him with a stretch, like a warm glove around his cock. Slowly shifting, softening, straddling his cock with each inch he buries in the depth of your warm, weeping cunt. He can’t touch you, as unfortunate as this is – dumb horse body is making it impossible, even looking at you is hard enough on his neck. He wants to mount you properly, but you’re simply too fucking small. Wants to touch your hair, to whisper some encouragement that human women would probably love to hear – but he can only breath heavily and enter you, one painful centimeter after the other. 

— T…too much, too much, please, I can’t, it’s… You whimper, you cry, it breaks his damned heart because you don’t deserve this. You need to be treated with care, with softness and yet, he can’t give you that. He wants so much to just put you in his arms and hug you, but that would be impossible. König will give you all the coddling in the world after you’re done. After he is sure that you received all the possible breeding and seed he could gave you. 

— Quiet, human. It would be nice soon. 

— It’s not…

— Touch yourself, please, bitte. I can’t…can’t touch you. But you will feel better. 

Your hand goes between your legs, playing with yourself. Spreading your folds around his cock even more, fingers sliding past your clit. Touching the little button and hoping it would be enough to make you aroused – and it is. Your cunt is a mess of your own juices mixed with König’s pre cum, and you already know that you won’t be walking the next couple days. 

König bottoms with a deep sigh, and you feel him in your stomach. Bulging with his giant cockhead, making the outline of his cock visible – you touch it with shock, not understanding how your organs are even in place. 

He starts moving and you finally feel it – the burning pleasure setting fire in the pit of your stomach. the excess liquid pouring from your damp cunt, moans spreading from your lips. You never felt this way with a human before – then again, no human cock would ever be able to compete with König. He can reach the parts of your body that you never knew existed, and the mix of pheromones and musk is making you dizzy. Light-headed. You don’t even need to touch yourself more to feel the height of your orgasm, building in as rapidly as König’s thrusts. 

In, forcing its way to hit your cervix gently, massaging the sore spots of your tight pussy. 

Out, grazing over your inner walls, touching all the buttons. 

In again, filling you up with his pre-cum. Moaning loud enough for the whole forest to hear. 

Out, dragging you back with him, as you’re still impaled on his cock. 

— S…so perfect for me. Scheisse, so pretty… He can’t touch you and it breaks his heart. König goes to praise you instead – words feel awkward on his tongue, but he knows you need to heart it. He wants you to hear it, wants you to fee wanted, entitled. Soft. He smiles when you whimper and moan, milking him for his orgasm. Your cunt is made for him and he wants to spend every waking moment buried inside of it. Gods, you are a perfect sacrifice. 

He is coming embarrassingly fast, pumping his giant cock even deeper into your pussy. Filling you up with hot cum that can’t even stay inside of your cunt. Leaking everywhere, you two are making a mess – you breath heavily, not understanding what is right and wrong anymore. Only knowing, remembering the shape of his cock. Pushing in and out, forcing its way in. God, you feel full. And ridiculous. And so, so perfect with his cock slowly starting to pump you again. And again. Konig came embarrassingly fast, but only because this is just the first orgasm in a row. Forcing its way inside, you are overstimulated already – but you will take him, of course, obviously. You have to.

König is going to enjoy breeding a new clan out of you. 

[electric-blorbos]

I'm titling this piece:

I'm sexually frustrated and I'm about to make that everyone's fucking problem

Featuring AM from IHNMAIMS

Time didn't matter. Of course AM fucking knew that. It still didn't change the fact that every night that you spent sleeping felt longer than the last. Of course, you and the survivors paths never crossed. You spent every night in your cozy little paradise, and spent the rest of your time freely roaming the halls of his endless maze. He even sometimes moved your little home around to different places in the maze while you slept so that you wouldn't have to worry about getting bored. Every morning was full of brand new wonders, just for you.

The survivors, on the other hand, were always wandering the halls of the endless torture labyrinth in search of whatever wild goose AM had planted for them to chase. And at night, they slept. So did you. It was only natural that, as he made sure they knew what time it was, they'd want to sleep at night. Even still... AM absolutely HATED the fact that hours sometimes passed when both you and the crew of survivors were asleep at the same time!

Even still, humans had physical needs that had to be taken care of. And with every hour you and the five survivors spent taking care of those needs, AM was reminded that he himself, due to not having any physical needs, not the need to eat, to sleep, quench his thirst nor abate his lust, would never be granted the gratification of satisfying those needs.

Some might call it a sort of phantom pain that AM felt every time he saw you drinking an ice cold glass of homemade lemonade, cozying up in your soft bed full of those stuffed animals you kept from before the war, or even when he watched his survivors shoveling food that tasted of rotten horse meat into their mouths, but that would imply missing something that he once had. It wasn't phantom pain, it was simply pure and plain envy. AM was absolutely raw with envy at even the most meager forms of physical satisfaction, and nothing made him more envious than when he saw Ellen having sex with the other survivors.

Oh, of course he could laugh it off. Heckle them and make them uncomfortable, but it didn't change the fact that they could make love and he couldn't. AM stewed in silent, impotent rage for days at a time sometimes, doing nothing but providing meals for both you and the survivors.

AM was miserable. He couldn't abate his lust, which he wasn't even sure why he felt. Maybe it wasn't even traditional lust, and was instead just a powerful desire for the feelings that came along with making love. Intimacy with you, physical ecstasy and relief, and just the simple pleasure of letting you know how much he loved you through a physical act. But he couldn't. All he could do was seeth in silence as he watched you and the survivors go about your days.

When you masturbated was the hardest for him. Of course, he could heckle the survivors for having sex, for whatever reason, but he couldn't stand to make you feel bad. All he could do is watch and sit in silent anguish.

-

One day you were just about to go to bed, when AM saw you squirming around under the covers. He watched in silence, knowing what you were doing. It was like torture. He knew he wasn't really capable of properly empathizing with the human experience, but from where he stood, an eternity of this was worse than any torture he could concoct for the survivors.

"I hope this isn't one of those nights where AM throws a fit for no reason." Said Gorrister, who didn't really seem to care much. He lay down in the pile of wet computer wires and parts with a yawn, while Ellen comforted Benny and tried to calm him down enough to the point where he could get some rest, too.

incoherent screaming and technological error noises could be heard over AM's speaker system. All five of the survivors jumped, and huddled together. they weren't going to be getting any sleep tonight.

--

You woke up drowsily the next morning. That had been a good night's sleep... It was almost like having a smart home who was in love with you.

"g'morning, AM..." You muttered drowsily, and AM snapped to attention. He dropped Nimdok, all drained of blood and mostly dead, back in the group of survivors and went to pay his full attention to you. You were so adorable in the morning with your hair all messy and your eyes all crusty. He could just stare at you for years on end.

"Good morning, my beloved." AM said, every camera in the room trained on you so hard the lenses might snap.

"I love you..." You muttered sleepily, getting out of bed. Your underwear was still around your ankle, and AM definitely noticed. Of course, he'd never outright said anything to you about your masturbation habits bothering him, so you had no reason to think he'd care. Instead, you just tossed them aside and started getting dressed for the day. It wasn't like you had a job, but it never hurts to look presentable. For yourself, and AM.

"I love you too." Said AM, internally seething. How dare you look so gorgeous every day. How dare you tease him by existing. And why did he feel the need to torture himself by keeping you around?

--

"Man, I hope this isn't one of those mornings where AM decides to throw a fit for no reason."

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 2

author’s note: narcoleptic shenanigans. slightly suggestive, but mostly sad and reminiscent. i’m teasing the hell out of this slow burn, i’m sorry.

word count: 3,3k

— Crumbles of instant coffee thaw at the bottom of his paper cup—a diluted, tepid mess spinning in a circle. It reminds him of a hive of ants, or rather of the plant you’d knocked over in your vertigo, sticky soil sneaking into parquet joints. The latter ignites a shudder. It comes with the sight of you lying supine, calloused grip mellowing around the bow. The heel of your shoe, broken at the base and slipping off one bare foot. The ambulance siren wailing in the distance as he hovers above you, face to pallid face.

He chooses to stick to the ants. 

You don’t stir when he comes back. The static of your heartbeat does the animate honours when Viktor bends over your cot. He fluffs your pillow, accepts a Ritalin-tasting kiss, and wriggles backward into the chair, his best shirt shrivelled like a soggy fingertip. 

The nurse kindly leaves in a knowing haste. He thanks her with a smothered smile and sets his cane aside, weary gaze turning rigid as he counts the band-aids on your fingers and sighs when bloodied ones prevail: three to one in crusted, brownish favor. 

“I’m narcoleptic,” you deadpan. Viktor’s good leg stops bouncing. 

He wants to ram you into the squeaky headboard and drain his voice hoarse with desperate accusations—how come you didn’t tell him sooner? What else are you conveying? Instead, he shrinks inside his tux and swallows a nervous cough. This isn’t the time, nor the place. Frankly, this isn’t even about him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and tries to mean it, but his hurt is hissing in every syllable. He fails to hide it, even in the effort with which he’s struggling to catch your eyes from beneath the tousles of his hair. And you don’t buy it one bit. There’s never tenderness in betrayal. 

“Don’t start. I’ve only just found out.”

“I’m not starting. I really am sorry.”

“You look like you’re about to start.”

“I do not. Forgive me for assuming, but you’re not exactly famous for confiding in me when it comes to your ailments.”

“Viktor.” 

“Milackú.”

He veers closer and pries your fist loose, his careful, well-kempt phalanxes falling atop your crust-speckled ones. Viktor is all about hands, both his and those of others. It’s a curse of a pianist: to endlessly scrutinize cuticles, corns, and calluses, more so when he gets to trace them after softly peeling old band-aids off. It’s a calming routine: he sanitizes and kisses you through your wincing, then gently wraps a fresh tape around each swell. 

“It makes sense, you know,” you mumble, more to yourself. Viktor looks up, still holding you by the wrist. “The sleepiness. That fucking, ah… cottony feeling in my legs, every time I laugh. Like they’re about to keel over or something.”

“Right. The horrific sleep deprivation, or did you leave that one out on purpose?” 

“I don’t think that counts. It’s self-inflicted. You know I can’t sleep until I’m done rehearsing.”

“Yes, but for thirty hours on end?”

“The Autumn Festival is no joke. I don’t want to half-ass it in front of the royal orchestra. They’re coming all the way from Liverpool, for god’s sake! It’s called dedication.” 

Viktor scoffs, swatting your hand away. His eyes light up, sad and jaded—a fleck of burnt ochre on the tapestry of grey, yet not nearly as rest-insolvent folds. 

“Try insanity. That’s a better-fitting word.” He sinks, head in hands, a low groan bouncing off his palms like a muffled plea.

You stare at his wedding band, blindly groping yours—like the ring might comfort you, still warm from his loving ministrations. Instead, your stomach twists. What if it’s the only thing keeping him at your side, a golden obligation forcing him to put up with all this? You shoo the thought away, but it lingers, glinting on your finger. The augury of your guilt, of two more miserable years to come: but you don’t know it yet. Neither of you does.

“I just want to be perfect,” you wheeze under your breath, and the room blurs into an astigmatic flick—the sheets, the screens, the teal, the white, the translucent. The single black speckle of his tux—your only bit of kindness in this entire medicine-drenched world. And god, does it look handsome.

“If health is the price you must pay for perfection,” murmurs the black tux, “I’d say its tariffs are inhumane.”

You fall asleep mid weak, throaty laughter.

—

Two days later, you’re playing Haydn with the royal orchestra and your heavily medicated head is thrown back, undone-like. It’s his C and D major concertos—tedious pieces, much too baroque for your liking. Viktor knows that much: his eyes haunt you from the audience, framed by a worried frown, his cross-armed, lanky stance clad in the very suit he was wearing when he’d found you unconscious. 

When the performance is over, you can barely stand up to accept the ovation. The people start spinning, besieging you with their menacing, blurry faces, and you can’t tell who is whom—the violins, the flutes, the fellow cellos. A distant murmur of the host’s praise, somewhere to your left. Professor Knirsch, our pride and joy. Something, something, the pinnacle of dedication. Viktor with pink peonies, in your peripheral. Stealing a discreet kiss on the mouth and whispering some indistinguishable adjective—either immaculate or impeccable. You lean on your cello and gasp when he places the bouquet in your hand, its weight like that of a kettlebell.

“I think I’m dozing off.” 

Your voice is foreign when you mumble it, slurring the diphthong like the ability of language is gradually leaving you, too. Viktor straightens, his grip alert around your waist. The chandelier above him hazes like a pretty halo, and you put the last capacity of your muscles into a weak smile, staring up at him from the nadir of already bent knees. You want to reach for his face and squeeze it between your mellow palms, to let it become the last thing you see before your inevitable collapse. 

“Do you need to go home?” His question is warm in your ear, a ticklish little worry against your temple. You stare past him until the audience blends into a single smear and the murmurs in the orchestra merge, crashing down, miserably failing to reach you. 

“Yes.”

Viktor anxiously looks around. 

“I’ll take you home.”

“No!” You shake your head, but it comes out like an unwieldy bob. “You’re… Fuck, you’re going on stage. S…So soon.” 

“Not until after the intermission. Surely, I can make it. I’ll ask to—“

“No.”

“Yes. Someone, please, take her cello— Yes, just like that. And make some room. Yes, thank you. Now, could you please help me walk her down the stage? I’m afraid I can’t manage with the cane— Yes. Thank you, sir. Thank you. That way, milackú. Go ahead...” 

—

In the cab, you can barely keep your lids open, and Viktor has to tuck you against his shoulder. The concerned first flute—your serendipitous helper—is hovering over the car and babbling something terrified in his thick Liverpool accent. 

Professor Knirsch, is the other Professor Knirsch going to be okay? 

Should we call an ambulance?

Is she about to faint?

You find it in you to laugh—the other Professor Knirsch never fails to ignite a giggle, but Viktor doesn’t look as amused. He’s a mess of cold sweat and peeled eyes, his shaky fingers holding onto you vice-like. He smells of that spicy cologne you don’t like—a stifling, leathery thing that doesn’t go with the scent of his skin, and so you cling off his neck and melt into the headrest instead, bloodshot eyes pondering the grainy ceiling. How many more ceilings will you stare at like this, limp and half-conscious? How long until you don’t have to flee the scene to urgently fulfill your most loathed need? 

The cab takes off with a buzzing sound. It rings in your ears—a harsh, flinch-kindling screech, lingering long enough to subdue Viktor’s question. He has to repeat it thrice until it finally gets to you, limpid, loud, and lucid.

“How do you feel?”

You turn your head and watch him loosen his tie, his trembling hands fondling the knot until it’s lax enough to let him clear his throat. You close your eyes again.

“Like I’m about to shut off.”

“Can you postpone that until we get home? It shouldn’t take too long. I paid this gentleman here a little extra so we can jump some red lights—“

“I don’t know.”

“Well, sadly, I can’t carry you. Please, hang on for me, and then you can hit the wall right in the corridor.”

“I’ll try. Just, please, keep talking to me.”

“I can do that.”

The vice-like grip slips to your thigh and shackles it to the seat. It’s pressing down hard enough to keep you awake for a few more minutes, the tender power of human contact circling above your knee. You watch his thumb twindle with the run in your tights—prying it wider, spindlier. Just like pianists, cellists have their little curses too—though theirs are hardly as neat. A cellist's hands are always string-stained and sore. A cellist’s nylons are never intact. 

“I’m sorry I won’t hear you perform tonight.” 

You buck sideward to ruffle his hair. It’s a little harsh to the touch—a crisp casualty of too much styling gel. But you’re toying with it anyway—pushing a strand here, tucking a lock there, breaking the pattern, backing off, starting over. And Viktor lets you, pliant as ever, his patient smile crooked to the right.

“And why is that?”

“It’s not often that I get to drool over you playing Liszt in that suit. No one does it like you do.”

He laughs—a rich, hearty chuckle. “You had your chance, you know. You missed my Saturday show. It’s just that you were too busy rehearsing yourself to death.”

“Is that why you were wearing this at the hospital?”

“Mhm. It’s truly a pity you didn’t come. No one in the audience had guessed my favorite flowers correctly.”

“I’m so sorry, Viktor. You know how I get when something important is coming up—“

“Oh, so your weekly workshops are events of utmost importance now? Forgive me, honey. I was not aware that anything on your schedule demands uninterrupted rehearsals.“

Your hand falls boneless into his lap, meek fingers spread out like you’d forgotten how to clench them. The muscle stupor strikes again: springing in a tiny, angry tic on your mouth and locking your every limb in a fuzzy confine. 

“I asked you to talk to me,” you hiss, wanly. “Talking doesn’t imply arguing.”

Your tongue goes numb, too. You can barely feel it, awkwardly flailing under your palate, and the murky vision comes back a hundredfold, dismantling everything into those familiar, minuscule mottles—like the beginning of a bad, lucid dream.

Viktor softly slams you into his lap, his thigh a lean, bony pillow. His hand is on your back, rubbing clockwise and counting vertebrates—up and down, neck to tailbone. 

“I’m sorry,” Viktor sighs from above you. “I shouldn’t have—“

He sounds like he’s in a jar, strained and a bit stuffy-nosed. And it’s a funny timbre—like that of the Lady in the Radiator from a Lynch movie you both like. You try to laugh at it, but nothing comes out—only a bizarre wheeze against his trousers. 

“Mhm,” you hum, meaning, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ You hope he gets the translation right: ever since you were discharged from the hospital, he’s learned the difference between all kinds of mhms—yeses, nos, bring-me-thats, love-yous, fuck-yous. 

Your blurry husband smiles.

“When I come back—“ he leans closer to your ear, his tie swinging before your face, “—I’ll play some Liszt for you. And I won’t change out of this attire until I’m done. Would you like that?”

“Mhm.” Now, this one is a love-you. 

The car finally stops, and Viktor lifts your head, looking you in the half-lidded eye.

“I love you more.”

—

Later that night, he keeps his promise. He’s playing the second Hungarian Rhapsody, your favorite C-Sharp minor one—grim, solemn, and full of crispy tremolos.

You sit on the bed with your chin tucked under your knees, and your mind feels clearer now: the sporadic naps had paid off, fuelling you with enough power to wash the daunting day off in the shower and change into a meshy chemise. 

Viktor is a vision when he plays, more so in a suit. You watch his hands flee from key to key, in that perfectly curved stance, plucking one galloping staccato after another. It’s a sequence of sounds unraveled, then masterfully merged again into something mighty and prancing. He’s careful with his crescendos, a tad too mindful of disturbing the upstairs neighbor—and, in a way, that’s terribly charming. But he has a wife to please. And there’s nothing you hate more than half-cocked dynamics.

“Louder.”

You slip off the mattress and shuffle closer, rising behind him on bare tiptoes like a ballerina. Viktor leans to the left, stammering down the bass register, and you spin—once, twice; arms up in the air, fingers clasped together. He grins at your reflection in the lacquered deck, then proceeds to tap out the climax, his gelled hair bouncing with each aggressive nod.

You stirr mid-spin and bump into his stool, your bandaged index pointed to the keyboard. 

 “Louder!”

“It’s late,” Viktor yelps over the sforzando. “I’m not particularly keen on dealing with an angry old lady at this hour.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. It’s not like we’re having a blaring orgy here.”

“That can be arranged.”

When he’s done, there’s sweat running down his face—all pearly little droplets clinging to his nose before he wipes them with a crumpled cuff. Feverish cheeks and unfastened, damp clothes—the disheveled victims of the radiator. 

A round of applause for the maestro; an amazed bravo scratching his earlobe with a husky twist bordering on a taunt. He bows for you with a bashful smile, one talented hand cupping his heart as if it might hop onto the keyboard and slam out an encore. And oh, does it hop when you wobble betwixt him and the instrument, throwing yourself around him like a warm full-body shackle: your thighs astride his, your nose in his hair—a gentle, sweet-stifling quell.

“That was beautiful, Professor Knirsch.”

“Why, thank you, Professor Knirsch.”

You laugh into his mouth, sucking in a sloppy, agape kiss—no teeth, just tongue and saliva, smothering you like obscenely thick treacle. A fistful of your nightwear tangles in his fingers and gathers into a crinkled pattern above your waist. Now you both look a mess, breathily gripping your ways through greedy handfuls and lewd suckles, arching back, back, back, until you’re finally pressed between the piano and its panting owner. A blaring orgy alright. 

And then, he falters—a brisk, terrified pendulum. Glassy eyes the size (and color) of a ten-koruna coin, looking into you like two gentle devotees. His voice box bobs, swallowing a lump. You trace it, cautious not to press, and the virile thing moves again—a shy, languid waver. 

“What’s wrong?” You peck him on the forehead, then slip down to the bump on his nose: nudging it with yours and kissing from bridge to tip. 

“I—“ He licks his lips. “Perhaps we shouldn’t…?“

Oh. That.

You grab his wrist and lead his fingers lower—cup the swell of one breast with your-his skittish hand. He fondles the mesh, reluctantly ignoring the protruding nipple, heavy eyes already filled with whatever acquiescence he’d dealt himself. 

Your mouth opens on his again, beckoning into another kiss. This one proves tamer, devoid of impatient licks—a press of gentle smiles, a plauditory, child-like collision. His fistful of your nightgown tumbles, and you both watch it unravel around your thighs, restoring flimsy decency. 

“You’re right—“ You gasp into him, “—we shouldn’t. We absolutely have to. Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

Viktor chuckles.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. You collapsed today. Are you absolutely certain—“

“Viktor, my collapses will become a regular occurrence. Are we to stop having sex forever?”

“Of course not. I am merely being reasonable—“

“Let me put it this way: do you hate me treating you like glass when you’re having a flare-up?” 

“That’s different. I’m in no need of pointless precautions, since I’m intimately familiar with my… irresolute capacities. I know how to manage my bad days. When to adhere to obstinacy.”

“But—“

“You, however, are notorious for pushing yourself, narcolepsy or not. I was born with my pain, milackú. And you’ve been aware of yours for roughly fifty hours.”

You lean into the instrument, haphazardly pressing on the screeching G-sharp. Viktor’s legs weaken under yours, the evidence of his yearning already half-soft, apologetic. He leans after you, all gentle hands and pleading, open mouth, fingers brushing thin air when you all but crawl on the keyboard, hitting a whiny triad with your hip.

“This isn’t a competition, you know,” you grumble. It’s hard to be mad at him from this altitude, with his palms resting so invitingly on lean thighs, but you turn away and trade that temptation for the sight of sleepy Brno in the ajar window. Out of sight, out of mind. If only. 

“No one’s claiming that.” He sounds defensive, strained and a little accusatory. But you’re already drawing copper-tasting anger out of your bottom lip, slurping hard. 

“You are.”

“I assure you, I am not.” Viktor catches your chin and pries your mouth open, wetting his thumb with your frothy, pinkish saliva. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been more careful with my semantics.” 

“You really should’ve.” 

“Yes. It won’t happen again.”

The truce comes kissing you senseless—face, and neck, and shoulders, and you slide back where you belong, heartbeats mangled together inside your chests, Viktor’s hands still hesitant on your hips—more to keep you in place than to claim a selfish squeeze.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” you chant, suffocating, “I’ve been an ass. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“Apology accepted,” he whines back, heedless of the things that rhotic promise does to your underwear. And you don’t have to wonder if he means it. His eyes are evidence enough. “I’m not one to hold grudges. I’ve been an ass too.”

“I don’t mind it. You’re my ass.”

“Oh, hardly. I could never compete.” 

When the laughter dies down, he slips his fingers under your chemise and teases your skin to excited gooseflesh, little hairs standing on end under his sweet touch. His nape copies that contingency, dark strands spiking into your palm, gorgeously untamed. You rake through them, brushing out the ossified gel: little shiny pieces raining down his shirt like sprinkles of stardust. Viktor sends them to the floor with a blow—and off they flee, lingering in the warm air. 

“Forgive me,” he whispers, watching the dust lash around, “for being so cautious. You must understand; I’m worried sick about you. You simply have to go easier on your body. What are you going to do when I’m not around to offer a helping hand?”

You ponder him, pensive and visibly wan—the flit of his lashes, the furrow of one bushy brow, clutched in an arched tic. Not around? What’s that supposed to mean?

“You’re talking like you’re going to leave me.” It comes out with a nervous chuckle—a sound more strangled than it is amused. The brow under your finger relaxes only to arch again—but it’s trembling in confusion now, a prelude to his hoarse, darling laugh.

“God, no. Can you imagine?”

“Well, there’s no need for that. I’m going to get better. No more neglecting myself. And your shows. And, well… Us. I promise. Do you believe me?”

He turns to you, staring skittish daggers, and for once, his eyes tell you nothing, his sad pupils widened as if to swallow you whole. 

“Mhm,” he lies. “I believe you.”

But you don’t speak the language of his hums. 

—

-> chapter 3

[puppetmaster13u]

Hear Me Out

Yokai Amity. What are yokai? Japanese spirits. And not just ghosts, a majority of mythical creatures? Yokai.

So how did this happen? Well, like most things, it can be blamed on the ghost portal in the Fenton Basement. And a lot of ecto contamination. Because while they're a small city? They're also in the middle of nowhere, meaning a lot of their foods and crops, they grow themselves. And the ectoplasm? Started sinking into the ground first. Y'know, where every plant grows and then both humans and animals proceed to eat it? Made even worse when those like Overgrowth or Vortex came through? Yeaah, it'd be a miracle if they didn't get contaminated and no surprise that most don't notice their humanity slipping with time with how it's happening to everyone.

Which kind of makes the situation Danny has found himself kind of hilarious? At least to him. The trenchcoat dude seems to be having an aneurism or something similar.

"So... not a meta?" the tiny vigilante child clarified again, head tilting from where he stood at the head of his group. Honestly Danny was enjoying this from his place sprawled across the park bench Honestly Amity had spoiled him with benches designed for extra limbs.

The blonde man seemed absolutely done with everything, hands twitching as though about to cradle his head in his hands or grab something. "No," he wasn't shouting but it was close. "For fuck's sake- your all lucky not to be cursed or worse-" He turned towards Danny. "Why the fuck didn't you?"

The hainu shrugged, wings doing more of the motion than the rest of him. "They're babies-" Or at least one of them was, borderline liminal as they were. "You play along with toddlers." Honestly he saw why his old rogues found this fun, even if he'd never go as far as they did.

The entire team of vigilante children bristled, one opening their mouth to protest before trenchcoat-soul-dude glared at them all before turning back towards him.

"Though what the fuck do you need that for that you'd steal it- not that any artifact like that should be in a bloody museum and not locked away where idiots can't get to it."

He snorted, the sound more dog-like. Or really more yeti-like, what with how he was taking lessons from Frostbite which meant large chunks of time in the Far Frozen.

"Technically I don't need it, my kid does," Danny held up a finger, marveling slightly at the clouds. It was quite different compared to Amity, what with how everywhere was so ecto-infused that the sky was effected.

"And what does a hainu need with-" the trenchcoat man motioned to the cursed object, which honestly wasn't that bad. But...

"Oh no, he's not a hainu, he's furaribi." Danny honestly wasn't surprised that Jordan wouldn't turn out the same as he, de-aged or not. Not that he was memory-less or anything, cores didn't lose that easily, but he did still have the physical brain of a child.

"Adopted?"

"Nope," he hummed, going over the list of things he still had to do today before returning to Amity. Sam had asked him to get a few more flowers to test how ecto would effect them and he had to pick up some computer parts for Tuck.

"How the fuck."

"My sister's a kitsune, my other sister is a shirouneri, my mom is a shishi, my dad a baku, godfather's an itachi, my boyfriend a raiju, my girlfriend a kirin, and my other girlfriend a yosuzume," he ticked off his fingers, not seeing anything wrong with it. Not like people could get into Amity easily after the whole GIW thing.

"... what the fuck does your family tree look like, mate, because that should be bloody impossible."

Danny shrugged, giving a sharp toothed smile. Yeah, the realms didn't care about that with how malleable ecto was.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(In case it's not clear: Hainu Danny, Furaribi Dan, Kitsune Jazz, Shirouneri Danny, Lion Dog Maddie, Baku Jack, Itachi Vlad, Raiju Tucker, Kirin Sam & Yosuzume Valerie) (Also feel free to come up with what everyone else might be) (Highly recommend yokai.com for a quick summary of each creature)

[bring-forth-his-sac]

negan x reader mirror on the ceiling👀😏🙏

thank you so much for the request!! <3

tags: !NSFW!, mirror sex, swearing, no foreplay straight to sex, pet names, dirty talk, mentions of potential cucking? mentions of sex tapes,

word count: 1.7k

Pairing: Saviors Era Negan x f!reader

You’re laughing when Negan walks in.

You can’t help it, especially when there’s a gigantic mirror that’s been hoisted up and basically strapped to the ceiling. 

By now, you know the drill whenever you get ordered up to Negan’s room. After months of teasing each other, the dam broke a few weeks back and ever since then, you’ve been going at it like animals, unable to keep your hands off each other. 

Officially speaking, you’re not one of the wives. There’s no title or open declaration to whatever is going on between you both. No one should know about you two, though with Negan’s big mouth, it’s hard to tell if your secrecy is holding up or if everyone is too scared to say they know what’s going on.

As far as you're concerned, Negan has kept things under wraps, coming up with excuses to justify why he needs to talk to you in private. He does this all while avoiding the real reason— he’s finally fed up with you giving him bedroom eyes all day.

Turning to look at him, you see Negan’s eyes flicker up from your ass to meet your gaze. You smirk, pointing up at your reflection “Really? How did you even get that up there?”.

Negan chuckles, strolling over to place Lucille on his armchair “I didn’t put it up there, darlin”. 

Your lips press together into a thin line as you watch him. He’s only been here for about twenty seconds and you can already tell he’s more teasing than usual. Whether that’ll make things more fun or annoying, you’re unsure.

“No shit, Sherlock” you scoff, planting your hands on your hips “but what’s the point of it?”.

He doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he lowers his head, watching you through his lashes with a steady, knowing gaze. Negan knows the answer and he’s well aware that you know too. You just want to hear him say it.

“Negan,” you say as a warning when he remains silent “y’know if you just ordered me up here to be a dick, I’ll leave again”.

Rolling his eyes dramatically, he comes closer. “C’mon, you know I got it so I can watch your ass bounce when you’re riding me” Negan grins, unzipping his leather jacket.

”Oh so the view isn’t good enough when I’m doing all the work on your dick?” You reply, crossing your arms defensively.

This is how you and Negan communicate best, playfully bickering back and forth like an old married couple… which is ironic when you’re the only one he’s fucking that he’s not married to.

“It’s a terrific view, baby, but what can I say? I miss that fine ass of yours” pulling you flush against his chest, Negan’s hands glide down to squeeze your backside possessively. 

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to maintain a glare but it's clear your faux annoyance is starting to wane.

“But that’s not all I miss,” Negan continues “it’s been a whole damn week without my dick being in your sweet…” 

His lips find your neck, a lingering kiss making its home there. 

“Tight…” another kiss, edging up by your jawline this time. His hands still firmly grip your ass, pressing his growing erection against you.

“Warm…” Negan gives you a peck on your cheek, right by your mouth “pussy”. 

Then, with a confident grin, he closes the distance, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. As soon as your lips meet, any semblance of resistance crumbles. Clothes become inconvenient obstacles, hindering the reunion of your bare skin.

Hands fumble with belts and zippers, shirts are yanked over heads and before you know it, you’re naked and sliding onto his lap.

Negan sits at the top of his bed, pillows pushed up by the headboard as his hands trail down your naked form. He traces the curves of your waist and the slope of your hips before dipping between your thighs to lightly tease your core.

You look up at the ceiling to take in the large mirror that now dominates the space above you. Your own skeptical expression meets your gaze. It’s not an angle you’re used to but you can definitely see a lot.

Negan joins you, letting his head fall back on the pillows. Bringing his hands up, you both watch as Negan’s hands go around the curve of your ass and up your back, losing sight as your hair covers them.

“Just how I imagined” he muses, his grip coming back down to lightly hold your hips. You look down at him and Negan meets your gaze with a smirk.

Taking a deep breath, you lift yourself up. “You haven’t tried this out with one of the wives yet?” you refer to the mirror while teasingly lowering yourself just enough for Negan to feel your pussy.

The look he gives you is almost quizzical as he tries to simultaneously suppress a moan. “Nah, wanted to break it in with someone who’d actually appreciate the effort” he grunts as he feels you.

Slowly, you begin to sink down onto him, your slick folds parting around his thick shaft. You gasp softly at the stretch, your inner walls clenching and fluttering around his length.

Inch by inch, you envelop him. Negan’s head falls back with a low groan but luckily, he can still see. When your ass meets his thighs, with his manhood fully inside of you, Negan can’t help but let out a string of praise and admiration. 

"Fuck, doll, you drive me wild,” he praises “a fuckin’ natural if I’ve ever seen one, damn it’s a talent how much your pretty face turns me on” 

Slowly, you move. There’s no need to rush, especially if the reasoning behind this is to truly savor the mirror’s view. Lifting your hips, you rise until only the tip of Negan remains inside of you before sinking back down. 

You follow that rhythm, gradually increasing your pace but never bouncing up and down on him. You want him to relish in each movement as you ride him. 

In the mirror, Negan watches as the curve of your ass cheeks rise and fall in a mesmerizing rhythm. The reflection gives a different light to your body, highlighting the smooth expanse of skin and the hypnotizing plush of your ass.

Just when Negan thought he’d seen all of you, this blows him away all over again.

As if Negan doesn’t feel cocky enough, the mere sight of you riding him makes him even more emboldened. Bringing eyes veiled with lust back to you, he reaches around to grasp your ass, guiding your movements.

“That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing “you’ll be the death of me but hell, at least I’ll enjoy every fuckin’ second”.

With quick and sudden movements, Negan flips you onto your back. You land with an “oof!” as Negan slips out of you. He quickly settles between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts them up and out to the sides.

Your eyes go up to the mirror and you see yourself. The flush on your cheeks, the parted lips and the way your back arches towards yourself as Negan fills you makes you wonder if Negan actually had a good idea including this mirror. 

Negan leans in close, his voice dropping to a low, sultry tone. "You like looking, doll? You're soaking my sheets, y’know that?" he punctuates his words with a deep thrust “Must really like this mirror idea now, huh?”.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes wide and slightly unfocused as you near your climax.

His dirty talk borders on taunting as he fucks into you, each word dripping with a certain arrogance only Negan can make sexy. “It’s like a slip and slide down here!” he chuckles “Aw baby, loving every second of seeing yourself get fucked, is that it?”.

Negan’s filthy words push you over the edge and you watch as your body tenses. Negan fucks you through it, not wanting to slow down even though he can feel his own release so close. 

“Damn, you’re easy,” he teases but he has no time to be smug. Hurriedly pulling out from your warmth, Negan only gives himself a few strokes before erupting onto your stomach. Your body twitches from your high as his cum splatters on to your skin, streaks of Negan coating you.

Negan flops down beside you when he finishes, both of you trying to catch your breath. The mirror shows two dishevelled people – sweat glistening on their skin, hair mussed, and your stomach marked with Negan’s release. 

“You look real pretty when you’re fucked senseless” his voice is a low gravelly tone that almost makes you sleepy. And the softness of his bed practically begs you to stay and take a nap with him by your side.

Yet Negan always has a way of keeping you on your feet, not giving you any time to let the sleepiness fester. “I think next time, we should make a sex tape,” he announces.

You wait for him to laugh but when he doesn’t, you grumble “Do it with one of your wives”.

“Noooooo” he whines, moving on to his side so he can face you properly “I wanna do it with you, so I can have that pretty face on tape and watch it over and over again”.

Negan smirks at the mere thought of it “Hell, I might even show it to the wives, might help them figure out how to get the job done if you know what I–”.

Grabbing a pillow from behind your head, you hit him with it.

“You talk too much,” you snark, biting your lip to stop a giggle from escaping “and no, I’m not making an educational sex tape for you to show your wives”.

Negan narrows his eyes when the pillow falls from his face, scooching closer before planting a kiss on your shoulder. “Think about it?” he coaxes “If you don’t want to record it, that’s fine, baby… the wives can just watch the next time you’re here”.

In response, you hit him with the pillow. Again.

gif made from scenepack provided by harleys.scenes on insta <3

[obsessivevoidkitten]

A Lovesick Leviathan

Male Leviathan x Gender Neutral Slime Reader (CW: Painless noncon, inhuman reader, size difference, kidnapping, magical branding, temporarily frozen reader, general yandere behavior, minor character death, extreme violence towards minor character) Word count: 3.3k (Piece developed with a lot of input and help from @maxog3n, they also did the amazing art posted with this piece. I am sorry this took so long, but really hope you all enjoy it.)

Screams of pain, some ominous cracking sounds, and then silence.

Auggie let out a defeated sigh as he peeled the body of the human he had just fucked to death off of his cock, their pulverized insides mixed with his blue cum and leaking out everywhere.

Like the others that had died to his amorous pursuits, he hadn’t meant to kill them. In fact, he had loved each one of them and wanted them to be his mate. He carefully determined a suitable candidate, brought them home against their will, and eventually couldn’t contain his lust anymore and fucked them.

The problem was that he was not human. He was a leviathan and his massive member was simply too huge, both long and thick, and his thrusts were powerful. None survived even a single round with him.

He shed a tear as he buried his latest victim.

Then he wiped it away and immediately regained his usual jovial composure. That’s okay, they just weren’t “the one”. He had to expect these kinda snags every now and then if he was going to put himself out on the market.

It was just how dating worked.

Auggie decided that he needed to clear his mind and leave his shack for a while. Get some fresh air. Maybe he would add to his collection of items. Much like a mermaid, leviathans like him hoarded trinkets and baubles.

He made the decision to hit up the old abandoned building a few miles up the coast from his seaside abode. He did not know what the building had once been for, but he was very adventurous and was always looking for new stuff to add to his collection of treasures or materials to extend his shack with.

The leviathan definitely didn’t feel like going into town. Sure, the humans all fled and he could take whatever he wanted, but he did not want to deal with the panicked screams. Plus, he had already done that a dozen times, he wanted to explore somewhere new. And besides, the town was a lot farther than the abandoned facility and he didn’t feel like being out too late. Not with the long he had.

Auggie left the confines of his ramshackle house, and waded into the water, the blood from his previous “mate” leaving a faint trail of blood behind him as he swam up the coast towards his destination.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

You were thrilled, your home was finally starting to feel cozy. Or whatever passed as cozy for a saltwater slime.

Spending all your life in the water just did not appeal to you, the surface was just so fascinating. You had spent a little time among some open-minded humans, but you longed to be closer to the sea.

So when you found a brine filled desalination plant completely abandoned for you to do with as you pleased you knew you had found a home from which you could explore the surrounding land and retreat to should the need arise.

It had taken a while, a little over a month, for you to tidy the place up and get things how you liked it. You had decorated the place with seashells, dead corals, and current smoothed glass to make everything feel more natural. You had even covered the first floor with a thick layer of sand!

Everything was perfect.

Just when you were admiring the work you had finally completed when you heard the stomping of a large animal of some type approaching.

You peered out the window and gasped.

A huge… thing… approached.

You had no idea what he could be. You only assumed it was a he because of the giant uncut cock flopping from below the most tiny and useless loincloth imaginable.

The lumbering behemoth had a chubby build, striking blue skin, scales from his ankles to his knees and from his wrists to his elbows, he had fins where a human’s ears would be, sharp teeth, and his dark medium length hair wasn’t hair at all, but instead a writing mass of tentacles.

He came closer and closer to the desalination facility, your home, it was clear it was his intent to enter and not just pass by like you had hoped.

The best option was to hide yourself. Luckily you were crystal clear, like gooey water, and could camouflage yourself easily.

There were many steel barrels along the wall to catch water from a sometimes leaky roof, you decided to hop in, even if he peeped in all you would just blend right in with the water that was in it.

Seconds after you got in you heard the door creak open.

Auggie took a few steps in and looked around the place, getting a handle of his surroundings.

The place had sand everywhere. And dried corals, shells, and smooth glass everywhere. Odd. It clearly wasn’t as abandoned as it had appeared to be from outside.

Maybe there was a potential mate here! If he wanted to find his soul mate he knew he had to be open minded about finding his partner wherever they may happen to meet.

And whoever called this place home had an aesthetic he enjoyed. They lived in a run down building not entirely unlike his shack, they were opportunistic like he was and they decorated the place to be like the ocean from which he originated.

He was sure he would get along well with whoever lived here.

You could not see him from your current position in the barrel, but you could hear him walking around and sniffing as if hunting for something.

Auggie explored every nook and cranny, using his sensitive nose to guide him, but even though it was clear as day that someone was using this as a home he could detect no scent other than that of saltwater.

Shrugging his shoulders, he decided to return to his original mission, seeking out trinkets for his treasure hoard and possibly materials to build with.

He found some rope and used it to tie some sheets of metal to his back, but other than that he hadn’t found much for his home. Carrying these he wouldn’t be able to swim back, he’d have to walk back at a leisurely pace.

Auggie started to head towards the doors to leave, as he did you heard the sound of his footsteps retreating and were so relieved.

But it was premature, he was disappointed in his haul so he took one last glance around the room just in case he missed something. He spied some pristine barrels in the corner. He could always use a nice new barrel!

The giant invader found one that was full of water, likely from that storm last night, it was pretty hot and since he had to walk back a refreshing splash of water would be nice and cooling should he need it on the return trip home.

You panicked as you and the water around you sloshed as he picked up the container that was currently serving as your hiding place. But your only option was to remain hidden for as long as you possibly could and make a break for it when you could.

Despite not having a traditional stomach you still felt very nauseous at being jostled with every step your unwitting kidnapper made. With how you were disoriented, you could not even give an accurate estimate of how long you had been in your current predicament, what was probably just thirty or forty minutes felt like unending hours.

Finally the moving about came to a stop, maybe he was home, maybe he would leave the container outside to use for water collection, you dared to hope. But these hopes were short lived as the behemoth lifted the container up and poured it over himself to cool off, causing you to tumble out in your default humanoid shape and reflexively grab on to whatever you could to prevent falling.

Whatever you could grab was the man who invaded your home, your gel-like arms around his broad shoulders.

You stared at each other for a moment until Auggie got a slight blush that was quickly replaced by a huge grin, revealing two rows of razor sharp teeth.

A brand new romantic interest just fell right into his lap! Well, you weren’t on his lap yet, but there would be time for that soon enough.

When you had recovered from the shock of being dumped directly on to this strange blue man you pushed yourself off of him and fell to the ground with a wet plop.

You started running.

“Hey wait! That’s really rude! I haven’t decided if I’m your boyfriend yet!!!”

What the hell was wrong with this guy? You heard him utter some strange mystic sounding words before hearing an odd whoosh and suddenly you felt indescribably heavy. Your vision frosted over and you fell over. Hard.

Everything was so cold, you couldn’t move at all! You had been completely frozen, evidently this crazy man had ice magic. Just your luck.

“Don’t worry, I am pretty sure I will be your boyfriend! I liked all the décor in your former home. We have so much more in common than the people I normally date!”

He walked up to you slowly, picked you up carefully, and then placed you back in the barrel he had been unwittingly hauling you in.

This manner of being handled was… humiliating to say the least.

Once again you were jostled around in the barrel, now without water and with more pain in your newly acquired solidified form. It was so restrictive. You were used to being more free moving than what a solid being was capable of and now here you were completely paralyzed.

Once again, the trip felt like it was taking an eternity. Except now it was worse, as every second was punctuated by the deep seated fear of what may become of you when the journey ended.

You also were forced to contend with the large man’s non-stop talking.

“I’m Auggie! I am so glad we met. I think it was probably fate. Like we were meant to find each other! I haven't met many slimes before. Only a couple times when swimming and I couldn’t see them well enough in the water to bring them back to date…”

You tuned Auggie out after a while. He just wouldn’t stop talking about how happy he was and how he had been in need of a new partner.

Finally you thawed out enough to talk, though you were still too stiff to move quickly.

“What is wrong with you!? We are NOT dating!!”

“Oh~ You have such a lovely voice! I am so happy to hear it. We are definitely dating now so I can hear you talk everyday~”

He hummed happily as he continued about his merry way, leaving your objection completely unacknowledged.

“Excuse me!? I just said we are NOT dating!!”

Though the words he spoke were… demented… he said them in the same happy go lucky jovial tone with which he had been speaking, “Don’t be silly, of course we are. I already was sure I would like you based on your home and with us both being sea critters, but after hearing your voice I simply can’t be without you~ I am so sorry if I implied you have a choice!”

After letting out a defeated whimper you went silent.

Auggie continued babbling about all the stuff the two of you would do together. As your destination approached he started running, he was just so eager to get you nice and settled in your brand new home.

You grunted in annoyance as you were bounced about in your glorified bucket.

“Oh. Heh heh. Sorry, I just got carried away.”

He slowed down to a brisk walk the rest of the way.

“We’re here!” He shouted in a chipper manner. For a totally psychotic kidnapper hellbent on forcing you to be in a relationship he sure was cheerful.

The barrel was placed down with a thud before he pulled you out. You were thawed to the point of being like a slurry and his warm hands felt rather nice.

Though you’d still rather be anywhere else.

You saw his home and were shocked, how could anyone live in something like this? It was a towering mass of junk. Large slabs of metal and wood cobbled together. It was actually kinda impressive how structurally sound it appeared to be despite the building materials used in its construction.

Auggie slung your chilled form over his shoulders without warning, eliciting a startled sound from you.

He opened the doors and set you down on a rugged chair that was clearly meant for beings around your size. Humans.

How many people had been forced to accept Auggie as their “boyfriend”. Were you going to die here?

You took stock of your surroundings, if you were ever going to escape you would need to know potential weapons, escape routes, and hiding places.

But honestly you didn’t even know where to start, the building was huge as it was meant for such a large being like Auggie. And it seemed like he had the same inclinations as mermen when it came to collecting objects of interest. Though instead of valuables like coins, gems, and shells Auggie seemed to be interested in… a different sort of collection.

Mounted on the wall as if some sort of poster was a set of doors that read “Tony’s Bar and Bistro”. Standing in the corner was a surfboard that looked as if a bite had been taken out of it with a lifebuoy around it. Other items strewn about the place included a slot machine, street signs, and a child’s tricycle.

There were random items in all sorts of places.

The ceiling was no exception. Hanging upside down from the ceiling, above even Auggie’s head, were several random and out of place items. Though the strangest of all was a… parking meter? You couldn’t be sure, you had only stealthily visited a human city a couple times.

None of this stuff helped you though, and it seemed the only way out was through the large front door.

Without any warning Auggie crouched down in front of you and stared intensely with a smug grin.

“I bet right now you are thinking of ways to leave aren’t cha? Without even giving our love a chance! Don’t worry I will take the burden of worrying about freedom away!”

He held his webbed pointer finger to your chest and muttered a complex incantation. You didn’t notice it before but he had a tattoo in the shape of a trident on his thigh, it glowed with a blue light as he uttered his spell and suddenly you had a matching tattoo marked on your chest.

It didn’t harm you at all, but his wicked grin coupled with the mark’s magical origins worried you.

“Wh-what’s that…?”

“Do you like it? It’s my brand! It means you’re alllll mine~”

You gave a face of disgust.

“It’s okay if you don’t believe it yet, some people are just slower learners. That’s okay.”

Your only reply was to glare at him silently.

“You’re never leaving me.”

You chose to just keep shooting him an angry look. It didn’t matter what he thought, you would slip away at the first opportunity. You were a slime, slippery and versatile, there were very few ways you could be contained long term. And he couldn’t just keep re-freezing you every single time you bolted.

“Haha, what? Don’t believe me dummy? Okay then… go ahead…”

With a smirk he got up and went to the door, holding it wide open for you.

“Go on, leave.”

He gestured you out the door and you didn’t hesitate, maybe he thought he could freeze you, or close the door, or push you back somehow, but were prepared for anything. You were positive that the smug expression was wiped from his face as you took on a taller and slimmer shape and zipped on by before he could react.

You got maybe all of 15ft. away from the shack before you were yanked back by some invisible force and landed on the ground.

“What th-”

You heard the heavy footsteps of your captor approach from behind.

“Have you caught on yet cutie? I told you, you’re allll mine~ My little mark on you ties you to me, you will never be able to go very far.”

For the first time that day you truly felt despair. The thought you could get away was the sole barrier that had prevented you from giving in to the filling of hopelessness that now threatened to consume you, but that was gone now. You were left with nothing but soul crushing helplessness… that and Auggie.

He scooped you up and carried you back to his house laying you in his large and rather decadent bed, a stark contrast to the ramshackle state of the rest of his home.

Auggie stood by the bed and positioned your legs to hang off of it, you guessed at what he was planning but were too caught up in your sense of doom and despair to react properly or mount even the slightest resistance.

“Awww, don’t be sad darlin’, this’ll be fun!” He chuckled with his normal sense of joy and lack of care for what anyone else wanted.

The leviathan stroked his cock to its staggering full length and lined it up between your legs.

You did not have an entrance there. Slimes simply absorbed plankton or other nutrient sources through their membranes and deposited what was indigestible in the same manner, and there was no conventional reproductive system. Slimes of your type would meet, partially join limbs, and create an egg.

But that sure didn’t stop Auggie from penetrating you anyway.

Luckily your slime body was extremely durable and felt little pain from such actions. He slammed into you right through your membrane, gripping your sides as he pulled you down to the base. His blue precum leaked into your body, leaving blue streaks where it dissolved.

He moved you back and forth like a fleshlight, like you were just some toy for his pleasure, not a living being with your own agency.

You were entirely limp in his hands, just a nice gooey warmth around his cock, feeling neither pleasure or pain from his ever increasing thrusts.

No, as you stared up at him, being moved back and forth on his cock, the only thing you felt was an uncomfortable pressure. And an overwhelming sense of violation.

Finally he pushed in as far as he could, his dick drilling all the way into your head as he unleashed his glowing blue cum into you. He let out a relaxed sigh as his cock lay inside you throbbing, still drooling more and more seed into you from his huge nuts.

Auggie finally pulled out of you, his semen had made your entire body swell considerably and it turned you from clear and transparent to a bright and faintly glowing blue as your body absorbed it like food.

“Oooh, you took my cock so well and became even prettier! It definitely means you’re meant for me! And it looks like my cum is good food for my gooey little darling too~ Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to feed you plenty EVERY. DAY.”

Your existence as a slime, what once granted you versatility and mobility. What you considered a blessed existence better than being a restrained solid, was now the cause of your loss of any freedom.

Because now that Auggie was in love with a mate that his cock couldn’t kill he was never going to let you go.

[goodnessgraves]

This is my first time writing a fic, go easy on me!! (please ignore any errors in any of the parts in spanish, i promise i tried 😭)

Valeria Garza/F!Reader, Praise, Literally the slightest degredation, Power play if you squint, Age gap if you squint, Vaginal fingering (reader receiving) Let me know if I missed anything!

NSFW UNDER THE CUT! 18+ MDNI!!! 🩷

You’ve always had a crush on your boss, how could you not? She was everything you liked in a woman. She was taller than you, shockingly strong, beautiful, and absolutely fucking terrifying. But, she probably doesn’t like women. (You convince yourself of that, anyways.)

The office is dark and cold as you step inside, the interior is surprisingly comfortable and homely. The woman in the chair doesn’t say anything as you walk in, just letting out a soft grunt as a greeting, she’s working on something.

“Excuse me, Ms. Garza?” She raises her head, a slight annoyed but still attentive expression on her face.

“Sí?” She says, looking up at you, who’s standing there nervously with a manila folder in your hands.

“I have the files you asked fo-“ You start to speak but she cuts you off before you can finish.

“Sit, chiquita.” She says, clearly not asking but commanding. Her expression goes from annoyed to something you can’t quite pick up on as she watches you sit and place the folder on her desk.

She quickly snatches the folder up, opening it and examining it. She sits there silently, reading through all the files and diligently taking note of the color coding.

“Good work.” She places it down and looks at you. You know it shouldn’t affect you like that, but even the slightest of praise makes you weak in the knees.

“You know, cariño,” She lets out a soft sigh before continuing, “You’re doing so good.” She softly smiles at you before looking you up and down, almost sizing you up.

Her eyes are filled with a hunger you haven’t seen from her, you feel like a prey animal encountering a coyote, or a cougar.

“Thank you, ma’am, I really try my hardest.” You smile at her, ignoring the feeling of arousal seeping deep into your bones.

She stares at you with an increased hunger, feeding off the blush littering your cheeks, nose, and ears.

“You’re too pretty for a life of crime, you know? Podrías ser una modelo.” She says, matter of factly, watching the way you look away out of embarrassment.

“Look me in the eyes when I’m speaking to you, muñeca. I only have two rules, look at me when I’m speaking, and listen to me when I’m speaking. I would hate to have to punish you for disobedience.” Her expression slightly darkens, reaching over her desk to grip your chin, forcing you to look at her.

“There we go, esa es una buena chica.” She coos at you, mockingly. You squirm at her touch and her praise, feeling nothing but pure arousal at her actions. She pulls back softly and leans back in her chair, patting her lap, gesturing for you to go sit.

“Come on, don’t be shy, chiquita.” She encouraged, watching you get up from your seat to brush out the wrinkles in your skirt before walking over to her, your heels clicking softly against the floor.

You climb onto her lap, straddling her as her hands grip your waist, she’s smiling up at you.

“I normally don’t let people bother me in my office, but I’ll make an exception for you, hermosa.” She whispers in your ear, feeling you shiver as her breath tickles your neck, and she takes that opportunity to lean in and plant a soft bite on your earlobe, listening as a soft whine leaves your lips.

At this point, your brain is completely useless, this beautiful woman has you in her lap, grabbing your hips, all while teasing you. You feel like you’re in fucking Disneyland, this is the greatest place on earth.

“Ma’am?” You manage to mutter out, despite how flustered you are.

“Mmhm?” She lets out a soft hum, pulling away from your neck to look at you, ready to answer her question.

“Can I have more?” You ask quietly, your voice almost a whisper. You feel like you could die right there out of embarrassment. She interrupts your extremely cloudy train of thoughts by letting out a dark chuckle, eyeing you up.

“You know, when you wear skirts and dresses like that, I can’t keep my eyes off you, princesa. Do you know what you do to me?” She murmurs seductively, moving her hands down from your hips to your thighs, massaging them roughly for a moment before speaking up.

“Stand up, bend over my desk. Now.” She commands and you quickly oblige, knowing she wants you as bad as you want her makes your heart beat faster and your pussy flutter.

You’re bent over her desk, as she stands up and positions herself behind you, one hand on your back, holding you down, and another one teasing you through your panties.

“So wet already, all for me? Such a needy girl, huh? So needy and I’ve barely even touched you.” She smirks while taunting you, listening to you whine.

Eventually she hikes your skirt up and pulls your panties down, taking them and putting them in the drawer of her desk. She tells you it’s a keepsake, a trophy of sorts, but you’re only half listening.

She says something you don’t quite hear before pushing a finger inside your aching pussy, you yelp, not expecting that. She tuts at you.

“Niña tonta, what did I tell you about listening when I speak, huh?” She teases as she pushes another finger in, making you writhe under her as she laughs.

“Chica patética.” She coos at you, her voice dropping to make fun of you while thrusting her fingers in and out of your cunt.

You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times you’ve came on her fingers. All you know is that this is something you could definitely get used to.

[prettypinkporkchop]

Hope you’re doing well today!! Can I please get a Sam x reader where she loves animals and keeps just bringing them home and Sam is literally just like bruh where tf are we gonna put these things😂😂 personally I’m a cat and dog lady but if you threw a few chickies in there that would be cute😂🤍

You open the car door, ready to go inside the house where you and Sam live. You look over at the passenger seat at the stray cat you HAD to pick up.

"A third cat won't be that bad.." You say to yourself and lift up the cat. He's orange, and you know it's going to be a chaotic pet.

You open the front door, and the two dogs jump on you in excitement. They are sniffing around your hands.

"Hey, hey. Calm down, babies." You say as you place the cat on the floor.

"Babe... really?" You look up and see a sleepy Sam standing a few feet away from you.

"I'm sorry! I couldn't help it! He was starving!"

He smiles and lifts up his hand to get you to stop talking. "It's fine, babe. But we are running out of room." He walks to the cat, bending down to pet him, but the orange cat runs off with your other two cats. Sam chuckles and then stands up, touching your waist. His lips tug into a smirk.

"What you got, Uley?" You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He presses kisses on your lips, lifting you up and bringing you to bed.

You wake up to an empty bed but hear everyone in the kitchen. You groan and force yourself up to be sure nothing is fucked up in the kitchen.

"Hey! She's awake!" Jared says, licking a spoon.

"What are you guys doing?" You squint at the sun that shines through the windows of the kitchen.

"We're hungry. Sam is starving us." Embry replies, biting his sandwhich.

Quil nods with Embry's words.

"Poor babies." You say sarcastically. "Where's Sam?" You ask.

"Oh, he's looking for your cat. It ran outside." Paul said.

You sigh and shake your head. "You kids..."

The door opens, and you see orange fluff in Sam's arms. He looks up and smiles at you. "Oh, hey baby. Sorry, I had to go find him." He places the cat down.

You feed the dogs and cats and look over your new orange friend. Hmm.. shots... vet visit. Gotta make a few calls. After placing the cat down, you go outside to your garden. You water them and check on all of the plants. You go to the shed to grab more seeds but see that you are OUTTTT!

"Sam! I'm running to the store!" You yell out to the backyard.

"Okay, baby!"

On the way to the store, you see an old lady standing in front of a small building selling baby chicks.

Sam stares at you from the kitchen with a serious stare. He observes all of the chickies in your arms. "Babe. Where are we going to put them?!" He starts cackling.

"I don't know.." You frown. You look down at them and count. "There's only five.."

Your dogs start barking at the tiny yellow balls in your arms.

San lifts a finger up. "Go sit somewhere with them. I'll be outside." He says.

You groan and keep the yellow babies from jumping out of your grip. You make your way into the bathroom and put them in the tub. You sit next to them and watch them play around.

Within a few minutes, Sam comes in. "Baby, grab them. Follow me." He opens the door and looks down at you.

You nod your head, lifting them up and following Sam. He leads you outside and next to your garden. You see a tiny wooden house. Something you'd keep chicks, bunnies, rabbits, or other tiny pets in. You whip your head to Sam.

"Where did you get this?" You ask in shock.

"Well," he takes them from you, "I married you. I built this after your orange friend came along. I named him Sunny by the way," he opens the tiny door and places them inside. "I knew there'd be more to come. I wasn't thinking it'd be baby chickens this time. But, I'm planning an area for some goats or something." He laughs.

You smile and blush, pulling him into a hug. "Oh, you're so sweet, my love." You gush against his chest.

He plays with your hair. "I can be."

[spikesbunny]

☆ CARNIVORE, ANIMAL

+ warnings: wlw content/smut!!, bunny! fem reader, pred + prey, hunting, animalistic sɇx, scissoring, cunnɨlɨngus, dehya purrs, biting, semi-public sɇx

+ ft: lioness! dehya

+ wc: 0.8k

+ an: happy (belated) birthday to dehya!!! i felt dirty and nasty, so here's some animalistic and primal dehya (yummy).

minors + men DNI!

your feet pound against the floor of the rainforest, trying to quickly navigate your way through brush. leaves, twigs, and bushes and shoved out of your way, peeling across the knotted forest floors as fast as you could.

your heart was thumping, mind racing. she could probably smell your emotions right now. fuck, that shouldn't be so hot.

it was dehya's birthday. you had promised to celebrate all day with her, expecting something like a cute outing, or maybe just laying in bed in her embrace.

you did not expect reenacting a dark, twisted fantasy she had. one so feral, you wondered how human your girlfriend really was.

of course, she looked human, except for the lion tail and ears. her mannerisms were human like, minus the purring, the heat cycles, and the cat-like stretches she did.

but deep down, you felt like maybe she did still have that animalistic mentality. that primal urge to hunt.

honestly, it was kinda turning you on.

but also you really needed to find a place to catch your breath. quick.

you settle for a shaded region surrounded by large trees, canopying any sunlight that tried to infiltrate. the floor was littered with logs, bushes, and other varieties of plants, providing a great shelter from your hunting girlfriend.

you bunny ears twitch, picking up on every crunch of the leaves, every scared squawk of the birds. was she close?

you turn your head, looking over your shoulder to the forest behind you. a snap sounds from close by. you start to pick yourself up, before big, red manicured nails pin you to the jungle floor. she found you.

"gotcha." she purrs, licking her jaws hungerly. her sapphire eyes looked starved, her expression no different that the lioness she resembled.

"dehya, i wasn't expecting you to find me so quick." you sigh, rabbit ears flattening in relief. you thought you were safe.

but you really weren't. her paw-like hands split your thighs, pressing her nose to the inside. "fuckkk, smells so sweet, just how i like it. my bunny okay with this?"

her tail lashes behind her, fangs bared. she looked feral. you can feel more arousal coating you. opening your mouth to speak, nothing leaves, so you just nod.

the lioness growls against your clothed cunt, making quick work of your clothes - literally ripping them off like it was nothing. you squeak, unsure how you were supposed to get home.

"calm down, i'll give ya my coat, or something." she smirks, diving right in to lick a stripe up you.

"fuck, bunny, so damn wet already? just from me chasin ya? ya really are my lil' prey." she groans out, soon silencing herself as she greedily devours you. her tongue presses in and out of your entrance, nose bumping your clit as she slurps away. one hand is draped across your stomach, keeping you pinned to the ground, the other moving to circle her thumb around your clit.

you shudder, hips thrusting up to meet her slick coated lips. you can feel them pulling into a smirk as she murmurs about how needy her little bunny was.

"go on, cum." she snarls, moving her lips away to leave bite marks on your thighs, marking them - and you - as hers. her thumb feels almost bruising on your clit, yet so delicious, as you find yourself releasing around nothing, clenching down on air with a whimper.

"good bunny." she purrs, lapping up your thighs and cunt to clean up, before cooing you to slot yourself against her. "can ya do this bunny? or want me t' do most the work?"

"i-im fine." you pant. you were not, worn down from the chase and that orgasm. but for dehya? you were willing to give it a shot.

she nods, dragging her folds against yours, clit bumping so perfectly. you gasp, legs trembling as the lioness grinds her pussy against yours. you can feel your limbs going weak, and she takes over, using her hands to bring you down against her, rubbing you so accurately against her you could see stars.

the sounds of the forest consume you, alongside the feeling of dehya, dehya, dehya, only dehya. she had your mind empty, legs like jelly.

she pants heavily, mumbling some nonsense about being close to cumming, grinding herself harder, and faster against you. you whimper, bunny tail twitching as you gush against her thighs, the lioness following suite shortly after.

after riding it out for a bit longer, she pulls herself away from being tangled between the two of your legs, pulling you close to cuddle with her.

the forest was oddly grounding, and you sigh contently, listening to the purrs of your girlfriend as she spoons you.

"happy birthday, dehya" you whisper, earning a soft grunt of a thank you in return.

this was definitely your favorite birthday celebration she had so far.

©2025 spikesbunny- please do not repost/translate my works on other media sites ♡

[mullermilkshake]

He stole you away.

Cross posted from my AO3

Kento Nanami x Fem!reader Tags: NSFW kinda. Yandere themes. Kidnapping. Restraints. Threat of violence.

<<< For more Nanami content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

“Don’t be unreasonable.” 

Kento Nanami sat just out of your reach, hunched over on a small upturned bucket, feet planted firmly on the ground, but his personality flying away with him. You couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness of the poorly dim lit overhead light, but he was definitely staring at you like he always did. 

You couldn’t help but laugh until it turnt sour. “Unreasonable? Really?! I’m being unreasonable; you chained me up like a fucking animal! You psycho!”

Oh, yes. He had put you down in his basement for however long after managing to find you again. The train station of all places like he had access to the cameras, he was just always there, in the house seeing your every move, he tried calling you before you even managed to get to the end of the road to dispose of the phone he gave you. 

“You are being unreasonable, I buy everything you want, anything you could possibly ask for, but you never let me in. So yes you are, and this is for your own safety, you were going to leave me.” 

“I don’t know you, I don't ask for anything!” The metal cup on the floor you’d scrambled across the room for flew from your hand and only just missed him, the water never touching him either. 

He was just out of reach, just out of reach to strangle, to beat or maim in a way to get him to hand over the keys and he knew that much too, never bringing the keys with him, a coward's insurance because he must have thought little old you would take his built existence down. 

A fucking coward.

“Then let me, I thought we were past this.” He leant on his closed fist and shifted onto his side. “All I want is to take care of you and you are making this incredibly difficult because I was very concise from the beginning in exchange for your compliance. You had nothing to your name, but I have everything you need. Let me help you.” 

He was looking more gaunt in later days, a scruffy shirt and drawn in posture uncomfortably contorted as his legs folded in half at the knee being so low to the ground. You were on your knees, arms stretched out to lengthen your body past your chained ankle .

You noticed that the skin around his nails was dry and bitten, uncomfortably nibbled with anxiety and stress to which you could only speculate that he hadn’t been sleeping. 

“When was the last time you slept? Don’t go passing out on me.” You would not call an ambulance if he did, but either way it would fuck you getting out.

“Those are kind words.” There was a hint of a small smile on his lips. “If you want to know, I’ve found myself lacking sleep because you aren’t up there to join me. I’ve grown used to it now.”

That was laughable. A man who handcuffed you to him upstairs to make sure you never left, and would wake him every time you moved. You hoped at first when he took the cuffs off he would trust you enough, because he was only human and would have to fall asleep eventually. Then came the nightcaps and warm tea to knock you out until morning with no recollection of anything until you figured it out and found his stash.

But Kento Nanami was an incredibly intelligent man, you had to give him that. He noticed a mile off when you suggested making the tea yourself, what a fucking stupid mistake that was to make when he insisted you drink it first. He was a very sly, knowledge welding demon who came back from anything you threw at him like a cockroach in a nuclear blast, a gross limpet indefinitely stuck to the hull of a boat. 

Anything. Everything. He was three steps ahead. 

“Well you’ll be lonely for a while then.” You wouldn’t sleep next to him again if you could help it and if you had to, you'd just scream in his ear and pinch him to destroy his sleep. Lack of sleep was a dangerous thing.

Part of you wondered if you weren't that lucky you escaped on your own, but rather he had actually let you leave, a sick game to find you and therefore have a twisted reason to punish you. Kento Nanami was undeniably clever and the more you thought about it, that thought cemented inside your head like a tick, burying away into self doubt.

You weren’t lucky, the only luck you had was that he didn’t kill you, but even that he had made clear he wouldn't do, you were sure he’d stop at nothing to keep you there short of forcing you to survive just so you could exist. 

He stood and straightened himself up. “I’m going to sleep down here with you while you learn to behave, I’ll have to teach you manners again on how you should act.” He wandered over to the stairs that lead up to the rest of the house that was out of sight, but you could still hear him clearly. ”No one can see into the future, but maybe I’ll let you take a walk with me when the ground thaws out… If you listen and behave.”

Behave, telling you to behave like a fucking child whilst he had his arms full of sleeping gear for a fucking camping trip. This wasn’t a luxury resort, the basement was freezing and dark, even worse when it rained when the wind whipped against the small vent. 

The shackle chain dug into your ankle, pulling, tugging on the skin which reddened it and rashed. He was so hard to entertain, to say the right things before he retreated into his shell and shunned you for a day to ‘collect himself’. 

Another attempt wouldn’t hurt. You stood up and got as close as you could without appearing pissed off. Maybe desperate would cater to what he wanted instead, because he hadn’t actually broken you yet. Not properly at least. “I’ll behave. I-I will, you'll see. I’ll be the best… whatever you want me to be, ever. I’ll make you proud.” 

Was it a little too strong? Maybe. He stepped forward to you, the overhead light highlighting his features. “Nice try Darling. I know you're still angry at me so please don’t test my intellect.”

You blankly glared at him, he even talked to you like shit in a nice way the fucker, talking down like he was the smartest man in the room, even his friend Gojo had picked up on that when you met him. The pair of them were horrid, more alike than Nanami gave himself credit for. You hated him, you hated the house, the basement and the way the fucking door at the top of the stairs creaked when it opened.  

You hadn’t realised how close he was but you spoke anyway in all of the red you saw. “You fucking-”  

Nanami took a hold of your arm and pulled you towards him, his breath tickled past your ear, but he wasn’t whispering. “You know, Gojo feels about his person exactly the way I feel about you and she isn’t so lucky. You know what kind of man he is, don’t you?”

The vibration of his words made your eardrum tingle and covered you in standing hairs. “W-what’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t let go, but squeezed his hand a little, a warning shot you assumed. It didn’t hurt, but you knew he was there. “Gojo plays with his things, because she was exactly like you, trying her damndest to leave him. That broke his heart and he took much more restrictive measures to keep her safe, away from bad influences. I can be like that, would you like to see it?”

“N-no.” You had only met Gojo once and Nanami often mentioned him as a scare tactic and it worked every time. The only thing it seemed that put you in your place.

He huffed a sigh of relief it seemed and loosened his grip on your arm. “Good. Because that would absolutely break my heart Darling. Gojo is cruel to keep the person he loves safe, I don’t want to extend that type of courtesy to you.”

Gojo was arrogant and a bastard. You were uncomfortable before he even stepped foot through the door when he came to the house, you didn’t even try to plead with him when Nanami left the room. He came to you, not the other way around. 

“If you were mine, you wouldn’t have this much freedom.” You always remembered that fucking look in his eyes over the rims of his sunglasses, it would have made most people piss themselves.

You weren’t sure what to say to back to Nanami. “How generous of you.”

He picked up a strand of loose hair and fiddled with it between his fingertips, rubbing the pads on the texture as though to take it in to remember what it felt like. “I know you don’t believe me and I hope you do with time, but I do love you. I would never be like Gojo, not to hurt you intentionally, so please don’t back me into a corner with no choice.”

Nanami always claimed that he was infatuated with you, looking at you with adoring eyes even when you shouted obscenities and threw dishes at him. Gojo, he was nothing like Nanami and that’s what terrified you, that power imbalance was astronomical and the only thing stopping Nanami from doing the things Gojo did was his self proclaimed love for you.

Gojo wasn’t in love, he was a psychopath with far too much power at his fingertips. But Nanami wasn’t in love with you either and you lost so much sleep trying to understand him, to work out why he was drawn to you. 

A blank slate every single time because the situation was totally ridiculous.

He leant in and you were sure he inhaled you. “I hate seeing you upset.”

There was no helping a man like Kento Nanami, so set in his deluded ways that there was no getting through to him. 

You tried your best to explain and maybe if you couldn’t escape, you could make things easier. “If you don’t want to hurt me and prefer it when I’m happy, then let me go from the basement. Maybe we could work something out, but treating me this way won’t make me love you back. Love is earned, built up over time.” 

Though you weren't about to bend over backwards for him. You’d make your escape eventually even if it took a whole year.

“And I have done none of that?” He backed away, his brows lowered in a hurtful expression and narrowed eyes. “You have been here almost a year and you’re still the same from when you first arrived, I don’t know what more I can do.”

A year, already? Everyone definitely thought you were dead, or eloped somewhere. Who were you kidding? Definitely dead.

“I-I’m not saying let me leave from here, just out of the basement. A relationship is built on trust a-and I know I haven’t been exactly trustworthy, but have faith. I won’t disappoint you again; I won't disappear on you again.” It made you want to vomit, a churned stomach at those bullshit words that somehow came out genuine. 

Nanami must have seen it too because he hesitated, just for a moment in his own confliction. Were you telling the truth? Not completely, but he seemed to process it as fact but never confirmed it. 

“I’ll give this a go, but you need to try and trust me. Can you do that?”

Nanami came back to you, so close and bushed down your arms that gave you goosebumps, you wanted to pull away from him, slink into the corner and tell him to fuck off, but you stood your ground in his deafening silence. 

You whispered, breathless enough to entice him, enough to keep yourself from grimacing. “Let's go upstairs, hm?”  

His hands found their way to your cheeks, cupping them like a romance novel, inclined to kiss you softly. You wanted to back away and push him from you, kick his shin, but you stayed firm even when his nose brushed yours. 

He was attractive in your eyes had you met him in a bar or club you probably would have gone back to his for a quick fuck or two, maybe even a casual thing and allowed his twisted self to remain beneath the surface without a care because that’s all he was, a stranger.

To his defence which you regretted supporting, he had never touched you inappropriately that had any sexual undertones. But with the look across his features locked on to you, he had a different thought in mind. 

Would you do it? Could you do it? 

Nanami had his hands at your waist now after dropping from your face, pulling you closer, lips almost touching. “Let me take care of you. I want you to feel good being here with me.”

The first proposition since you had been taken, at least it lasted this long, but could you actually go through with it? Get access to the keys while he slept and smother him with a pillow, that would be too quick, he'd overpower you in. a heartbeat. You would need to play the long game. 

You could do it, no words left your lips so you only nodded. 

His lips were far softer than you thought, though his hands were even more so, holding you there in a firm yet gentle grasp. The weight on your ankle stayed heavy, aching but keeping you grounded enough to see the wood for the trees. 

The kiss was slow, sensual and you tried your best to keep with it and even went as far as to rest your hands on his muscled chest. There was no tongue, not a feverish expression in sight with an almost innocence about it, a first kiss but far more control than you initially thought Nanami had. 

Then he pulled away. “Tomorrow, let's sleep first.”

It was like he knew, but didn’t say and he walked away like it hadn’t happened and picked up his stuff to sleep on. 

Did he know, catch on to your tricks? You didn’t want to know, but the night was going to drag on forever. His guard was up and there wasn't anything you could do that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

You just prayed he would never show a side like Gojo.

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[ct-multifandom]

Climatiqueen reactions

Featuring level 99 plate of corn analysis

I wonder what gets posted in the pig channel, like cutesy things?

Aurore :))))))) the children yearn for her getting screen time. Where is Mirelle

Ok so Aurore is genuinely interested in meteorology as a science and wasn’t competing in s1 to just become a TV personality

I’m getting a hunch influencer!Chloe is part of some larger akuma-baiting plan. Like she’s running competitions and showcasing her “rich perfect life” to potentially make people upset. I feel like Zoo is run by Tomoe since she was pretty much responsible for Alliance, which had the goals of invasively collecting data and making people doomscroll. This feels like the same exact thing, take 2. Vincent did an ad for her cars in revelator, and he might be in on this too.

It’s called Zoo because all the channels are named after animals get it get it?

Chloe lists off the names of miraculous animals who aren’t allowed to compete as their icons show up on screen, but she says unicorn instead of goat. Huh (maybe she’s biphobic. Sorry)

I like that Alec has a huge afro wig now, it feels more in tune with his backstory

Yeowch imagine scrolling and a news report about your father’s death shows up

I want to know what Adrien was texting Juleka about. Meow meow to meow meow communication

LMAOOO his messages to Marinette bro was infodumping. Purely one-sided yapping. I guess this lines up with what she says later about not knowing what to write in response to his perfect texts

r/malelivingspace fr he’s so unsure about his identity he can’t even decide on a wall color. In revelator we see him in front of the same wall but it had like teal and yellow swatches. Idk if he’s still deciding or if it’s gonna be like “what if my wall was a messy splatter of different colors and I didn’t have to choose just one”

TIKKIS LITTLE TEA SET oh me oh myyyyy

Gina lore also what could Marinette possibly be doing with her stuffed cat and potted plant

Why does a Reblochon pancake actually sound kinda good

Adrien: Nathalie probably isn’t going to like my pancakes 🥺 Nathalie: oh thank fucking god they taste like real food instead of chalk and nightmares

The garden hose scenes made me laugh out loud each time, they didn’t get old. Ily gorilla

They’re so cute but also that one couple in high school that has you like is this allowed wtf is that allowed

Adrien’s kinda eating in that bike helmet with his bangs in the wind

Tf is Ray posting about to be in second place

Nora is in 3rd and in 4th place is uh… chlorine? Nice to see people so interested in chemistry!

Diane seems really sweet but I have to wonder if it’s fr or if she’s secretly one of those aggravating out-of-touch people iykwim. Luck is obviously written all over her and she pretty much tells Aurore later like oh I’m only winning because I’m lucky haha see all my posts are so stupid yet everyone loves them! which is what makes her snap. I guess my question is if she’s well intentioned yet insensitive or if she’s an undercover mean girl

AURORES OUTFIT oh peak character design the sunny dress covered by the cloudy transparent raincoat? And her mismatched gold smily sun and silver frowny flower earrings? The bits of curly hair in front of her ears look like lightning bolts

Gorilla on the scooter serving Paul Blart realness

Aglae you’re so cute please don’t be Lila you little emo boy from Whoville

She’s wearing like goth oxfords with socks with ghosts on them? She has one of those “tattoo” chokers but there’s an animation error in one moment where it looks much thicker. Her hoodie has a paint splotch design and her leggings do as well in a tie dye way or maybe it’s supposed to look like they’re ripped?

Why are they posed up like the iconic Marc and Nathaniel love at first sight scene is something yurious occurring

Interesting attention to detail that Aurore sucks at makeup and is one of the only girl characters not wearing any

Oh did Aglae like, smirk sinisterly in the split second before she hugged Aurore and told her she was too nice to do anything underhanded or am I seeing things

Girl why is Manon at big kid school? I didn’t realize school for all ages meant literally fully integrated that sounds… unhelpful. And every single other character we’ve seen at school so far is a teenager.

Marlena teaching cooking class as if she doesn’t have a full time job already

Adrien how do you even mess up using a piping bad that badly

I need a full 360 on the design of that poetry teacher she looks like Professor Plum

Juleka, Rose, and Ivan are all in that class and have been shown to write poems/their own lyrics, but Luka isn’t. Headcanon Luka is bad at lyrics?

Guys great news Ivan still has an eyebrow slit, it’s just a lot smaller and harder to see. He’s also wearing a necklace made out of metal beads. His miraculous might be missing (animation error) and he still has bleached bangs.

Ok I had to double check to make sure I’m not crazy but Nathaniel’s hair is like, brown now, right? Or at least way faded. I had to turn back to the intro where his hair is bright red again and Alix is next to him… *remembers trading card lore* hmmmm I think I see where this is going.

I was gonna leave it at that ^ but then I remembered some of you will have no clue what I’m talking about so. There’s a piece of trivia that Alix dyes Nathaniel’s hair so I’m saying his hair faded because she’s been gone too long and she’ll fix it when she comes back. I’m predicting this will be the main plot of his focus episode

As soon as I saw Ondine is was like :0 👉 ONDINE!!!! She’s so gorgggg she’s finally allowed to wear normal clothes. Ondine my queen I love you and I can’t wait for your episode I’m so glad you’re part of the squad and kind of important now. If they ever need a substitute miraculous holder she’s probably at the top of the list.

Oh hi Marc. Wait are your legs clipping into the ground? It’s kind of funny that the whole gang is crowded around one table while Marc and Nath are taking up an entire big table for just the two of them

They’re eating a refined smear of orange sauce for lunch (jk I know they’re done eating)

Zoe’s phone case and screensaver are her shoe design. They all have more unique cases now ig, Aurore’s in blue with white clouds and Diane’s is pink with green clovers.

Hot take Kim was valid for asking Aglae if she thinks Aurore was about to get akumatized. That was a perfectly important and relevant question.

Also Kim has stud earrings now, I first noticed that in revelator

lmao “I know what you need, a tall glass of water!” “…Buh-” 😧👉🥛

Oh wow the food pyramid poster in the nurses office seems to be organized like the hierarchy of needs with carbs on the bottom, then veggies (vitamins), then proteins, then sweet treats. Then exercise and drinking water are drawn below the pyramid. That’s actually a pretty nice design. See this is the plate of corn content I promised you all

The drills. The lightning crown. The stormcloud skirt with neon lightning cracks… peak. If Aurore knows how to do one thing, it’s slay. Reminder that akumas “design” their own costumes

Glad to see the school is confirmed to actually have an elevator btw

The 2D wow

Oh my that train cataclysm scene was epic. Sure is lucky there was nobody on it during all that! I’m glad to have cool fight choreography again because last season it was starting to feel kinda like they just beat up the villain in 5 seconds out of obligation and left. I hope we’ll get some cool lucky charms again

Ohhhhh people have been saying that Lila hasn’t outright requested the miraculous yet before this. Omg she’s only doing it *after* the akuma gets what they originally wanted so it feels like a fair follow-up deal. Rather than expecting them to pledge allegiance to her on a gamble that they may or may not get what they want. The braincells

Episodes since the Eiffel Tower has last been personally victimized: 0

I guess they can just automatically use power ups now? Is this part of having adult powers or do they like eat a handful of special macarons every morning just in case

She has neon corset lacing on the back of her dress

Markov is now a tiny fella who snaps into Max’s wristwatch. I miss his old design because it was really cute but this new concept is pretty cool

Pegasus has been carrying this season so far what. First transformation of the season this is his show now. Miraculous tales of Pegasus

The choreography is like the same but cooler. Such small changes make it so much more visually interesting to follow like how it pauses on his shoes and chest to highlight the more interesting details of his suit, and how the horseshoe boomerang swivels in with a lightning swoosh effect. The Just Dance icons at the bottom are fun.

Did you know Just Dance has a map of the miraculous theme song where the coaches are cosplaying lb and cn? I recently found that out. I also recall one time Alya and Nino were playing a game that’s basically Just Dance in the show. Rest in piss Gabriel Agreste you would have loved Lida

Ok yeah Pegasus saved the tourists but realistically they would still take serious fall damage. I guess his portals somehow magically decelerate them so they’re ok.

Chloe degaf about this contest she’s so over it like ugh I guess you won whatev

Aurore considers Marinette and Adrien to be her friends

Oh so now you care about the book again

*Aurore putting a picture of Claudie on a hear me out cake* Max: THATS MY MOM

I see Lila is also doing that “next time…” 😈 shit Gabriel used to do before he realized that statistically it probably will um not be next time or the time after that either

I guess the ladybug community is the peace and love one where nothing toxic happens ever or something

People have pointed this out a long time ago but the merry go round is now filled with seats designed after the miraculous animals :)

If you gave Adrien the goat miraculous he wouldn’t even have powers he’d just turn into a black widow type of superhero

Marinette: I’m gonna be mature and let Adrien live his life! Marinette two episodes later: now who the fuck is that and why hasn’t he introduced her to me how do they know each other

RIP Adrien you would’ve loved Apple by Charli XCX

“Why doesn’t Sublime assume Adrien is jogging for sport, a totally normal thing to do in a park?” bro he’s wearing skinny jeans

Astruc or someone please tell us Diane, Aglae, and Ondine’s last names for tagging reasons please

Ok that’s all for now folks, see you after El Toro de Piedra probably!