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scary-grace · 1 month ago

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if my heart was a house (chapter 2) - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

It's been nineteen years since Tomura was sentenced to death, and you've built a life in the space he left behind, braced each day for the worst. You're prepared for everything - the questions your daughter asks, the memories that sting a little more in the winter, the specter of the news you've been afraid of for years. But of all the things life's thrown your way, it's the one you haven't dared to hope for might be the one thing you can't handle. (cross-posted to Ao3) The prequel can be found here: what I can't remember nowwritten for @pixelcafe-network's Challenge Friday event! Banner/divider by @cafekitsune

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

It’s freezing when you step out of the community center, and only the fact that Chihiro’s waiting for you to pick her up at school prevents you from going right back in and borrowing a scarf and gloves from the bin of spares. You knew you should have dressed more warmly, but you didn’t realize there’d be so much wind. By the time you make to the car, your teeth are chattering, and the car always takes longer to warm up than you want it to. You moved to Hokkaido nineteen years ago because it was the last place anyone would look for you, and no one’s found you yet. You just wish the price of privacy didn’t include freezing your ass off in the moonless polar night.

You think Chihiro worries about you a little less lately. You’ve gone to a month of pottery classes, and you make sure to respond to messages in the PTA moms’ group text every so often, and once when Kaori’s crazy mom asked you to get tea, you agreed. You left that conversation feeling like you’d been through a tornado, but the important thing is that you’re trying. That Chihiro sees you trying. That when she moves away for school, her worry for you won’t hold her back.

Her comment about you not having friends hit a little too close to home, and it’s still hanging around in your head. You used to have friends — Tomura’s friends, and some of your own. You loved them. You know they loved you. Half the reason you survived Tomura’s arrest and trial was because they were with you, suffering the same way, helpless to stop anything that was happening and trying all the same. Knowing all of that, it makes even less sense that you ran from them afterward.

But that’s always been who you are. When you’re hurt, when you’re scared, when you’re sad, you pull back from the world. You don’t like having your feelings where other people could see, and if you didn’t like having your feelings in front of anybody, there was no way you were having your baby in front of Tomura’s friends. You weren’t interested in how they felt about it. You didn’t want to hear what they’d say. And you didn’t want them involved, constantly circling, reminding you of everything you lost. Reminding your baby, once they were old enough to understand. Your new new job (you lost the first new one), your apartment, your friends, your city — it all started to feel like a prison. You could run, so you did.

Lately, though, you’ve been thinking about them. Enough to look them up and see that Toga’s a fairly well-known costume designer, and wish you could talk sewing with her; find out that Dabi’s doing okay, when you’d been worried ever since you met him that he’d wind up in prison; learn that Spinner’s a writer with a popular series of detective novels, famous for mercilessly skewering the police over their incompetence and corruption. You’ve thought about reaching out, seeing if they know anything about Tomura’s situation, if they’ve heard anything from him. Then you decided it wasn’t worth it. You don’t want to find out that he’s spent nineteen years talking to them and not to you.

Your car finally warms up. You take a deep breath, shove the thought of your old friends away, and drive.

Someone’s car spun out on the route you planned to take to the high school, and you call Chihiro to let her know you’ll be a little late. She doesn’t answer, but she probably just busy. The choir director is kind of a hardass, but Chihiro worships the ground she walks on, and she’d never interrupt a rehearsal for something like a call from her probably-clingy mom. You are a little clingy. You just don’t ever want her to wonder where you are. To spend even a second doubting that you’ll be there when she needs you.

You get to the school, park, and switch idly between channels on the radio, skipping away whenever you hear a snatch of the news. The choir kids trickle out of school slowly, talking through chattering teeth, and scatter to their parents’ cars. You watch for Chihiro, knowing that she stays late to talk to the choir director sometimes. But then the lights in the music room go out. The choir director steps out, locking the door behind her, and fear like you’ve never experienced in your life floods through you.

It feels like acid in your veins. You lurch out of your car and get in the director’s way as she heads for hers. “Where’s Chihiro?”

“She left at the break,” the director says. “Typically I don’t allow it, but she’s an excellent student and she’s never asked before —”

Chihiro left. Chihiro left school an hour ago. You can barely speak. “What happened? Did she get sick? Why didn’t you call me —”

“She said she would,” the director says, bewildered. “She didn’t?”

“If she’d called me, I’d have picked her up already.” Your voice stutters, fractures. “What happened?”

“She and her friends were discussing something. A news article, I think. I doubt that’s what caused it.” The director is frowning now, disconcerted to your terrified. “When we resumed practice, she was distraught, and asked to be excused early.”

Distraught. You’ve never heard anybody use that word to describe your daughter. “Did she say why?”

“She needed to go home. She said it was a family emergency.”

A family emergency? You’re her family. Your parents passed away when she was in middle school and you and your brother haven’t spoken in years. What family is she talking about? You don’t need that answer right now. You need to find her. “Thank you,” you choke out, and run back to your car.

You and she live five miles outside of town — on a big road that gets plowed and salted, sure, but still outside of town. Could she walk all the way home in an hour? You don’t think so. Not in this weather. And you can’t think of anywhere else she would go. You drive slowly, carefully along the road, your heart rising into your throat at each bend in the road and sinking when the stretch of road ahead of you continues to be empty. Your mind twists in agony. A family emergency. What does that even mean? It crosses your mind that it’s the perfect excuse, one no teacher would ever refuse a student like Chihiro — but why wouldn’t she call you? Why would she start walking home in the dark? What is there that she thinks she can’t bring to you, that you wouldn’t help her with? You’d do anything for her. You just have to find her, and you’ll figure it out.

You catch up to her halfway home, her hands jammed into her pockets and her shoulders hunched against the cold, her breath billowing out in a frozen cloud. The relief of finding her lasts for only a second. Now you need to get her home. You flip on your hazard lights and slow to a crawl alongside her, rolling down your window. “Chihiro, get in the car!”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look your way. “I’m so glad I found you, but I don’t understand,” you say. “You must be freezing. Why didn’t you call me? I was so scared –”

You’re making this about you. It’s not about you. “Chihiro, please get in the car. I just want you to be safe. I love you —”

“Shut up!” She wheels on you, and you hit the brakes, more in shock than anything else. Your daughter’s eyes are swollen and bloodshot with tears, and her lips are cracked and bleeding in the cold. Her mouth is turned down like you haven’t seen it in more than a decade, but her eyes are hot with rage. “Don’t come near me. Don’t even talk to me. I didn’t call you because I hate you. I hate you! How could you do that to me?”

“Do what?” you ask.

“Lie,” Chihiro spits, or sobs. “How long were you going to lie to me, Mom? Were you ever going to tell me the truth about my dad?”

Your stomach drops. How did she find out? How many people know? “I never lied,” you say. “I never told you he was dead. I always told you —”

“He’s gone.” Chihiro’s nose is dripping. She looks frozen. “Don’t play that stupid game. You knew what I thought you meant when you say that, and you just let me think — you were always going to let me think he was —”

“How did you find out?”

“That’s all you care about? I hate you —”

Right now, you hate yourself, too. It hurts to hear Chihiro say that, hurts to know she’s so angry with you that she’d rather freeze than spend even a second in the car with you — but your feelings don’t matter right now. They stopped mattering nineteen years ago. This is about your daughter. You shove your feelings to one side. “You hate me,” you repeat, and she scoffs. “You can hate me just as much in the car as you can out there, and the car is warm.”

Chihiro squints at you as she wipes her eyes. “It’s not that far. I can walk.”

“Yeah. But it’ll take you another hour, and it’ll just keep getting colder.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I won’t try to talk to you. In the car or when we’re home. Just — please, get in the car, Chihiro. You don’t have to hurt yourself to let me know you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry, Mom. This is way beyond angry.” Chihiro takes a deep breath and coughs on the cold air. “If you try to talk to me, I’m getting out again.”

You don’t deserve to feel relieved, but you do. You put the car in park and unlock the passenger-side door. “Okay.”

The drive home is awful, but at least it’s brief. The first thing Chihiro does after taking off her shoes and coat is head straight for the bathroom. The water switches on in the shower, and you’ll bet it’s scalding hot. She must be so cold. And so angry with you, angry enough to override her better judgment and drive her out onto the road alone. Is she right about you? Were you ever going to tell her the truth about Tomura? You don’t know. But you should have seen this coming, somehow. You could have seen it coming, would have, if you were doing anything but hiding from your own pain. Of course Chihiro’s furious with you. You deserve it.

Deserving it doesn’t make it hurt any less, so like always, you find something to keep you busy. You set out clean pajamas for Chihiro on her bed. Then you finish folding the laundry, emptying the dishwasher, folding the quilts that are still strewn across the couch from Chihiro’s movie night with Kaori over the weekend. After that it’s time to sew, and even with the focus paper-piecing takes and the noise of the sewing machine, you can’t shut out a single question: How did she find out?

The water in the shower shuts off. You hear Chihiro’s footsteps in the hallway, then the sound of her bedroom door shutting. Shutting, not slamming. You abandon your sewing machine, planning to go to your bedroom and stay there, leaving her the kitchen and the living room and not coming out until she goes to sleep. You don’t want her to have to look at you. Or maybe you just don’t want to see how she looks at you now.

The thought stops you at the threshold. You’ve made everything about what’s happened into something about you. Who are you helping by going to hide? Yourself. You’re protecting yourself from your daughter’s anger, which she deserves to express, and from the questions she probably wants to ask, which you should have answered a long time ago. You can’t hide. You need to stay here and be the person — the parent — you should have been all along. Even if it’s too late.

You hear the bedroom door open, but you don’t turn, and Chihiro comes closer with soft footsteps. She stops at the edge of the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Making hot chocolate. Do you want some?”

“You’re being weird,” Chihiro says. She sounds unnerved. “I told you I hate you. Why aren’t you yelling? You’re not even crying. Do you even care?”

Your heart breaks a little bit, even as a surge of frustration rocks you. “It hurts to hear you say that,” you admit. No more lying. From here on out, you tell the truth. “But I don’t think it hurts as much as finding out your mom’s been lying to you for eighteen years.”

Chihiro’s quiet. She’s quiet, and you’re not trying to downplay what you did or run away from it, so you ask a question of your own. “How did you find out?”

The electric kettle goes off with a click. “The water’s done,” Chihiro says. “Are you making hot chocolate or not?”

She reminds you so much of Tomura — that same bluntness, that same impatience, that same affinity for cutting the knot. “Yeah. And some for you.”

Once you’ve both got your cups, you head to the living room. Chihiro unfolds all the blankets you folded earlier and burrows into them, and you sit in the armchair and pull your feet up and away from the floor. She watches you over the rim of her cup. “It’s weird when you do that,” she says. “It makes you look really young.”

It’s quiet for a second. ��I guess you are kind of young. They said in school that most people don’t have kids until they’re thirty, and you were only twenty-two when you had me.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Four years older than you.”

It sounds wrong when you say it. Too young. Way too young. Chihiro looks unsettled. “I wouldn’t have a kid when I was twenty-two,” she says. “Why did you?”

You take a sip of hot chocolate, trying to calm your nerves. “I’ll tell you that and everything else. I want to know how you found out first.”

Chihiro’s eyes narrow, but to your surprise, she answers. “Takako at school — she watches that true-crime show. The one you don’t let me watch.”

“I never said you couldn’t watch it. I just said not on the TV out here,” you say. Chihiro rolls her eyes. “Your computer in your room is fair game.”

“My computer doesn’t get cable.”

“So pirate it,” you say with a shrug, and Chihiro nearly chokes on her next sip of hot chocolate. “I never said you couldn’t watch it at all.”

“Yeah. Like you never actually said my dad was dead,” Chihiro says. Ouch. “Do you want me to tell you or what? She watches that show, and you’re not the only mom who’s weird about it, so she tells us all about the episodes when they come out. I guess this week’s episode was about this guy Shigaraki Tomura who killed his whole family, and how he’s been on death row longer than anybody else in Japan. So we looked him up to see if he’s still alive — I guess the episodes get made in advance — and there were pictures of him at his trial. He has the same birthmark I do.”

You nod. “And the same eyes. Ever since you were a baby.”

Chihiro looks down into her cup. “One of my friends joked about it. I thought it was funny, so I laughed. But then I was thinking about it, and the — timing, I guess. And I realized you never said he was dead. My whole life, that was what I thought, but it wasn’t what you said.”

She takes another sip of hot chocolate. “I was looking at the pictures. From the trial, and you were in them. Your hair looked different, but I knew it was you. And I guess I — there was this one picture. From his sentencing. You’re holding his hands.”

You hadn’t realized someone snapped a photo, but you should have known. Your fingers still ache from the memory. Chihiro looks up, her eyes glassy again. “It’s him, isn’t it? My dad’s Shigaraki Tomura.”

“That’s him,” you say. You can’t call your voice steady. Flat might be better. “What do you want to know?”

“Why,” Chihiro says at once. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There were a lot of reasons,” you say. “I think my main one was trying to protect you.”

“From him?”

“No,” you say. “From everybody else. I don’t know if you read any of the articles about the trial, but the way they talked about him — and about me — was awful. People treated me differently, and I was just his girlfriend. I didn’t want anybody to do anything to you because of who your father was.”

“I got in fights anyway. Because I didn’t have a dad.” Chihiro’s voice is dull. “Maybe if they’d known who he was it would have been different.”

“Maybe.” You take a sip of your own hot chocolate, even though it’s getting hard to swallow. “That was part of it. Part of it was that I didn’t want you to grow up with that hanging over your head. Knowing that your dad was on death row and not even being able to visit him.”

“You said he didn’t know about me. Was that a lie, too?”

“I tried to tell him,” you say. “I called, and wrote letters, and tried to visit — he never wanted to see me. And he never answered.”

Your voice wavers slightly. You don’t try to fight it. Fighting it makes it worse. “I wanted to. He wouldn’t let me.”

Chihiro looks disturbed. “So that picture —”

“That’s the last time I saw him,” you say, and Chihiro’s expression collapses. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry about that.” Chihiro lets go of her cup to wipe her eyes. “Why else didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was selfish,” you say. It hurts to admit it, to admit that what you swore you were doing for Chihiro’s own good was for you all along. But you have to be honest. You’ve lied to her, by omission or on purpose, enough for a lifetime. “I didn’t want to think about what happened. Any of it. And if you didn’t know — if nobody knew — then I wouldn’t have to talk about it ever again.”

Chihiro wipes her eyes a second time. You keep talking, your throat aching more in every word. “I didn’t wake up one morning and decide not to tell you about Tomura. It just happened —”

“And kept happening. For eighteen years.”

She’s not going to let you get away with anything. The fact that you know she shouldn’t doesn’t make it any less frustrating. “Yeah. Eighteen years. I did it because it would make things easier, for me. Because it wouldn’t hurt as much, for me. I was thinking a lot about me and I should have been thinking about you.”

Chihiro looks away. “Do you think he did it?”

“Chihiro —”

“He confessed,” Chihiro says. “He said he did it.”

Yeah, Tomura confessed. They interrogated him for twenty days straight before they got anything out of him, and when you came to visit him again before the trial, he looked like something had broken inside of him. He seemed out of it, too. He barely recognized you, barely knew you were there. You don’t know what they did to him in there, but you trust that confession even less than you trust the testimony his adoptive father gave. “He confessed,” Chihiro repeats, her voice rising. She fumbles her phone out of her pocket, unlocks it one-handed. “Do you think he did it?”

She’s looking something up. You remember all at once how Chihiro stumbled on him in the first place. “Did they execute him? Chihiro, tell me —”

“Do you think he did it?” she demands, and you shake your head. You were there at the trial. Every day. You never saw anything that made you believe he was guilty. Chihiro squeezes her eyes shut and holds out her phone towards you. “You were right.”

Some part of you registers what she just said, but it doesn’t stick. It bounces off the surface and vanishes, because Chihiro has a news site open, with a bright red BREAKING NEWS banner across the top. SHIGARAKI TOMURA EXONERATED AFTER NINETEEN YEARS ON DEATH ROW.

You spend one wild second panicking at the sight of an “ex” word in the same sentence as Tomura’s name and “death row”, but then you force yourself to go back. Exonerated. Not executed, exonerated. You lift the phone out of Chihiro’s hands and she lets you take it — with a caveat. “Read it out loud, okay? So I know we both saw the same thing.”

You start reading, your voice rattling. “In a time of rising crime, escalating drug trafficking, and a loss of trust in our institutions, the accused mass murderer Shigaraki Tomura became the avatar for Japan’s worst nightmares: A remorseless killer, hiding amongst the innocent, ready to strike at any time. Those who questioned the scant evidence the prosecutor provided were ridiculed. Those who believed that his confession to the murders of his parents, his grandparents, and his older sister was the product of coercion were reviled. Nineteen years later, they and the man they spoke up for have seen justice served.”

Your eyes are burning. You blink back tears and keep reading. “In a stunning but well-reasoned decision released on Monday afternoon, the Supreme Court reversed all seven murder convictions against Shigaraki Tomura in light of new evidence uncovered in the course of an entirely different investigation. Midoriya Izuku, a prosecutor turned human-rights advocate, became interested in Shigaraki’s case while working to restore another inmate’s right to visits from his adoptive father — fuck!”

Chihiro looks up. “Huh?”

“Sorry. It’s just — he called me,” you say. “Midoriya Izuku. He’s been calling. I didn’t know why.”

“It’s weird when you swear,” Chihiro notes. You mumble an apology. “Keep reading.”

“Upon reviewing the available evidence and pursuing new investigations, Midoriya made a motion for a retrial, which was granted by the Supreme Court and conducted under terms of absolute secrecy in order to avoid the media circus that ensued during Shigaraki’s original trial. The Court has agreed to release all documents related to Shigaraki’s case and is expected to do so within the next twenty-four hours. Some sources have indicated that a different suspect in the Shimura family’s murders has already been taken into custody, but no official confirmation has been received.”

Your hands are shaking now, so hard you almost drop Chihiro’s phone in your cup of hot chocolate. “Mom?” Chihiro says, and you look up, blinking hard. “Do you know who they arrested?”

Your first inclination is to ask why she thinks you of all people would know, but you clamp down on that. Even though the world’s just been yanked out from beneath your feet, your daughter is still the injured party. And when you think about it, you do have some idea of who it is. “His adoptive dad. He was the one who had custody of Tomura when the murders happened, and he was really excited to cooperate with the investigation.”

“Custody?” Chihiro repeats. “How old was he when he — when they died?”

“Fifteen,” you say. “If you’re older than fourteen when you commit a crime, they can try you as an adult.”

“You think his fake dad set him up,” Chihiro says. You nod. “Is there more to read?”

“A little bit.”

Chihiro scoots over on the couch, making a space, and you sit down next to her. She has to wake up her phone again for you to keep reading, and you get the jumpscare of SHIGARAKI TOMURA EX- a second time before scrolling down to where you left off. “Although a release date has not been announced publicly, it is the view of this magazine that Shigaraki should be released from prison as quickly as possible. He has paid a debt to society that was never owed in the first place. When Shigaraki Tomura is released from Fuchu Prison, he will walk out a free man. Society’s atonement for the crime it committed against him is only beginning.”

You glance at the byline out of habit. This article was written by Kizuki Chitose, and if you remember right, the last article she wrote about Tomura struck a pretty different note. She’d better start atoning right now. You’d be happy to help. Balling up every single scathing editorial and hit job she wrote and jamming them down her throat feels like it would be a good start.

“It’s real,” Chihiro says. You nod. “He’s getting out.”

You nod again. You’re with Kizuki on wanting Tomura to be released as quickly as possible. You’re just not sure what happens next.

Chihiro’s thinking along the same lines. “Mom, what are we going to do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” you promise her. She leans in against your side, and some horrible part of you exults. With the chaos that’s about to unfold, Chihiro can’t afford to hate you any longer — or if you stop thinking about it like an asshole, she doesn’t know what’s going to happen and you’re the person she turns to. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know any more than she does. You’re the adult, but something happened to you when you read that headline. Somehow it feels like no time has passed at all; like he was just torn away from you, like you’re a lonely, hopeless twenty-two-year-old with a baby on the way all over again.

But you aren’t. You made it this far. Your baby turned eighteen this year, and you managed to raise her close enough to right. “We’ll figure it out,” you promise her again. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“Maybe you were right,” Chihiro mumbles. “It would have been harder if I knew all this time.”

You think so. It’s still not an excuse. You wrap your arm around your daughter’s shoulders and hug her closer, relieved beyond words when she doesn’t pull away. You’ll take care of her first — make sure she eats, make sure she gets some sleep, because you know from experience how much harder everything becomes without it. And after she’s fallen asleep, you’ll finally return Midoriya Izuku’s calls.

<- Chapter 1

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #needle compass north

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the-kr8tor · 1 year ago

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Thread The Needle

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 48.6k (complete)

Synopsis: You've been pining for your best friend of ten years, unbeknownst to you he's also hopelessly in love with you. Will your final college project bring you closer and finally admit your feelings? Or will it drive a wedge between you?

Tags: Best friend! Hobie, fashion student! reader, fem! Reader. Best friends to lovers, idiots in love, lots of pining, is it still slow burn if they're already in love? Hurt/comfort, FLUFF. Specific warnings are listed per chapter.

Disclaimer: I have no experience in fashion design or went to school for it. I've based my knowledge on my own research and what I've seen in various media.

*I don't consent to having my work translated/ published on other platforms*

All images used are from pinterest

Main Masterlist

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1 - Pin my heart

CHAPTER 2- Loose thread

CHAPTER 3- Knee Socks

CHAPTER 4- Threadbare

CHAPTER 5- Woven Wheel

CHAPTER 6- Lace

CHAPTER 7- Crossed Stitch

CHAPTER 8- Out of Style

CHAPTER 9- Threaded Through

CHAPTER 10- Parallel Cut

EPILOGUE

TTN one shots (Spoiler Warning ⚠️)

Classroom inspo

Chapter 8 outfit inspos

TTN secrets (Spoiler Warning ⚠️)

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

Submitted by the readers ❤️

Chapter 8 fanart by @thesevenofstaves

TTN Memes by @hunx147 (Spoiler Warning ⚠️)

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7)

Songs recommended by readers to listen to while reading ❤️

Spotify playlist

From the start by Laufey, Chemtrails over the country club by Lana Del Rey, good old fashioned lover boy by Queen, Just a friend to you by Meghan Trainor, I bet on losing dogs by Mitski, Everything in you by adventure time, What a wonderful world cover by the Brooklyn duo, me and your mama by Childish Gambino, A thousand years by Cristina Perry, Tis the damn season by Taylor Swift, thousand years cover by new found glory, Outset island by Hot freaks, Lacy by Olivia Rodrigo.

#thread the needle #thread the needle masterlist #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #spider punk #hobie brown #the kr8tor's creations #spider man across the spider verse #x reader #atsv fanfiction #atsv x reader #atsv hobie #fanfic #first series letss goooo #series masterlist #hobie brown x fem!reader #spider punk x fem!reader

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kit-williams · 8 months ago

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Plague Soup for the Soul

Plague Witch!Rader x Typhus the traveler, Herald of Nurgle

Tag list: @bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@plegg

Song on repeat: Hold, Release; Rakshasa & Carcasses

Word Count: 3242 3602 words too many

tw: Casual body horror? Gonna be real people idk how to tag this. Lots of insect stuff, update: SMUT

Food was important for Nurglites. It was embedded deep into their worship, their mythos, always a key part in their legends, and of course highly important to Grandfather Nurgle. For Plague Witches they acted as conduits for two important aspects of their god... as their bubbling cauldrons contained eternal soups and through these soups is how they would preform their magic & spread the love of Grandfather. They say the most skilled Plague Witch would even get a drop of the eternal brew into their cauldron if their soup and their skills of incorporating plagues into the broth was as skilled as how Grandfather did. A good base was the key like with any good soup! Just as much as Love, good ingredients & along with their own ways of enchanting their soups kept them going century after century. But, to get them that far wasn't easy as some would too quick to ravage the body fizzling out rapidly after infecting many... and others would get cold before the potency was there.

Typhus was the Herald of Nurgle... so deeply tied to his god... so he could tell that something had agitated the Lord of Plagues as the Nurglings were not giggling they were frustrated and impatient... no mischievous glint in their eyes, "Dearest little ones," He spoke to the hoard of Nurglings that kept him company the closest one looked up at Typhus with a dopey grin, "What displeases Grandfather? Have I not done enough to sway the Great Game in his favor? Have I not brought his love to enough planets recently?"

Grandpa is pleased with you!" One shouted over the rest before the hoard babbled out, "However, there is a plague witch in your fleet with the most delicious soup! But! They offer such a meager portion that it has taken Grandpa this long to figure out where they are." They babbled excitedly.

Typhus drummed his fingers against his stomach... it couldn't be any of the Plague Witches in his direct service as they all had large bubbling cauldrons and he knew for a fact they gave him & Grandfather their portions; even if it was a new brew they were trying. It had to be a fledgling... a newly blossomed witch with a starter base... Typhus drummed his chin humming. Such a potent base for a young soup... would mean they would be a powerful witch long term and if Typhus mentored him or her... "What is the soup like?"

"OH!" One shrieked as his hoard of nurglings had heard Nurgle praise the concoction, "Grandda says it hits right in the soul! Truly made with love! A perfect base that will lovingly cradle any plague! Grandda must find this witch! They hide from his blessings! I wonder if they are shy?" They all talked over each other leaving Typhus to wonder how to lure the witch out...

The wizened crone rubbed her chin as she was far more pus and pestilence than human at this point as she spat to the side onto a nurgling, "It has to be a fledgling doing this my lord... only one like that would offer so little, not out of being selfish but simply because of how little they have. Cauldrons like these take up so much room." Behind her was her brood of nurglings giggling & babbling as they worked around her cauldron for her as she talked to Typhus. Mortal helpers got ingredients ready passing them off to the bloated demons who giggled as they tossed them into the pot, "There are a couple of fledglings on this ship that I could think might be the ones you're after but their soups aren't even twenty years old... but if it is a fledgling they'll be feeding the masses and perfecting their craft. Though... I question if they are even trying." The crone says dismissively as a nurgling brings a ladle over for her to try and she sips her soup.

"What makes you say that?" Typhus inquires as he is not a Plague Witch and does not peer into the coven politics as why would he they simply have to make sure they give him their best.

"This mythical soup grandfather is looking for doesn't sound like it has any plagues in it. No one on your ship would dare try to make a soup like this without plagues. They might be simply dabbling in the techniques which has made something that infects the soul, a grand base if it exists, which would be wonderful for converting others to the cause. But, there are a few upstarts on other ships in the fleet... that I've heard grumbles and groans from of such young things competing with others whose cauldrons have been bubbling for centuries and millennia. But this is all I can theorize to help my lord." In the list that she gives to Typhus... your name is amongst them.

Your bells jingled as you carried your tiny portable cauldron now full of donated ingredients, used bones, scraps of meat, a few fungi, and other scavenged or bought items. Three tails behind you with bells tied to them via ribbons jangled behind you as you moved through the packed halls. You were excited as you got a small bit of pork as you had arrived when it had been freshly butchered. A small amount for you and the rest for your soup! So then everyone who ate what you cooked would be able to share even if they weren't as lucky as you.

You were almost home and you could maybe take a small nap before- you stop as you look down at the small hoard of nurglings just waiting in a pile outside of your door. You looked up at the many mouthed cultist with them giving you a haphazard grin at you, "I'm sorry miss they had heard about your soup..." You watch as one of them starts to lick your door, "They've been patiently waiting."

"I... I've got enough for them to share a bowl." You sigh softly but you can't help but smile at their antics... you suppose you didn't mind a late dinner. As you unlocked the door they were wonderfully well behaved as none of them rushed inside when you opened it and walked in just letting them watch you. Your own "cauldron" full of soup wasn't much larger than the portable one in your hands as you place it on your small counter. You pulled out your nicer wide rimmed bowl as it was for nurglings... "How paitently did you say they were waiting?" You ask as you grab your ladle.

"Very." The man said with a charming smile as your three tails whiped about behind you causing the bells on them to jingle as you walked over to the pot and gave them a large serving.

"Well I hope you all enjoy." You say putting the bowl down and then handed him a small cup full.

"Oh! Thank you." He says as you walk back into the room just barely hearing his mutter, "Divine Excrement... that's fucking amazing."

Moments like this you lived for... the way others eyes would light up as they would enjoy your cooking. It was always hard to refuse their request for seconds... just as you stood there as they all looked up at you holding the bowl politely asking for another bowl... "Ah ah ah fellas remember what she said. She could only spare us this amount and I'm certain she'll have more tomorrow?" He looked over at you and you nodded.

"Tomorrow I'll have a full cauldron and if you come early enough you can ask for seconds." That got the happy little creatures to cheer as you waved them off as you closed your door.

The cultist looked down at the nurgling with a large eye on its stomach as its iris was beloved grandfather's symbol... it was excited, bouncing all around as it was certain that this was it! The cultist pulled out a small device and radioed his lord, "Lord Typhus we found the witch."

You were tired as all you had left to do was enchant the soup and then you could finally enjoy your dinner. You rubbed your eye with the palm of your hand as the bells on your clothes and tails felt so heavy by this point but just a little bit longer. You thought to how you were close enough to be able to afford a proper cauldron and then you wouldn't have to limit yourself too much on how many people you could feed. Sure it would take up more of your already limited space but you knew it would be worth it! You were getting ready to enchant when you heard the door unlock... you looked worried as no one should be able to unlock your door even if they had good intentions. Your hand grabs the wood of the cleaver handle as not much of a fighter but you were going to try... why was there suddenly a buzzing noise and why was it so loud? The door opens and it gets even louder as you back yourself up into a corner as a Space Marine wedges themself into your door... and not just any Space Marine but the Herald of Nurgle himself... Typhus the Traveler... when his yellow eye lenses look right at you, you drop the clever out of fear and press against the wall.

He chuckle softly, "Well the blossoming Plague Witch that has been eluding Grandfather..." He looks around the room and right at your cauldron, "I can see why your offerings have been meager. Let me have a taste."

You swallow the lump of dread in your throat as you dare speak up, "It's not done yet.. my lord." You quickly tack on.

"Oh?" He said as he regarded you like a scared cat as you were pressed against the far wall, eyes wide with fear not daring to leave the threat in your sight, "When will it be?"

You swallow again, "Four minutes... I have to enchant it first." You hoped he would leave.

But you were not that lucky as he gestured to the cauldron, "Well do not let me keep you little witch. I might be patient but I do not possess Grandfather's long patience."

You inhale as you have to be a brave girl. You peel yourself away from the wall and stand in front of your bubbling cauldron, your back to Typhus. Your mind began to play its song as your head bobbed before your body started to sway as your bells began to jingle. The mouth on your lower back opened up as you sang with two mouths. Your movements were bouncy and at time violent as you focused on the words leaving your mouth and the way the bells rang with such pleasing chimes. You had forgotten Typhus was there watching you. You made your bounding way around your cauldron singing loudly as you were having fun, like you always did, putting your hands together as you crouched before jumping back up with a grin on your face.

Typhus watched as your hair bounced free from its ribbon holding it back. Your eyes glowing a bright green as you were lost in the ritual process as small jars of spices, herbs, and powders floated their way over to you. You took handfuls, pinches, and scoops as you added them in time with parts of the ritual where you weren't singing. The smile on your face wide as you sang louder and louder in a language unfamiliar to Typhus but that hardly mattered. Witches all had their own ways of enchanting and if a nonsense song was your way... he wouldn't question it.

You stop for a moment before violently spinning in place, your bells clamoring, as you sang in a high pitched voice... and Typhus could hear something respond in a voice that wasn't your own. You did this call and response three times. The climax of your enchantment approaches and you sing so loudly before your mouths howl in an otherworldly way. Your cauldron bubbling violently as you grab a handful of a spice blend from a pouch as you pause and chant out the last words before throwing it in. A cloud appears as it bubbles violently changing color from a dark brown to a yellow.

You deflate as you finish dancing. It was always so physically demanding to enchant your soup but it was worth it done this way... to see the happy faces of those eating your food! You turn around and yelp as you see Typhus in your doorway as you remember he was there watching you the whole time. You quickly grab your small portable cauldron and fill it, trying your best to not let any spill as you offer it to the Herald. He takes it and opens up the mouth plate and you avert your gaze as for Typhus he finally gets to taste this soup that Grandfather Nurgle has been pining after.

Typhus takes large gulps from the tiny thing you handed him... Oh! He can feel it worm its way right to his soul like some burrowing parasite! Yet it was like getting a warm embrace from a parent... or even a lover... that filled his limbs with a tingling warming happiness. Yet he could feel it also be akin to a gentle kiss from death... the sweetness of the lips leaving a mark on the skin and yet death fails to collect. He could feel his powers swell... his connection to Nurgle strengthen even! It washed over his SOUL and it was absolutely INVIGORATING and perhaps even a little ADDICTING like getting praise from Grandfather Nurgle.

"Fill it again." Typhus demands of you and of course you obey.

"Someone tend to her cauldron." You hear him bellow out as he pulls himself free of your door and you look confused. As another woman walks in and starts to tend to your soup. You put a lid on your small portable cauldron.

"Wait... what is going on." You say as you are led outside and other cultists lead you after the Herald of Nurgle. "Where am I being taken too." You ask fearfully.

Typhus decides to answer you, "To the Plague Cathedral upon the flagship, my ship. Grandfather demands a serving. And what better place to offer it to him."

You swallow as you follow him as those around you make sure you will be taken to the Cathedral.

You had only been here once before as the Cathedral on the flagship was more like a massive hive as unlike the giant fungi that grew around the church you went to... this was massive with so many insects around. You were led closer to the large ornate altar as it oozed honey as you could feel your shoes stick to the floor as well it went from floor to comb. Large insects of Nurgle skitter on the walls and ceiling as they watched and buzzed the closer you got.

"Come now little blossom." Typhus coos as you notice that the cultists with you stop at the last row of pews closest to the altar and yet Typhus gestures you to follow. The lump in your throat grows heavy as you say close to the herald as your new companions are a hoard of nurglings and the swarms that enter and leave from the large structures on his back.

"Open it up and leave it on the altar then come back right here." Typhus orders and you obey, putting it on the altar before you take the lid off and rush back to Typhus' side. You jump as the braziers suddenly blaze to life with sickly green flames.

You might not have been as connected to the warp as Typhus was but he could see a visage of his deity looking down, it was still a small offering but... it didn't matter as Nurgle finally had a taste of this soup that was eluding him just like the plague that made Ku'gath.

"Typhus! Have you tried this?" The voice said to him as you just flinched not understanding the loud voice filling the air around the alter and you wanted to hide behind the marine but you stayed.

"I have." He replies just looking up at the loud buzzing swarm that seems to gather. You try your best to not cower.

"Blessings! Blessings! How old is this soup?" The Grandfather inquired.

Typhus turned to you, "How long have you been tending to this?"

"Five years my lord."

"All of this in such a short amount of time! Blessings Typhus! Blessings! The garden will surely flourish with her delicious food!"

"Of Course Grandfather." He slammed his scythe into the comb keeping it standing as the destroyer hive buzzed loudly and you flinched.

"Blessings upon thee child! For the Grandfather has told me to bless thee! I come from the garden of plenty overflowing with milk and honey." He says just as if a sermon was being held. "And just as you will be embraced by the garden you two shall be a fountain of plenty... rejoice young witch!" The buzzing got louder and louder as the destroyer bugs all swarmed inside of him. The hand suddenly on your throat has you kicking your feet as they leave the ground as you are place on the altar and he once more removes his mouthplate. "Open up." His thumb rests on your chin and you obey... afraid of what will happen if you don't but equally scared of what will happen if you do.

As you open your mouth he opens his as you watch several destroyer bugs crawl out from his mouth as you can hear the faint noises from him as he... starts to regurgitate something. His shoulders move as his throat bobs and you are left helpless as to what is about to be placed into your mouth. You feel destroyer bugs landing on your face and on your body... antennae drumming against your skin. His mouth pushes to yours as something slowly crawls into your mouth... it's honey.

Your eyes open wide as destroyer hive honey was something that only champions of the Grandfather could have... but only in small amounts as too much would leave one into a mindless warp spawn. You eat the sweet sticky liquid as it just keeps oozing and oozing into your mouth before you... you start to convulse as Typhus pulls away running his tongue around your mouth just licking up the excess and wiping what oozed out onto his chin. Typhus enjoys the sickly sweet smell that permeates from you... or perhaps that is more of the hive's enjoyment as the smell he likes comes from between your legs but he could indulge in that later.

The sickening crack echoes as the side of your skull breaks apart as your hair solidifies into petals and a large, yet lightweight, flower has bloomed. A gift directly from the garden... Typhus lets his hands wander over your form letting his fingers press hard against your breasts and between your legs as you whimper feeling dazed and confused. Typhus decided that later was now as he bit the rough material between your legs and ground his teeth as it was shredded.

His tongue swipes up against your bared cunt as you whimper still confused as to what was going on... why your head was pounding... why there was so much buzzing in your ears... you're cunt quivers as you don't realize how the insects crawl over transformed flesh and lap up your nectar and brush against your pollen. Typhus in the meantime buzzes loudly himself as your honey is far more like nectar as well. His tongue pushing in hard and deep deep into your stigma like an insect pushing their labium deep down the style. His tongue pushed hard against the clitoris trying to get you to orgasm again... give him more nectar... Little Blossom give him more nectar!

You whine out as your nectar is swallowed up by Typhus for his hive to use... and he's not going to leave your flower wanting. He places his codpiece on the altar as Typhus grunts softly pushing the far too large cock inside of you. Your body relents as he buzzes out in enjoyment as he starts to cross pollinate you. Though if he were to go off of his allusion of earlier... this was the milk he had alluded to earlier. But his eyes were focused on the lovely flower on the side of your head... blood pooling in one of the combs on the altar as the pink petals had swirls of your hair in them... the rest was brain matter colored... bones... muscles... a beautiful human flower.

You look up at him still so very dazed but whimpering underneath the space marine as you wonder where you are... not realizing you're being fucked on the altar within the grand Cathedral. "Such a pretty little Blossom." Typhus grunts as he stills and rushes himself to completion as he will have more time to savor you later.

Typhus looks at you as he puts his codpiece on as cum oozes out of you as your flower is slowly closing up as you seem to be passing out. He picks you up and freed his scythe as it was now time to let you rest... for there was much for you to learn.

#canon x reader #warhammer 40k #the fleas got me #what started as thirst for florida man typhus evolved into Patient 0 just giving momrad the most down bad vibes #SO biohazardly downbad that I didn't even write for 30k Calas Typhon... no no I had to write for TYPHUS the Traveler #typhus the traveler #typhus #calas typhon #death guard #nurgle #x reader #reader insert #no sex but boy are we threading this needle #update: I added the sex #tw: smut

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mydarlingclaudia · 2 months ago

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idk what came over me I have a disease and it's incurable and idk if this makes any fucking sense and I know very little about vikings so... anyway viking!Simon Riley x fem!reader

wc : 548

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Viking!Simon who you’re married off to, you're a fisherman’s daughter and he's one of the most feared Vikings for miles around, it’s an oddity that the both of you are over twenty and still unmarried

the thing is your consummation was quick, left you with fingertip bruises on your hips and thighs, but it was still quick. reason being that you and Simon finally got to bed only an hour or two before dawn and he was supposed to leave for a raid in the morning

he left in the early days of spring, him and fifty other men, only to come back in the middle of summer

you never thought he liked you much, even before you were married, if you spoke your conversations were short and he spoke in that same gruff voice that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. along with him hardly saying a word to you for the entirety of your wedding night

so when he trudges back to your cabin and the first thing he does is kneel in front of you while you’re sitting and sewing, pushing his head down into your lap and gripping your calves before you can even say hello to him, of course you’re confused

your confusion only deepens when he plants kisses to your thighs over the fabric of your dress. you don’t stop him, he’ll be done in a few seconds and then go back to being the cold man he is, you’re sure

but he doesn’t stop, he takes the needle and cloth from your hand, places it on the ground next to where he kneels, and kisses along your wrist. the kisses trail up until they reach your sleeve, then returns to your lap, pulling you closer to him so your knees dig into his chest and he presses the top of his head against your stomach

“you’re a vision,” Simon mumbles against your dress, his voice muffled. you don’t say anything, you don’t reach out to touch him

he does finally stand after another minute, looking at you for another second before he leaves to change

Simon’s kind of back to normal when he returns, he stares at you while he eats the food you cooked for dinner, but he’s back to the normal, distant Simon

up until it's time for bed and he's already pushing the skirt of your nightgown up around your hips, softer than he was on your wedding night, the next morning is even more startling when you wake up to him kissing along the back of your neck and cupping your navel

Simon's not changed in any way, maybe finally having a wife to come home to made him sweeter, at least with you

because now for as long as he's home he's shadowing you, following you around to tend to the gardens and split wood, doing the heavy lifting for you. the sweeter part of him wraps you up in the furs that cover your bed when you're about to fall asleep, the sweeter part of him insists that you come join him to bathe, the sweeter part of him says "can't keep m' bird waitin'," after being stuck in a conversation with someone in the village for a few minutes

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader

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gutsby · 5 months ago

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Make It Stick

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel never thought he’d need a vasectomy. Then, one night, he accidentally finishes inside you.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected-peepaw-p-in-v (I’m sorry). Accidental creampie. Age gap. Cumplay. Breeding kink. Ovulation has led me places I wouldn’t go with a gun.

Note: Convergence is a painting by Jackson Pollock. We studied it in high school and I thought it looked like jizz idk

Word count: 4.7k

Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2

He should’ve gotten snipped when he had the chance.

Should’ve taken the plunge, faced his fears of needles and fluorescent-washed doctor’s offices like any man his age could have done and gotten the damn vasectomy. Now he was here, nearly two decades older and still none the wiser in this cold, dead world with a pretty young thing like you between his sheets. In lieu of elective surgery, Joel Miller had only to grit his teeth, bite hard, and repeat over and over again in his head, desperate:

‘Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, DON’T—’

Words like those normally worked. With women that weren’t you, they tended to serve him exceedingly well.

But you were just so tight. And wet. And welcoming. And try as Joel might to pretend like he got laid on a regular basis, the truth was that he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t seem to think straight when it came to this fixation he’d developed for you, so, instead, he let his dick do all the decision-making whenever he found himself around you. Ten times out of ten that ended in:

“J-J-Joel—oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—I’m gonna CUM.”

And that made it worth every last life-endangering drop.

Feeling how your flushed, lithe body came apart beneath his touch. How you needed him. How your eyes grew to half the size of your face and you gaped up at the man, lips parted, like you couldn’t even comprehend how the friction of seven inches could make you feel so good.

If he had it his way, he would’ve loved nothing more than to show you that feeling every night, and twice the next morning if his hip wasn’t giving him too much trouble.

But, at present, the man had bigger fish to fry. Like not becoming a new father at fifty-nine if he could help it.

With the last two fluttering pulses of your heat, and almost going cross-eyed from the pleasure as he felt it, Joel yanked his big, slippery cock out of your body and made a fist around his member as he always knew to do. Tugged and pulled and grunted above you—‘Sweet girl, you’re so fuckin’ good to me’—and watched your tits and your belly for the milky white ropes to ensue.

Strangely, though, your skin stayed the same.

No cum-spray Convergence appeared before him, no opaque and cloudy fluids dribbling down your ribs, nothing. Your stomach was as bare as the rest of you, save for a few beads of sweat, and that was all there was.

Joel shook his dick harder, confused. Beneath him, you were still coming down from your high smiling ear-to-ear and staring blissfully at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell, rose and fell in quick succession, and while you endeavored to recollect your mind, Joel was losing his.

Where the FUCK was his cum?

In no naked horizontal tango to date had Joel simply��cum without noticing. Shit like that just didn’t happen to men, least of all to ones his age, so when he’d wrung his poor cock like a sodden towel and still saw nothing come out, he felt his stomach turn and plummet inside him.

He dropped to his hands and knees in less than a moment and lowered his head between your legs.

“No, Joel!” you squealed, giggling. Kicking your feet, “Another round and I’m gonna combust, you old perv!”

But Joel wasn’t looking to get his dick wet again. He was inspecting you. Or trying to, anyway. Quickly realizing he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, he let out a breath through his nose and lifted you off the bed. Your naked frame thrown over his shoulder, bare hip beside his head and your strangled, muffled cry of, ‘What the hell, Joel?!’ hardly seemed to register with the man carrying you off.

You were toted to the bathroom. Joel was about to ease you down on your feet. Then, appearing to change his mind at the last second, he set you onto the sink instead. Your skin bristled with indignation, anger. A little arousal.

“Last time we did it on a sink we broke the faucet,” you reminded him, feigning more dismay than you really felt inside. If anything, you liked it when your fossil-age fuckbuddy switched things up. You were just exhausted.

Heedless of your words, Joel kneeled on the floor and pried your legs apart before him. When you swatted at his silver-flecked head, he brushed your hand away.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

“How come?”

“‘Cause I said.”

How quickly he commanded that tone of a father.

“Wanna sleep,” you groaned, about to roll your eyes.

But you couldn’t deny you liked being doted on by him.

Joel’s touch was gentle. Probing. Spidering down the most sensitive parts of your bare lower half, between your thighs, and slowly coaxing you closer to the edge of the sink. Your breath hitched when you saw his head tilt.

He appeared to be deep in thought—a rare sight for anyone who’d seen Joel Miller in the postcoital state. Most every time he’d blown his load before, the man was dead asleep within ten minutes. His joints could barely hold himself upright after a half hour of plowing the back forty, much less carry you, too, so you were puzzled now.

He thumbed at the seam of your cunt, and you whined:

“Jo-el—”

“Can ya…push, baby?” His eyes flitted up quickly.

“Push?”

“Yeah, just…” With a look you couldn’t quite read, he placed the palm of his other hand on your belly. Then, pressing, “Like this. Like you’re squeezin’ somethin’ out.”

You cocked a brow in muted confusion but did as he asked. You watched his gaze, and it stayed on you.

Or, rather, on that soft and pliant spot between your legs the old man seemed to favor so much. On any other occasion, in a position like this, he surely would’ve been wearing a smile. Tonight, his lips curled into a grimace.

And twisted even further when you ‘pushed�� like you did.

At first you felt nothing. A gentle clench of your walls supplied little more than a sense of having been stretched—no novel concept to you, who’d spent the last three-and-a-half months or so getting fucked by the finest AARP affiliate alive most every night. It wasn’t until you clamped down again that you got the feeling there was something else. Something thick and warm and slow as molasses trickling out from between your folds.

You let out a low, tender, ‘Mmph’ without meaning to; it felt kind of nice. Beneath you, Joel’s face turned grave.

He watched as his spend oozed out of your freshly-fucked hole and thought of vasectomies again.

You were young—too young to know better. Too sweet and naïve to see any peril in spreading your legs for a man like him, in a world like this. And Joel swore he’d be careful. But no post-apocalyptic birth control method was perfect, or even close to it, and it was clear he’d relied too heavily on reflexes to keep him from cumming inside you. Joel was old—too old to be doing this shit.

Too grown and well-versed in sex to be making mistakes as stupid as that. His brow pinched in, and he drew his next breath as if the air around him was growing scarce.

“Joel, what’s—”

“When’s the last time you— you— uh…bled?”

Hardly more in control of his face than the rate his heart went thudding in his chest, Joel winced at the end. This time, you were the one to knit your eyebrows together. You could tell by that tight, discomfited tone he wasn’t talking papercuts, but were still unsure of his purpose.

“Like two, two and a half weeks ago. Why?”

Well, fuck.

Joel buried his face in his hands. You scooted closer to the sink’s edge, thinking little of his cum leaking out.

“Why?” you tried again. Softer this time.

An old, weathered head lifted to greet you. It was bleak.

“You see this?” Joel paused. Swiping his finger through the viscous white substance that had trickled out on the counter, in a puddle now, “Y’know what it means, right?”

You let his look, and the question, remain suspended in air for a second. Then another. Then you shrugged.

“Yeah. But…you’re old,” came your answer at length.

You’re old.

Joel and you both knew as much, but the former wasn’t quite following your train of thought. Still wanting to try and mitigate damages while he could, though, Joel reached for the roll of toilet paper that was fastened to the wall and tore himself a strip. He bunched it up and, reaching for one of your knees to spread you further for him, took to daubing the tissue across your entrance.

“What’s me bein’ old got to do with anything?” A little sharp, then, seeing you flinch when he drew too close to your clit, “‘m sorry, baby, just— gotta get this out of you.”

You made a face but let him continue anyway. Your eyes followed each movement of his hand, and reflexively, the muscles in your thighs tightened. Why bother with this when the man has so many better uses for his hands?

For a second, your eyes fluttered half-shut.

“Maria says old folks are, uh…infertile. Got something to do with a middle pause,” you said, breaths labored.

Joel stopped just long enough to shoot you a look.

“Menopause,” he corrected, all too matter-of-fact, before returning to his work, “is a woman thing.”

What the hell were they teaching in Jackson’s sex ed classes, anyway? Then Joel remembered how his brother sincerely believed that women peed out of their vaginas until he was twenty-three, and the thought of you not knowing the ins and outs of male virility wasn’t the most far-fetched idea in the universe. Besides, sexual health wasn’t exactly the community’s highest priority when the world around it was in a perpetual state of decay and hordes of fungus-faced fuckers ran rampant in the wild.

He curved a tender, careful finger against the ring of muscles framing your sex, trying to absorb more cum, and your grip on the edge of the countertop tightened.

“S-So, you—” You swallowed, throat constricting a little too, “You’re sayin’…men can make babies…whenever?”

You sounded so innocent as you said it. Joel wanted nothing more than to club himself over the head for being the cause of this predicament—of being such an instrumental part of the perceived corruption, as it was.

Meanwhile, your head was swimming in filthier thoughts.

Deeper, Joel, keep…pushing in…dee-e-per. You would have scarcely had more luck giving a fuck what Joel was talking about now than if he’d just said the room was on fire. By his voice, you knew you should’ve been paying attention, but the dexterity of his fingers was too much. He was caressing the first couple inches of your inner walls, attempting to scrape what bits of his release he could get unstuck from the flesh, but it seemed he was succeeding mostly in just turning you on. Rendering you deaf to the drone of his words as you pictured him pushing something else inside your tight, throbbing—

“—whole lotta problems for us if you’re, uh…ovulating,” Joel finished, expression taut and oblivious. You hadn’t heard the first part of that sentence and didn’t care to.

“Ovulating,” you repeated slowly. Indifferent.

Joel carried on without a hitch.

“Kids just ain’t fit for this world. I know you know that.”

You nodded along, not hearing a word.

“And if you’re— if y’ever did consider, maybe…”

Your lungs took an extra sharp inhale when Joel’s fingers coaxed out a warm, sticky glob of his load, and he petted your folds with his thumb. Then let out a breath himself.

“…y’oughta start a family with someone your own age—”

That part snagged your attention. Too swiftly, it came:

“My own age?”

Sighing, in spite of those welts of pleasure so heightened by his touch that the space between your legs began to throb and ache. Hardly possessed of more sense to form words that weren’t just echoes of his own, you tried communication from a simpler source—your foot.

You nudged his shoulder, and Joel looked up.

“What?”

Parroting was, evidently, a hard habit to kill. Your toes curled into the bare skin of Joel’s shoulder, and when he re-inserted his finger, you ground your heel even deeper.

“When’s that ev…ever stopped us from doing it before, hm?” you said, tone strained but laced with some humor too, “Thought you liked sayin’ you’d make me a mama.”

Joel’s face flooded pink at the recollection—as a matter of fact, there had been several such memories. Instead of answering immediately, he just averted his gaze again. He anchored one hand to your thigh, and with the other teased out another string of your shared arousal before wiping his finger on the tissue, clinically, and repeating. All he had to offer in reply after was: ‘That’s different.’

And it was, to some extent. Joel wasn’t blind to the sea of uneasy looks that trailed behind you both whenever you walked the streets of Jackson together. How wide the eyes would get when instead of observing some filial display of affection play out before them, as expected, you’d loop your arms around his waist and take his lip between your teeth as you kissed—‘Can we please go home now, baby?’—that Joel was certain he’d been cemented as the resident pervert among everyone in town. Just how much worse that reputation was liable to get if there ever happened to be a round and swollen belly between that embrace someday was unthinkable. Dirty talk was one thing; parenthood another entirely.

This is for the best, became the low, grating refrain in his skull. Why he dug so hard, pushed so far inside the wet, velvety interior of your body without a thought for his own desires in that moment; he had to cull every trace of himself out of there, before he had half a chance to think.

“Baby, hey, hey, no—” Joel cut in a second later, abrupt.

No, no, no. You weren’t thinking either. Wrapping your hand around his wrist, pushing his fingers deeper inside.

Smiling a little, too.

“What are you— no, honey, don’t— you can’t,” Joel’s words splintered in every direction, watching you plunge his own index and middle fingers into the slick and the warmth he’d just been trying to get his cum out of. He looked up and saw your lids were heavy, about to close.

“What are you doin’? This ain’t…no, baby, it ain’t…safe.”

Back to sounding like a dad in no time at all.

“What’s wrong with leaving it in a bit longer? Feels nice.”

You had no idea what you were talking about. Joel pulled back on his hand and, in less than a second, had it freed.

“I just told you,” he huffed, “You’re too young—”

“I’m plenty old, Joel,” you returned, eyes snapping open, “You’ve shown me that more times than I can count.”

Joel was silent, stunned. He rose to his feet as your eyes seared holes into his, and for a second, he was uncertain whether to take a step back or reach out for you again.

“Baby…”

To his surprise, something like hurt surfaced behind your eyes. You set your lips in a tighter line, and your grip on the counter grew firmer just the same. He would’ve taken that move as his cue to lean in gently, slot his body between your thighs, and venture an apology of some sort, when the next thing you did stopped him cold.

Without a word, you slipped your free hand between your legs—eyeing Joel closely, almost scornfully, as you did.

You took your middle and ring fingers and sank them into your cunt. Not intending to let a drop of his spend leak out, you wedged them in as far as they’d go. Joel watched. Gawked. Once sufficiently pleased with the look of shock taking over his handsome, aged features, you withdrew the fingers. You brought them up to your mouth, wrapped your lips around the tips, and sucked.

It was a rare thing to get a taste of you and Joel together like this, so you savored it. You moved your mouth further down to drink it all in, peering up with wide, indulgent eyes and a look that was meant to punish.

Feels nice.

Tastes alright, too.

You’d licked the last bit of this glaze off your hand when your stomach clenched. You knew it would happen. Full as you were, you feared your body still hungered for more. As such, it hardly came as a surprise when next your muscles tensed, and you shifted closer to Joel.

“Maybe I don’t want babies with someone my own age.”

Either one of your knees were nudging his hips. Drawing him in. Joel appeared to waver for a second, unsure, but the look on his face made it clear this was mostly a matter of a delayed reaction. He couldn’t get his legs to move because the rest of him was still in awe. Staring at your lips, where the residue of his spend was glistening, then to your eyes, which were no less inviting, then up to the crown of your head and over it, to fix his stare on the mirror behind it. You watched him watch his own reflection with a look that was both hard and unkind, breathing slow. When he didn’t stir from that position after a minute, you touched a hand to his lower stomach.

And, brushing the heel of your palm against what felt like a hundred grey hairs in the old man’s happy trail—your favorite ones—you smoothed a caress along his belly, back and forth, before moving it left. Your hand came to rest on a mound of muscle and fat sitting right above his hip. Love handles, Joel had remarked one morning with vague distaste. Love handles, you’d repeated, beaming. You held on tightly now, appreciatively, and used your well-loved wall of flesh to pull him closer. As with any beckoning of yours, Joel didn’t have so much as half a mind to resist. He did, however, refuse to meet your gaze while you tilted your hips and spread your legs wider, before winding your ankles around the backs of his legs.

“Don’t you think I’d look pretty?” You pouted up at him. Your folds made a light, warm suction rubbing along the front of Joel’s cock—of course he’d grown hard again, and you could hold him, point him down to that wet embrace awaiting him patiently at the edge of the sink.

Joel cursed under his breath.

“‘Course I do…” he said, voice hoarse, “Y’always look—”

“I mean…with your baby inside me, Joel. Right here.”

As if to put a finer point on your words, you nestled the head of his cock inside the first inch of your body. Joel had to seize the laminate underneath you and grit his teeth to keep from letting out a groan too loud. That tip may as well have been a first-rate conductor of heat, and your warmth the thing that might send him spilling again

“You don’t—” Joel choked out, nearly incensed, “—don’t know what the hell you’re sayin’, baby. What that means.”

In truth, there wasn’t a world Joel Miller could imagine where a girl like you could give more than a passing thought to getting knocked up by him—a man his age. What good would it do? You had your whole life laid out before you like a four-course dinner spread; there was no sense whatsoever in letting the meal go to waste on him.

He communicated as much by moving to pull out.

You met the effort with a push of your own, sinking down another inch or two on his shaft and smiling when you saw his eyes roll back in his head at the dizzying friction.

“I know more than enough, old man—” Grin stretching ear-to-ear as you dug your heels in his ass and tugged him deeper, “—who do you think taught me all this?”

Of course, it had been Joel.

Always, always him—the only one, in fact.

Your walls drew him in like a hug. For once, Joel conjured up the strength to take a look between your lower half and his, and when he did, the next moan was inevitable. It trickled through his lips. Your body looked sublime swallowing a third of his cock, and it was almost as though a maggot had crawled into his brain, chanting:

‘Make her full. Make her yours. Tell any man who’d even think of looking her way she belongs to someone else.’

He couldn’t.

Joel would never be so selfish. Just think of her youth.

But when his gaze drifted back to yours, every thought and any word besides seemed gently to melt away. Beneath him, your eyes were two pools of desire.

“You like this…don’t you, Joel?” Your voice was tiny.

“I do.”

In fact, he loved it.

“Then why can’t we?” Why shouldn’t we?

Minuscule now, the words that reached him barely exceeded a whisper. It was as though the moment itself had drained all fear from your face—and out of Joel, all common sense from his brain—leaving you both to stare at the other with shared, stupid, anoetic looks of bliss. The man who had you beat by thirty-odd years seemed nearly of the same mind, with almost identical ignorance.

Idiocy.

“Just once?” Joel croaked.

Somewhere underneath, unseen, you smiled.

“Just one?” you murmured back.

He sank in another inch. When your walls contracted around him, Joel’s hands found your hips by force of habit and pushed your back against the glass behind it. The mirror was cool, and inside you, Joel was throbbing.

“Once,” he repeated, not thinking too deeply.

“One,” you said, with a world of more purpose.

Joel relinquished the last three inches, and with it, all of his resolve. The handsome, scarred, and plainly greying features all twisted as one, and the expression that you knew too well to mean that the man was feeling good took on the slightest hint of guilt. He gripped you tighter.

“One?” Joel panted. Confused.

He pulled out halfway just to find his home again. Your pearly slick mixed together with his spend, and both coated over Joel’s shaft in a pretty, generous sheen.

“One more of you, I mean.” You sounded too sweet. There was no way in hell you’d actually meant it.

Joel’s cheeks flushed again, but he didn’t stop, either.

“Baby…” he trailed off instead. He pushed in, pulled out, felt your tender little hole make an ‘o’ around his shaft, and then he kissed the edge of your left cheek—maybe to rein in the need in his words before he spoke again: “One’a me takes and I’m givin’ ya fifteen more, y’hear?”

The smile he received told him as much as he needed to hear. He probably wouldn’t have believed it even if you’d said the words yourself. Joel’s thrusts sped up, and as the pleasure distended in the pit of his stomach with the friction and the feel, his words flowed a little more freely.

In disbelief, “Wanna be a mama that bad for me, huh?”

Your grin grew bigger. You nodded your head.

“Make your old man a daddy, is that it?”

Exactly. Senseless as it was, your look said it all.

To have slipped between the grooves and ridges of Joel’s brain and caught wind of even a fraction of the things he wanted to do to you then, a smarter girl would have run. Would have shoved him back out as swiftly as she’d let him in and told him no, that’s gross, and gone home. And, had the grey matter floating inside your own skull not been so completely dominated by primal need and wanting, that’s likely what you would have done, too. Instead, with a head full of lewd, youthful stupidity, you seized the black-grey curls dangling at the nape of his neck and drew him closer. You spread your legs wider.

“That is what you’ve wanted this whole time, right?”

Under his scruff, a muscle tensed as Joel bit down.

That’s all he’s ever wanted.

Let the neighbors talk.

Let them say what they wanted to say—it was probably all true to the point they were trying to make, anyway. That Joel was a pervert, of course. That you were naïve, also true. That you would look too good not to stare in a white cotton frock with a bump underneath, absolutely. These were the ideas permeating your brain and his while Joel took a firmer hold of your sides and brought his nose to rest against yours. With every stab of his hips, he pressed kisses to your soft, parted lips, speaking low:

“That what you want, too, darlin’?” More serious now.

The head of his cock nicked a sensitive ridge inside you, eliciting a whimper, but you nodded. You nodded again, feeling the brush of his stubble at your mouth and your chin, and nodded again when he bottomed out, stuffing you tight. It felt a little more momentous than any other time in the past, now that you were picturing a fullness that wasn’t just him. Him and you: a concrete being to soothe the sting of his absence long after Joel withdrew.

Something to stick.

“Please say it, baby.”

Someone to call yours.

“I want it,” you said, sounding desperate.

A coil was just starting to form in the place you felt him. Drifting up, pulling tight, making your eyes go glossy and wide while they stuck to Joel’s and begged him for more.

“Want what?” He sped up, and his thrusts got sloppy.

“Want you,” you breathed, “Inside me, Joel, please.”

As if predicting your next thoughts, the man lowered his hand to your belly. You hadn’t even noticed the smallest bulge had taken shape beneath the skin. Joel slowed, momentarily, then rubbed the base of his palm against the mound where your body was obliged to make room for his cock inside you. He drew soft, tender circles there and, with the motion, sent stars flying before your eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, “Right here?”

“Ri— right there. Right there.”

Joel adored that sound. The soft, elated look, the gentle knoll of flesh in a bump below his hand, the whimpers rolling off your tongue repeatedly, quicker and quicker the more the pleasure inside you continued to build. Joel’s release was coming soon, too. For the hundredth time that night, he silently wished he were a little younger; so he could fill you up once, twice, twenty more times until your insides were stuffed and painted white. As if reading his mind, as he had for you, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Hope our baby has your eyes,” you murmured to him.

It shouldn’t have had such a strong effect—but of course, it did. Joel pictured the small, sweet infant with irises that shone a bit like his, and his stomach caved in.

Tonight, tomorrow, or ten months down the line, he was getting you pregnant. He’d clear his whole schedule for it

“That right?” And now he couldn’t stop the smile as he spoke, leaning even further in, “What about their nose?”

He kissed the tip of yours.

“Hope they get this.”

He kissed either one of your cheeks.

“These too.”

You had to fight back a laugh while his scruff tickled skin. Two deep strokes away from the brink of release and he still somehow always stayed in tune with your needs.

The threat of your peak was perilously near. Joel’s spend and your slick, tender glaze made a chorus of sounds at each thrust, and the deeper he went, the bigger it swelled. Your smiles couldn’t stay for much longer when the feeling inside you both was being amplified like that. Sensing this, Joel took hold of your face and slipped his touch to cup your chin. He made you tilt your head up to him, as if to ask again, ‘Are you sure?’ and when you nodded, his lips twitched again. A fleeting hint of a grin, like he couldn’t be more eager to finish now if he tried.

Holding your face, cock swollen and throbbing and desperate between your walls, he felt a familiar twitch.

There it is.

#IN CONCLUSION……….WE MAKIN BABIES #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us fic

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lalunanymph · 1 year ago

Text

꒰ nanami is forced to put his sweet wife back in her place (under him) ꒱

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── fem!reader, wife!reader, ceo!reader, lifestyle dom!nanami, househusband!nanami, brat taming, hair pulling, overstimulation, sir kink, restraints, finger gagging, nipple play, use of vibrators, chair bondage, reader gets spanked, fear of cheating, unprotected s[e]x, collaring, oral s[e]x, kento mentions divorce playfully, nanami slaps his c*ck on reader's face and tongue, degradation, pet names (baby, little slut, love, darling, good girl), aftercare

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── 5k+ words because of mappa’s horniness they made him so big and beefy what did you expect me to do

“Fuck, baby, that’s a good girl.”

Your husband’s scratchy moan is followed by a tug to your hair. He’s got your locks in his firm, veiny grip, using it to guide your mouth up and down his flushed cock like you were nothing but a human fleshlight made just for him.

The kitchen clock ticks and you’re on your knees, still in your office blazer and figure-hugging skirt.

It was usually customary for you to greet your husband like this—like he’s pure treasure and deserves your devotion on these marbled tiles.

They were the same ones you bought with your twelve-month bonus, right when the company you spearheaded burst into the tech scene and started raking in the billions.

Through it all, Nanami Kento was with you, building your home while you changed the world.

More than anything, he was the rock which kept you from falling apart.

But, if they could see you now… how your mouth was slicked with a mixture of cum and spit and your eyes were woozy with bliss, they couldn’t tell that you were the same woman who once fired three directors on account of an embezzlement accusation.

He pulled you off his flushed tip, those chiselled cheeks dusted with pink. Reacting like this, he was nothing more than an enamoured husband adoring his wife on her knees. But, you had been bad to him today, and bad girls didn’t deserve what they wanted. They needed to be put back in their place.

Nanami tugged you up higher, enough to have you balancing on the slivers of your shins. His mouth found yours, insistent and hot with his lustful intention.

“Do you want your collar, baby?” His mouth was a stroke away from yours, warm breath caressing your tongue.

You nodded, not trusting your voice to break. The planes of your husband’s defined chest shook in a soft laugh as he let go of your hair—for now.

“Go and grab it, sweetheart. I'll wait for you.”

You did as he said, standing up on shaky legs that were riddled with pins and needles. He steadied you, looking ridiculously handsome even with his half-chub out and tiny pink apron still on. Nanami was just a man who could make even a trash bag work.

You stumbled into the bedroom, going straight for a drawer that was shut tightly. Using the key next to your perfume stand, you unlocked it, removing a smooth, dark leather strap with the words ‘Kento’s girl’ embedded into it with diamonds.

You heard your husband come back into the room, his body pressed behind yours as he took the collar from your shaking hands. Pushing your hair aside, he fastened it around your neck with a kiss to your earlobe.

“Shall we go back to what we were doing earlier?”

You slid back into your knees in response, shuffling to face him again. Those dark eyes appraised you with pride, tinged with an even darker possession.

“Always so pretty for me,” he hummed. “Aren’t you, my little slut?”

A dirty thrill shot down your spine, and you parted your mouth open on instinct. “Yes, Sir.”

Kento chuckled, giving his hard-hard cock a few pumps before nursing it back into your mouth. You sucked on the tip, tasting his musk and salt. Hollowing your cheeks, you took him deeper, till he hit the back of your throat, and whatever else you couldn’t fit, you fisted around the base of his cock to work it up and down.

Your husband hissed out a curse, and wound your hair back into his tight grip, watching you suck him off with barely concealed wonder. “Doing so good for me, love,” he murmured, a sharp tug on the nape of your neck making you wince and your pussy flood your red lace thong. “And to think you were just mouthing off to me earlier.”

You squirmed on your knees, needing to touch between your legs to ease the flame of desire only your husband could burn.

Kento used his sheer strength to pull you off his cock, and as if still punishing you, he slapped the tip of his fat dick onto your cheeks, coaxing your mouth open so he could do the same thing on your tongue. You didn’t complain, glad to be used as a stress reliever for your husband.

Pre-cum smeared your cheeks and spit was glossing your chin when you took him back down your throat again, this time with more urgency.

Kento was breathing deeper, his half-hooded eyes almost closing from your talented mouth. No one could suck cock as well as his wife could, and he would stand firm in that.

Your sheer hunger and eagerness blew everyone else out of the water, the devotion only you showed him shaping his unshakable love for you.

It's just too bad you had unintentionally insulted him where it hurt the most.

“Do you think you’re forgiven because I let you suck my cock?”

Before you could answer, you were wrenched off his dick, pushed back into your knees. Your cry of indignation was stopped when he shoved two thick fingers down your throat, gagging you with a wet choke.

You worked hard to please him—to apologise to him because you didn’t mean those words; they were just a product of a stressful day.

It’s not like you understand what the fuck I’m going through, Kento. You’re just a househusband who spends all day cleaning!

Careful, those dark eyes had narrowed at you. Do you want to repeat that, darling?

I said—

But, he never gave you a chance to finish.

As if remembering your painful words, Kento grunted, bringing you to your feet just so he could spread you face down, ass up onto your huge makeup counter. The mirror reflected back your desperate stare into your husband’s impassive face, his collar searing through your skin.

“Kento—“

Rough hands from days of labour pushed your skirt up, tugging your thong unceremoniously down your cheeks where the fabric burned against your sensitive skin. “Ah—!”

The first spank landed on your left globe, leaving a stinging pain on the tender flesh. He didn’t stop there—Kento viciously spanked your right cheek, then back to your left, alternating between them until you swore they were glowing hot like dying embers.

You were wincing and crying out softly, hair stuck to your temple and cheeks with sweat. The woman in the mirror had tears in her eyes, and her husband barely pay attention to her—just like how she had messed up and thought lowly of him for a split, disastrous second.

“I don’t know what you’re going through? Did you forget I used to be a salaryman, too, darling?”

His tone dripped with sardonic anger. Another spank, this time on your lower back. The tears broke down your face.

“I’m going to drill into that pretty head who owns you so you don’t mouth back to him. A househusband?” This hit was personal, right on your prickling left cheek. “Is that all you see me as? Do you think of me that lowly?”

Frustrated, Kento yanked your hair back at the same time he plunged two thick fingers into your glistening pussy.

“Oh—Kento!”

Your cry fell from your lax mouth, your eyes snapping close in ecstasy while he finger-fucked you roughly, tugging on your hair to deliver sharp prickles of torture down your spine.

The pain mixed with the pleasure till you couldn’t tell which one was which, your body spiraling closer and closer into delirium.

“Kento!” You sobbed, sure to have woken up the neighbors if your bedroom was soundproofed. “Oh, oh, ah—f-fuck, K-Kento, I-I—“

His forefinger was hitting that softest spot inside of you, and you ached to touch your clit to throw yourself down the agonizing high.

Without thinking it through, one hand drifted in between your thighs, and you managed about three shaky circles on your sensitive bud with your middle finger when Kento noticed and yanked your hand away. Your soft cry was muffled when he pushed your face into the hard word, breathing unsteadily.

“Who said you could touch yourself? Did I say you were given permission to?”

“N-No—“

But, Kento refused to listen to your excuses. “You’re misbehaving more and more tonight. I think I need to teach you an even bigger lesson.”

You could barely cry out a complaint when he manhandled you into his arms, bringing you back into the kitchen. Plopping you down onto the huge dining chair, he left you stewing in your thoughts, tense as to what he had next up his sleeve.

Nanami returned not a minute later with a pair of arm binders and leg cuffs, and your eyes widened when he immediately took your hands, placing them in the restrictive loop behind the chair. He worked on your legs next, fastening them to the wooden stems, while you continued to pathetically bleat apologies that rained on his deaf ears.

Once you were secured, Nanami took you in.

Everything about you was softness and seduction, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was the luckiest bastard alive. I love her, Kento’s eyes shone when you blinked up at him, all innocent and cute like you weren’t exposed in such a lewd way. I love her so very much.

“K-Ken,” you whined, shifting in your seat. The gesture unintentionally hiked your skirt further up your plush thighs.

As much as he loved you, Nanami had to put you back in your place—get you to respect him, even as his cock is raging to sink into your tight heat.

He tapped your cheek, a stern look emblazoned on his handsome face. “That is not what you’re allowed to call me.” His big hand wrapped around your neck, digging into your pulse point—restricting the breath from going down your airways. Asserting his point.

“Sir!” You managed to choke out. “S-Sir—”

Your wheeze turned into a cough when he let you go, your watery eyes looking up at him filled with nothing but remorse.

Nanami toyed with the idea of letting you go once the regret settled in, but the other half of him—that darker impulse which bludgeoned his Jujutsu years with bloodshed and violence—reared its head. It was the same sickly thrill he got whenever he beat up a curse and managed to squeeze in no more than an hour of overtime to get back home to you.

For your credit, you always let him exact his pent-up rage onto your willing body—never bending or breaking your resolve.

Even when he walks back into the bedroom to retrieve your most hated G-spot vibrator, or when he sank it almost lovingly into your waiting pussy, you could never hate your husband—even if he drove you half mad.

Nanami stared at his phone screen, connecting the vibrator to the app it came with. You could tell he was completely focused on breaking you, his eyes never straying when he adjusted the settings.

Soon, a pleasant hum goes off in between your thighs, and you toss your head back, a dulcet whimper leaving your lips and saturating the air with your pure neediness. Your husband doesn’t react beyond crossing his arms over his hulking chest, studying you with those intense darkened eyes you could go insane for.

The vibrator notch constantly rubbed on your G-spot, leaving your clit throbbing with abject neglect. You almost didn’t notice your husband pushing off the sleeves of your blazer, unbuttoning the crisp white dress shirt he had ironed this morning to expose the rise of your heaving tits covered in the red lacy bra he loved so much on you.

“You wore this today?” He fingered the lacy strap, and you hiccuped a stuttering y-yes. Your husband chuckled, easing down the cups so your nipples sprung forward, ready to be teased and touched. Kento hunched down next to you, his entirely bigger build almost draping across your lap as he ran his tongue over the rise of your plush flesh, growing closer and closer to your stiffening nipples. But, he never gave you what you wanted.

Everytime his tongue so much as grazed your areola, he would pull back, leaving you keening with disappointment. Your thighs were starting to shake, the constant pressure on such a susceptible spot slowly making you lose your mind. Without the stimulation Kento was selfishly withholding, you were sure you would be strung along for hours until he decided to show you mercy.

As it was, your husband was a stubborn man once he put his mind to something. You could barely think past the haze of your blurry thoughts, your mind filled with cotton when finally—finally—Kento sucked on your nipples. It was soft at first, barely any stimulation, but once he had a hit of you, Kento couldn’t stop. He suckled on your tits roughly, tonguing them harsh enough to make those sensitive buds throb.

Then, he bit down on them, eliciting a soft cry past your swollen lips. Your hips had basically taken on a life of their own, undulating minutely to the cruel game Kento played on your body.

Once you were on the precipice, needing just a bit more stimulation to topple over the edge, Kento pulled back. He stopped the vibrator with one tap on the screen, and you came crashing back down—body slumped against the chair.

“Sir,” you sobbed, unable to hold back those fat tears from chasing down your cheeks.

Nanami barely gave you time to adjust to the cresting sensations. He stood back up to his full height, toying with his phone and sliding his thumb pad across the screen. The same motions were replicated within the vibrator between your legs—the alternating softness and sudden vigorous overstimulation wrecking your body into dividing sensations.

You didn’t know whether to flinch or lean into the pleasure—whether to cry or to moan.

All you could do was let out a stream of weak Sir, please, oh—Sir, past your lax mouth, your body jerking like a puppet caught in the web of his control.

If it wasn’t enough to torture you, Kento wanted to tease you, too. He continuously pinched your hard nipples, flicking them up and down with the tip of his thumb to get them all perky and desperate for him.

He even knelt in between your thighs, looking up at you with those melting dark eyes while his thumb gently rubbed on your twitching clit. Your husband was doing everything in his power to get you to fold for him, and you were so close to putting aside your ego just to beg him to fuck you.

“S-Sir,” you sniffled.

Kento glanced up at you, noticing the tears beading your lash line. He swiped his thumb under one bulging tear, wiping it away.

In contrast to his filthy actions, his words were soft and sweet. “What do you want, darling?” he added, “Do you want to cum?”

You gave him a shaky nod.

“Do you think you deserve to cum?”

Disappointment curdled in your belly at his simple question. Kento was giving you a chance to apologise, and you could either take the high road and beg for his forgiveness, or let your bigheadedness keep you unsatisfied.

“I don’t,” you whispered, ducking your head in defeat. Kento hated to admit how a carnal wave of satisfaction curled right in his chest from your admission. “I was mean to you. Y-you did so much for me—” you lifted your hips, as if to alleviate the tense pleasure. “—I-I’m so sorry, Sir.”

His big hand smoothed down your belly, settling on your hip. He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly. Instead of accepting your apology, he smeared your tears away with patient lips, trailing down kisses to your neck, his tongue running across the collar which held his claim on you.

“You’re forgiven, sweet girl,” your husband murmured, standing up to switch off the vibrator. You sagged back into the seat with a teary hiccup, peeling your glossy eyes on him so pathetically, his heart couldn’t help but squeeze. “Come on—let’s get you cleaned up.”

Kento removed your bindings, careful to help you stand up on your trembling legs. He held you close to his chest, rubbing those big, warm hands up and down your back to soothe your shuddering sobs. “There, there. You’re alright, baby. You’re fine.” He lifted you into his arms, careful to tuck your head on his shoulder as he carefully made his way back to the bedroom with you.

There, Nanami reverted back to his loving, devoted self—removing your blazer, dress shirt, and pencil skirt with reverence. He lifted your leg onto his shoulder, kissing your ankles before easing off your stockings smoothly. Once you were naked in front of him, it was his turn to undress.

Kento shed off the pink apron, removed his sweatpants and then his fitted cotton shirt, exposing his shredded torso lined with numerous thin, pale white scars. There was once he was afraid of showing them to you—his past bare for your fingers to trace. But, you loved kissing each and every mark left from wounds he could not explain to you. And Nanami was grateful.

He counted himself one of the luckiest sorcerers to make it out alive of that world and into a semi-normal one. He had a wife, a home, a decent car, plenty of time to unwind and relax—in short, he was living the dream he once saw as unattainable. And it was all thanks to you.

“Come here, baby.” Kento gathered you into his arms, careful to not put too much pressure on your sore butt. He traced your features, kissed your eyelids and cheeks until you stopped quietly sobbing, all wrung out and lying exhaustively on his chest. “Good girl—just take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

His voice was a deep, enticing baritone, inciting goosebumps on your arms and putting your guard down. Your eyes slipped closed and you inhaled unsteadily, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“One of my executives found out her husband was cheating on her and she completely lost it at work today.”

Kento stopped stroking your shoulder. “What?”

You nodded, keeping your face buried in his chest to avoid meeting his eyes. “He was a… a stay-at-home husband, too. She trusted him with the nanny and—and that woman knew her kids inside and out. I was so disgusted. I… I thought that—”

“You thought that I would do the same thing to you?”

Nanami wasn’t an idiot. It wasn’t hard for him to piece two and two together—for him to see what was truly haunting you.

A minute of hesitation passed, and then, he felt you nod again.

Nanami’s shoulders relaxed, and he tightened his grip on your tinier body. “I love you so much, Y/N. You know that, right? You’re the best part of my life. I’m so grateful you chose to marry me.”

His sincerity stopped you up short. You peeked from past your curtain of hair, finding him smiling gently at you.

Perching half of your body up, you folded your arms on his chest, looking deeply into his eyes for the absolute truth. “If you ever fall out of love with me, Kento, please tell me. I won’t put up a fight if you want to leave me. Just don’t sneak around behind my back with someone else.”

How serious you looked, and those words… those words you spouted completely broke his heart. Kento’s expression fell, and he shook his head fiercely.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

With barely any grace, he rolled you onto the bed, spreading your thighs around his waist. His hips drove against yours, cock sheathing in one fluid motion into your waiting pussy. The both of you cursed and cried out at the same time, heads thrown back and desire coursing freely in this bedroom.

Nanami’s pace was brutal yet loving, his cock trying to bully into you what he had been desperately trying to show for the past few years you’ve both been blissfully married.

He loves you—he would do anything to make you happy because your happiness was his own.

“Nghh—Sir,” you whined, holding onto his biceps for dear life, trying hard not to fall around his cock without his permission. “Oh—oh, Kento, more, more—please, don’t stop—!”

He wasn’t planning to. If he could make you believe with his actions, Kento would keep at it until you finally accepted what he’d been feeling for all these years.

He smudged endless kisses onto your cheeks, nose and lips, each time tasting your desperation a bit more.

“Sir, can I please touch myself?”

How sweet—you were waiting for his permission. In answer, Nanami plucked your hand from your side, placing it right in between your legs, implicitly telling you to pleasure yourself while he ruined your world.

The both of you were hanging right on a thread, and the very second he felt your walls starting to melt around him, Kento pulled you in for a deep kiss, one which felt like it could break every resolve in your body. You became putty for him, dissolving into the kiss and his arms.

You broke the second you felt his hot cum paint your walls, every fibre of your soul screaming out your husband’s name. “Kento,” you whimpered in between sloppy kisses, your bodies slippery with sweat. “Kento—”

Nanami caught you the second you sagged into his arms. With his ludicrous strength and yet, his gentleness, he easily rolled you against his chest, letting you catch your breath on top of him. His lips found your temple and hair, large palms methodically massaging your sore muscles. He gripped your ass, squeezing fondly and unhurriedly, content to enjoy this moment with you.

When you had finally stilled and your breathing returned to normal, Kento whispered: “I love you, darling. You know that, right?”

Even with your raging insecurities, you couldn’t deny how sincere and sweet he sounded.

“I love you, too, Kento.”

Seriously now, he added: “And I won’t ever cheat on you because you’d take my car away first.”

You grinned, knowing that Nanami Kento was a man of his word and would never back down from it without a fight.

a/n: mappa made him so damn fuckable in the last ep as reparations for what they’re gonna do to him next im so sick

©️ lalunanymph, 2023

#nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen #nanami x reader #nanami smut #nanami x you #jjk nanami #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #🦢 writes

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jeonginsleftcheek · 22 days ago

Text

Dolly IV

~ part 4 of the Dolly series

pairing: lee know x afab!reader

genre: smut, fluff, horror/sci-fi

synopsis: the human body is the most fascinating thing and you know all about the intricate anatomy of it. ever so curious you purchase a human-looking doll and your life changes forever.

wc: 7.9k

warnings: death & dead bodies, reader is a mortician, mentions of needles and scalpels, sorry if there are any mistakes

nsfw warnings: multiple sex scenes, unprotected sex, blood play, knife play, creampies, spanking, oral (m)

~ divider by @bunnysrph

It's eerily quiet around you but that doesn't bother you. Not tonight, not ever. Sometimes the silence is comforting and helps you concentrate on the intricate work you do.

You've always been fascinated with death, ever since you were a child. You weren't scared of it, you welcomed it with your arms wide open and it was your father who exposed you to it since you were young.

It wasn't really on purpose, but having a funeral home inside your house and a curious child was not a good combination.

Your father was a good and warm man, offering a friendly tap on the shoulder and a few consoling words to grieving family members, the ones who sat in his office discussing details about funerals, their noses runny and eyes red from crying.

Not all of them were like that; some just sat there with a numb look on their face, a kind of silent sorrow etched inside their features while there were those that seemed completely emotionless.

You'd always lean behind the wall and listen to them discuss until your father would notice you and send you back to your room. The only room in the house that looked somewhat... alive.

Your father was pretty fascinated with death and any art that surrounded it, prints of Francisco Goya's black paintings adorned the walls in your house; Saturn Devouring his Son, Witches' Sabbath, Two Old Men, Judith and Holofernes, Two Old Ones Eating Soup, Atropos...

They captivated you in a way you couldn't put into words and sometimes they gave you torturous nightmares, but you weren't scared.

You welcomed the darkness into your heart completely; in fact you thrived off of it.

It was one quiet and calm evening when you tiptoed down to your basement. The moonlight cast a glow through the windows as your shadow passed by the paintings staring at you with their freakish eyes.

The door was ajar and you pushed it, the creaking sound cutting the silence of the dark night as your heart started beating in your ears.

There they were on the table. A person who had succumbed to Death itself.

Silently, you treaded towards the sheet-covered body but before your little hand could reach it, your father grabbed your wrist gently, scaring you out of your wits.

"What are you doing here, y/n? You know you shouldn't be here." he said, taking you away from your curiosities.

"I- I just wanted to see."

"I know, sweetheart but it's not the time yet. One day, hopefully, you will take over this business just like I took over from your grandfather. Now, go back to sleep."

"Okay." you nodded, albeit feeling a bit sullen that you didn't get to see the person under the sheet.

It's been years since that night, and now you were the one who offered consoling words and friendly pats on the shoulders of grieving family members.

Your father had succumbed to his illness, leaving you alone in this world, alone with all the darkness and death. Of course, you missed him dearly but he suffered so much in his last years that you were somewhat thankful to Death for taking him.

Wherever he was, you knew he was at peace and watching over you.

Taking over his business was the natural step for you, death was just a part of life, and preparing someone's loved one for their funeral felt honorable and you viewed the entire process as a kind of art. When you were old enough, your father started teaching you bits and pieces about preparation and the embalming process, and of course it was only natural for you to develop even more interest for it and get the needed education.

You worked as his assistant at first and when he got sick you became the caretaker and the mortician.

Of course, you couldn't be the one to prepare your father for his burial, it was too much as you watched him disappear more and more every day while he was sick and you wanted your last memory of him to be as peaceful as it can be.

It's been a few years since then, and you were now one of the most respected morticians in your small town. You kept to yourself mostly, only having one close friend since you were kids, Emily.

But you weren't lonely, you focused on your work and your hobbies, like reading, painting and writing poetry, all in the company of your fur baby, your cat named Shadow. You had rescued the elegant black cat off the street when she was just a small lost kitty and ever since then you became inseparable.

Though, even you weren't immune to the troubles of dating. Most of your partners were a bit put off by your work, to say the least, especially if they'd come around to your house which you had repainted black, the decoration was halloween all year around coupled with the creepy paintings on your walls and the fact that there are dead bodies in your basement wasn't really an aphrodisiac.

It was frustrating because you wished you could share your life with someone who'd be genuinely into the things that interest you.

That's why when you found yourself mindlessly scrolling through social media, an ad caught your eye.

Sex dolls.

You chuckled to yourself as you got more comfy under your blanket, Shadow cracking one eye open to look at you from where she was curled up.

You clicked on it.

One doll in particular pulled you in.

Minho, the dark dolly.

He was beautiful, his hair black and shaggy, falling over his eyes, his features were sharp and perfect, somewhat feline-like and his lips seemed sweet and plump.

You liked the outfit they chose for him, all black like you dressed 99% of the time completed with a choker around his neck.

He was perfect.

You scrolled around looking at the other dolls, they all seemed intriguing but Minho was the one you wanted the most.

Besides, some of them already sold so you decided not to wait and jumped on it, ordering yourself the dark dolly. And it didn't take long for him to be delivered to your house, in a big black box reminiscent of a casket. Shadow inspected the box immediately, sniffing and rubbing against it, she seemed to approve of it.

You opened it up eagerly, finally taking a look at your beautiful Minho and he was even more perfect in real life than all the pictures they had posted.

There was a letter inside the box and you opened it up.

Hello,

my name is Minho and I am your dark dolly.

I love cats, horror movies, yummy food and staying inside.

Please treat me with kindness, even though I like scary things, I have a soft soul so never forget to pat my head.

Hope you'll love me as much as I love you.

"I'm glad you love cats, otherwise I'd have to send you back." you joked, as Shadow put her paws on the box, sniffing around before meowing at you.

"You approve, I suppose?" you asked and your cat meowed once again so you were satisfied.

"I guess you do." you ripped off the rest of the bubble wrap, scaring your cat with your movements as she scurried away to her place on the sofa.

Your doll was dressed in a black button up shirt that was almost see-through, coupled with black leather pants and some fine shoes. He looked so alive, it would've been eerie if you weren't already used to looking at people lying down lifelessly before you.

You noticed a little note sticking out of his pocket so you pulled it out and opened it.

My kitten!

I got ready for our rendezvous.

I hope you like the outfit I chose and I hope you'll enjoy our first night together.

"Kitten, huh? Interesting." you smirked as you grabbed the manual, ready to read it from top to bottom but your curiosity got the better of you so you reached your hand to touch Minho.

"Oh." that definitely felt like human skin.

Something was wrong here and you felt it from the moment you laid eyes on his still body. But of course, you weren't afraid, in fact you were determined to find out the truth.

You read the entire manual carefully, going over it a few times, specifically the part where it said the doll can bruise.

How can the doll bruise if there's no blood inside its body?

"Hm." you threw the manual aside and finally lifted the doll out of its little casket, setting it down on the couch in the sitting position.

It took some time to adjust him but Shadow came to sniff Minho and rub against him, seemingly she liked him very much and you trusted your cat's intuition.

"Give me a moment." you said to the doll before running to get some stuff you needed from the basement.

"I'm sorry for this." you grimaced as you sat down next to Minho.

Just a little prick on the skin is what you needed so you grabbed his hand and brought it closer to you as you held the little needle in your other hand. Quickly, you pricked him and waited for a moment.

Nothing was happening so you sighed putting the needle on a tray you brought. You were just about to get up when you noticed it; a tiny droplet of blood oozing out of your doll's finger. With a gasp you stared at the red liquid.

Your mind was reeling and before you could stop yourself, you brought his finger to your lips, licking at the droplet, the metallic taste of blood was unmistakable. Your doll had real blood inside its body. Something about that frightened you, but that fear ignited a flame within you and you wrapped your lips around his finger, lightly sucking on it, the blood coming out slowly as you lapped at it.

"Oh. Looks like I'm not the only one enjoying this." Minho's eyes were shining and his pants were filling up, the button almost popping off.

He was big and usually you weren't this impatient but it's been some time. Your hand explored his muscular thigh, running up to cup his erection and you swore you could feel him twitch in your hand.

You scooted closer to him, hand tangling in his hair and it was surprisingly soft and it smelled of shampoo like he had just washed it. You leaned in to take a whiff before pressing kisses there all the way down to his cheeks. His soft skin under your lips felt heavenly and you were already getting addicted to him.

You pressed your lips into his softly, then pressed them again a bit harder as your hands roamed on his chest. He was muscle everywhere and you were fluttering on the inside, your arousal increasing the more you touched him.

A loud pop scared you as you jolted looking down to find the source. A small laugh escaped your lips when you realized that the button on his pants had actually popped off.

"Fine, you're eager." you chuckled, sliding his pants down, your eyes on his prominent bulge instantly. Your nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his broad shoulders and strong biceps that were visible in the tanktop he wore.

"Wait. I should undress too." you said and Shadow perked up from her spot before standing up and rushing out of the living room like she had understood what was about to happen.

You took your robe off, letting it fall on the floor, you were left only in the silky black nightgown so slowly you slid that off too, the material pooling around your feet.

Minho seemed to have some kind of reaction, at least his neck flushed a little and you were wondering how it does that. How is any of this real?

That didn't matter after you stripped him completely, your eyes admiring the work of art before you. Hands touching and lips exploring, you didn't care about how freaky all this was.

Somewhere along the way you lost your panties, so you straddled Minho's lap, your hands grabbing his face. He was absolutely stunning and your pussy clenched at the look in his eyes. It seemed like there was a fire inside them, a passion burning wild.

Your hand wrapped around his cock, big and heavy in your hand, making you whimper at the thought of it being inside you. You ran the throbbing tip against your wet folds before slowly sinking down on him.

The stretch was delicious as you took him in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders for support, your hands splayed on his muscular back. When you adjusted, you slowly started to move up and down on his length, the squelching sounds filling up the room as you dripped on him.

It seemed as if Minho was looking at you and you sped up, bouncing on him faster, your moans getting louder as you neared your high.

Your nails dug into his flesh as you exploded around him, your hand running down to cup his ass which made him cum too, the warm liquid filling you up and making your eyes roll back.

"Wow." you gasped. Only when you lifted up and circled the couch, you saw that his back had angry red scratch marks.

"Shit, I'm sorry." you leaned over to look at Minho's face.

He seemed to be smirking just a tiny bit?

"I hope it doesn't hurt." you said, not forgetting to pat and caress your dolly's head. You pressed a few small kisses on his cheek before leaving to get cleaned up.

When you came back, Minho was waiting for you in the same position so you cleaned him too and put some of his clothes back on, the pants definitely needed some mending.

"A sex doll?" Emily looked at you in disbelief, holding Shadow in her arms like a baby, moving the cat left and right.

"Yes, isn't he beautiful?" you smirked, patting Minho's head as he sat in your kitchen, company to you and your friend.

"I mean, he is. It's just a little creepy." she said and you gave her a pointed look which made her laugh. "But I shouldn't be surprised when it comes to you. He really looks human though." Emily added, coming closer to the doll as Shadow jumped out of her arms.

"Here's the thing. I pricked his finger the other day and he bled." you told her, adjusting on your chair as you picked up your cup of tea.

"He what? Now, that's creepy. Are you sure it was blood? Maybe it's some kind of trick?"

"Nope, it was definitely blood." you shook your head.

"Hm. Can you like open him up?" Emily asked, making you chuckle.

"Do you know how much I paid for him? I'm not about to cut him up, besides the manual said not to mutilate the doll."

"And why is that? Because they don't want you to know the doll's secrets? Just think about it." Emily shrugged. "Anyways, I have to go. Call me if you find anything out." she added, wiggling her brows.

You took a look at Minho, it hasn't even been a week since he was in your house, but he blended in perfectly with the rest of the decor, even when he was more than that. Shadow seemed to love him, always rubbing against his legs and sleeping on his lap. Animals had a sixth sense when it came to things like this so you trusted that you weren't in any danger. Still, you were so curious.

Come evening, you were in a mood.

There was music blasting from your speakers, the lights were all out except the dimmed moody ones and a few candles here and there. The tv was on too, a silent horror film playing on it. Outside, it was raining hard, almost drowning out any other sounds as big droplets kept hitting your window.

Shadow was tucked away in her room and you were wearing lingerie.

Minho was sat on your couch, you turned him to look directly at you as you downed a glass of wine before you started swinging your hips seductively.

The music took you over and you danced, forgetting about everything around you, including your companion Minho whose eyes were following every single movement, unbeknown to you.

"Oh!" you spun a little too fast, colliding with the side of the sofa and chuckling to yourself.

Your eyes fell to Minho, then the coffee table where you had left some cake and knife to cut it with. You bit on your lip as you made your way towards him slowly.

You picked up the knife, twirling the handle once, twice as you smirked at the dolly.

"Are you scared, doll?" you leaned towards him, your tits almost falling out of your skimpy bra as you pointed the knife at Minho.

He didn't seem to react at all.

"No? How about now?" you asked, leaning the knife on his cheek gently. "Or now?" you added, sliding it down his chest and abdomen slowly all the way towards the bulge that appeared in his boxers.

"Enjoying this? I'm glad." you smirked, putting the knife aside for a moment to unhook your bra and slide down your panties.

You undressed Minho too, spreading his legs a little and adjusting him before you turned your back to him.

"Like what you see?" you ran your hands up your hips to your waist as you looked back at him.

The reflection of the candlelight burned in his eyes as you slowly sat in his lap, his length filling your pussy up perfectly, your feet planted on the floor. A moan escaped your lips when you found purchase on his thighs, bracing yourself as you started to bounce on him. The sound of your ass slapping against his abdomen filled up the room and you threw your head back, enjoying the feeling of his tip brushing against your sweet spot.

"Ah! Fuck, Minho!" you moaned his name, feeling him twitch inside you instantly and you gasped as you came, lifting off of him and squirting all over his thighs. What a sweet mess.

"Oh." you moaned, taking him in once again as you sat down and started moving up and down, your thighs burning from exertion. You reached back to grab a handful of his ass, making the doll fill you up.

You leaned on him, your back flush against his chest as you grabbed his arms and wrapped them around you.

"I kinda wish you would come to life but at the same time I don't know if you'd like me. Right now, you have no choice. Isn't that kinda fucked up?" you looked up at Minho but there was no sign of reaction or movement. "Well, don't move. I'll be right back." you joked as you stood up.

You prepared a bath for the both of you, struggling a little to get him in but as soon as you did, you sat between his legs and relaxed in the warm water.

Shadow appeared in your bathroom, meowing at you.

"What is it?" you chuckled, leaning a little to the side to look at her.

Your cat's tail twitched a few times as she stared at Minho, releasing a few more meows before sitting down and continuing to stare at him. You looked back at your doll but he was chilling, looking straight ahead like he always does.

Eventually, Shadow gave up the staring and left the bathroom. Huh, that was weird, you thought but brushed it off as cat behavior.

After drying yourself and the dolly, you got dressed and tucked him in your bed. After years of sharing your bed only with your cat, it was nice to also have someone fill up the empty side of it. And Minho was warm and soft in a way, you had no idea how they made him like that but in the tired and lonely moments, you didn't care.

It's been almost a month since Minho entered your life and you shared almost every moment with him. He had watched you cook and clean, do your hobbies, play with your cat. But, you had yet to take him downstairs.

You weren't even sure if you wanted to. But you were dragging him around the house all the time like a kid drags their favorite teddy bear so you didn't see the harm in it.

Whenever a grieving family came to talk to you, Minho was tucked away in the safety of your room. Today, a particularly loud widow came in to cry to you about her husband who was now in your basement, waiting to be prepared for his funeral.

You reassured her he was in best hands and that you'll make him look as wonderful as you can, since the accident he passed away in had ruined his face.

You just needed to get some things from a few shops before starting, and as soon as the widow left you went to your room to see Minho.

"I'm going to town. I'll be back soon, honey." you chuckled, giving him a peck and a few pats on his soft hair.

You were done with shopping quickly and as the sun was setting you decided to walk across the main square and have a short stroll since you weren't carrying many things.

You saw a little crowd gathered there around someone so naturally curious, you made your way towards it.

An artist was sitting on a little stool, painting a portrait of one of the onlookers. You peered down to look at the canvas, hypnotized by the brush strokes and the movement of this person's hand.

Your eyes followed his arm to his face and your brows furrowed. He looked somewhat familiar. You were trying to think where you had seen him before but kept coming up blank.

"Do you want a portrait?" his voice broke you out of your thoughts.

"Ah, yes sure." you nodded and he started working on it immediately.

He was talented and quick and you kept observing him as he worked, still trying to think where he was familiar from.

"Here. Done." he smiled proudly and you chuckled.

"Thank you, it's really good." you took out your wallet. "Here." you gave him a 100, and his eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, thank you! T-this is a lot! Thank you so much!" he bowed a little as he took the bill from you.

"What's your name?" you asked.

"H-Hyunjin, miss." he looked a little panicked and you gave him a reassuring smile.

"Have I seen you somewhere?" you asked and he chuckled nervously, and you noticed a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"Maybe you've seen me paint here." he said but you still weren't convinced.

"Maybe. You come here often?"

"I'm trying to make some money to buy a gift for my lover." Hyunjin smiled fondly and you smiled back.

"That's sweet."

"Thank you. Your portrait." he said as you stood up.

"Oh, thanks for that again. Bye, Hyunjin." you said as you grabbed it.

"Bye, miss." he yelled behind you as you walked away.

Finally, you took Minho down to your basement. You put him in safe distance from all the chemicals as you got ready to begin your work.

Minho sat in the corner, his eyes twitching a few times as he stared at your skilful hands. You worked almost on autopilot as you have done this a hundred times, rinse and repeat.

It took a few hours but the man finally looked at peace, you had reconstructed his face as much as you could for an open casket, the embalming process taking up most of the time after that.

After putting the body away and cleaning everything up, your eyes fell to Minho and you friend's words rang inside your mind.

Maybe you could take a little peak inside him? You stood there contemplating, remembering that he did in fact bleed when you pricked him, so if you cut him it might be even messier. You didn't want to hurt him but as always, you were too curious for your own good.

Minutes later, your dolly was shirtless on your table, a scalpel in your hand. Never has your hand trembled but as you brought the blade closer to his skin, your fingers twitched ever so slightly. Your heart sped up as you took a deep breath, pressing the scalpel softly against the doll's skin.

Suddenly, he lifted his hand and grabbed your wrist, his eyes moving to look at you as you screamed, trying to step back but he held on tightly, taking a deep breath that sounded somewhat painful.

"Don't hurt me." he pleaded, his voice raspy as he took in shallow breaths.

You snatched your hand away, the scalpel clattering on the floor as your wide eyes took in the sight before you. Your dolly was alive.

"I always had this irrational fear that some day one of the dead bodies I was working on would wake up." you chuckled.

"I wasn't dead." he sat up slowly and you rushed to him, seeing he was dizzy.

"I know. You bled when I pricked your finger."

"By the way, that hurt." he gave you a look and you shrugged with a smirk.

"What about the part that came after it?" you asked breathlessly as Minho's eyes softened.

"That was more fun." he smirked, making you chuckle. "Can we go upstairs? The fumes are making me nauseous."

You helped Minho up, taking him to the kitchen where he drank four glasses of water quickly while you heated up dinner.

"So, you were aware of everything the entire time?" you asked and he nodded, his cheeks becoming rosy. "I figured as much. Something was fishy ever since you came here. I knew you were alive."

Shadow appeared in the kitchen, jumping up on Minho's lap immediately and he wrapped his arms around the cat, caressing her. She meowed and started purring as she pushed her head into his hand.

"She approved of you from day one."

"I'm glad she did."

"Here, eat and then we can talk." you said, as if this was the most normal thing ever.

"It's so nice to be able to move and be outside in the fresh air." Minho noted as the two of you decided to take a walk in the woods behind your house.

The woods were comforting always and even more beautiful now with all the autumn colors painting the leaves. It was a bit chilly but you dressed well, the fresh air was helping you clear your mind.

"I bet it is. So, what do you remember before being here with me?"

"I remember a lab. Tables like the ones in your basement, I remember I didn't look like this from the beginning. I also remember I could walk and move and talk before they put something inside us. We were plugged to something and suspended in water tanks. There was eight of us."

"Oh, I saw the others on the site! Do you remember them?"

"Yes, I do. We all had our cells before they put us in the tanks. Chan was made first. Then there was me, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin and lastly Jeongin." Minho explained.

"Wait, Hyunjin?" you suddenly remembered the artist you ran into.

"Yes, he liked to paint."

"I saw him today!"

"You saw Hyunjin?" Minho's eyes widened. "Like this? Alive?"

"Yeah. Do you think the others are somewhere around here too?"

"Could be. I really miss them. We tried, y/n. We tried to fight the company but there were too many of them and we were kept in such a controlled enviroment. They kept injecting something with these big needles, it would make us sleepy."

"Do you remember anything before the lab?"

"As much as I dig around my mind, I only remember the lab."

"What do you mean, you didn't look like this the in the beginning?" you asked after a quiet moment of taking in everything Minho had told you.

"Well, I don't wanna gross you out with gory details." he said and you laughed.

"Honey, I'm a mortician."

"Right, you poke around dead people." he smiled teasingly.

"What a way to put it." you chuckled.

"Well. If you must know, they added skin later."

"Oh... Oh. So, I'm guessing maybe you're not human? Or at least, not entirely?" you said.

"I have no idea." Minho shrugged with a sigh.

Your hand brushed his as the leaves crunched under your feet.

You took hold of his hand, noticing his shy smile and rosy cheeks as your fingers entwined.

"We'll figure it out."

It's been about two weeks since Minho woke up and you had no idea your dolly would be so shy.

He avoided talking about what he was actually made for and never mentioned you using him for your pleasure multiple times. Minho enjoyed cooking for you and playing with your cat as much as he enjoyed watching you work and being the one to hold you during cold nights.

It was safe. It was comforting. You had found someone who was genuinely interested in what you do. Even when he was a little annoying, asking question after question like a curious child, his shiny eyes staring at you closely as he breathed in your personal space and kept asking stuff like 'What are you doing now?', 'What is that?', 'Why are you putting it there?'.

It was adorable as much as it was irritating, and you loved it.

Outside, it rained hard as you sat on your window bench, reading quietly while Minho sat on the sofa, cuddling with Shadow.

You gave him time to get used to everything, but you were feeling kind of impatient at the same time. Minho was observant, he learned all your little movements, the tone of your voice, what your sighs meant. He loved all the little details that made you you.

So, he stood up and made his way to you which got your attention, and you looked up from your book just in time as he stood in front of you.

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?" he asked and your eyes widened.

"Of course." you smiled then, your face heating up.

Minho sat down close to you, gently grabbing your book from your hands and putting it aside before he touched your face softly. He leaned in and you waited with bathed breath for his lips to collide with yours.

It wasn't what you expected, fireworks and passion, it was more gentle, more profound. He kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered in this world.

"I'm sorry I made you wait. It's just, I'm scared that somehow I will go back to how I was before. And I don't want that to be in that... prison anymore. Being able to see and hear it all but being unable to react, it was terrifying and I still have nightmares about it." Minho confessed as you ran your hands through his soft hair.

"That's not gonna happen, okay?"

"How are you so sure that it won't?" Minho asked.

"Because... I love you and I'm not gonna let anything happen to you." you said, Minho's lips trembled as he searched your eyes before a sweet smile spread on his lips.

"I love you too, my kitten." he smirked before leaning in, this time giving you a more passionate kiss.

It didn't take long for the kiss to escalate as Minho pushed his tongue into your mouth, tasting you. Your hands tangled in his hair as his roamed your body, exploring your curves and dips like he had always wanted to.

He kneeled between your legs, his knee pressed against your core and you whimpered into his mouth as he smirked against yours.

"My sweet kitten, I've always wanted to take care of you." he looked at you, eyes darkened with lust as you gripped onto his strong arms, your hips moving on their own as you rubbed your clothed pussy against his knee.

"M-Minho." you whined, throwing your head back and his lips attached to your neck and collarbone, traveling down between your breasts as he left hungry kisses everywhere. His hands gripped your waist before sliding down to grab your ass and lift you up.

You squealed as he turned your body towards the window; the view outside was breathtaking, all the leaves twirling in the wind, the rain dragging them down and washing them away just as the sky darkened.

"Here?" you gasped and he chuckled.

"Everywhere." he whispered in your ear before lifting your little nightgown and revealing your lacy panties.

"Very sweet." Minho grabbed handfuls of your ass and you moaned, nails scratching at the bench you were just sitting on. His fingers slid on your folds, your arousal soaking through the lace as he kept touching you, giving you a few spanks with his other hand.

You moaned his name, pushing back into him, your body craving for more; you were so touch starved that you lost your mind immediately, melting into Minho and giving him total control over you.

He wanted you as much as you wanted him so he slid your panties down just enough to have access to your wet pussy as he slid his pants and boxers down at the same time.

"I promise I'll take it slow later. I just need to have you right now." he breathed out as you felt the tip of his hard cock press and slide against your folds.

"Take me, Minho, please!" you pushed back again and he spanked you quickly, making you whimper.

"Stay still, kitten." he purred as he slowly pushed in and the stretch was perfect, your pussy taking him in easily until he filled you up completely.

"You feel perfect around me." he groaned as he started moving slowly, his hands splayed on your ass as you pressed your forehead into one of the decorative pillows on your window, little gasps and moans escaping your lips.

"Ah!" you moaned loudly when he hit your spot, biting down on the pillow as Minho's hand tangled in your hair, lifting your head up slowly.

"Let me hear you, kitten." he said, fucking into you harder, the sounds of skin slapping skin making your ears warm up in embarrassment. You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the window, seeing the expression on Minho's face sent shivers down your spine, your pussy clenching around his cock.

You let go and started moaning loudly, and the louder you got the faster he fucked into you.

"Just like that." he whined and you gasped, cumming around his length, making him more slippery and wet as he held onto you.

It only took a few more erratic thrusts before Minho exploded inside you, his warm cum filling you up deliciously and making you cum once more at the feeling of it.

"Oh." he gasped as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly for a few moments. You finally turned around, grabbing his face and giving him a sloppy wet kiss.

"I love you." you smiled as he pulled you into a hug.

"I love you. I'm glad I came to you." he whispered.

"Me too."

The two of you were cuddled up with Shadow under a blanket, watching a horror movie per Minho's request when your doorbell rang.

"That must be Emily." you stood up quickly and Minho looked at you with a panicked look in his eyes.

"You sure she won't freak out?" he asked and you shook your head.

"No, she's literally seen everything with me." you chuckled as you went to open the door. Minho sat still on the couch, cuddling Shadow to calm his fast beating heart.

"Emily, I'd like you to meet someone." you pulled your best friend into the living room and she looked at Minho confusedly for a moment.

"Didn't we meet already?" she chuckled and Minho's lips fell open.

"She's not gonna faint is she?" he asked, making the both of you laugh.

"Not that I know of." Emily said with a shrug. "Look Minho, when you're friends with y/n for years, nothing really surprises you anymore. Plus, she told me in advance. Everything that happened and what you remember." she added as you served some tea for her.

"Minho sometimes has nightmares about the company." you added.

"Did you remember any more details?" Emily asked after taking a sip of tea.

"Not really. Just bits and pieces, it's more like feelings. Fear, dread, isolation. I especially hated when they experimented on us, the tables. I don't know what they did to us cause I couldn't move and look down but it hurt. The water tanks seemed to alleviate the pain though." Minho explained.

"Okay, now that is creepy." Emily said and you nodded.

"Did you manage to find anything on the site?" you asked her and she shook her head.

"I tried hacking it. It has top security on it, it's out of my skill range." Emily sighed. "I wish I could be of more help."

"Hey, you being here is enough for me." you grabbed her hand as she smiled.

"Oh, do you maybe know where the company is?" Emily suddenly remembered and Minho shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to think of the location.

"Ugh. I can't remember no matter how much I try. I don't remember traveling from there to your house." he looked at you.

"It's okay. We can try again another day." you said, caressing his back to calm him down.

It was all so suspicious and you were too interested in finding out more about where you dear dolly came from.

You were enjoying an afternoon nap when a loud clatter jolted you out of your dreams.

"What are you doing, Min?" you rubbed your eyes as you walked into the kitchen.

"Oh. I'm making dinner for us. It's been exactly five months since I came here so I wanted to do something special." he said, his cheeks rosy.

"Aw, you are so sweet." you melted instantly, making him chuckle shyly.

When you sat down to eat the delicious meal he prepared, you got to thinking.

You've never been so happy or felt so seen. Living with Minho, sharing the day and night with him came easy to you. Everything seemed more lively since he came into your life, even death became an afterthought when you spent time with Minho.

"Thank you for the wonderful dinner." you smiled.

"Of course." he stood up and you followed quickly, almost knocking your chair down.

"Wait here a sec." you told him before running off to your room. If he had made an effort with the main course, you were going to make effort with the dessert.

Minho decided to tidy up as he waited for you, his heart beating hard in anticipation. While you were sleeping, he saw the lacy set you had put out in your closet earlier and he was so excited to see you in it... or take it off of you.

"Min, come here!" you yelled from the room once you were ready and Minho all but tripped over his feet, the carpet and Shadow who was lounging in her spot before he came to you, looking as cool as a cucumber. He leaned on the wall and smirked at you.

"What do you think?" you asked, giving him a little twirl. The lingerie you wore left nothing to imagination.

"I think you look stunning." he said, somewhat breathlessly as his face heated up.

"You gonna do something about it?" you taunted and he made his way to you, his eyes filling up with lust.

His hands landed on your waist as he pulled you in, his lips pressing against yours. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders as you pressed your body as close as you could to his and his hands slid down to grab your ass.

You moaned into his mouth as he started massaging it, then giving it a few loving spanks.

"Fuck, let me take care of you, my love." you pushed him towards the night stand and Minho's eyes widened as you got down on your knees.

"Oh." he let out a quiet sound as you slid his pants and boxers down, not wanting to waste any more time. His cock was already hard and ready for you to play with and you were just too eager.

Your fingers wrapped around the base of his length as you leaned in closer, giving a few kitten licks to his tip, collecting the drops of pre cum on your tongue.

Minho breathed in sharply, his hands grabbing at the night stand behind him. You smirked, swirling your tongue around the tip, occasionally dipping it into his slit and trying to tease him as much as you could.

"Kitten." Minho moaned quietly, his hand tangling in your hair as you started sucking on the tip gently.

You were sure you couldn't take all of him but you were even more sure you were going to try anyways, so you slid down, taking more of his length in and trying to get used to it.

"You look so beautiful right now." Minho smirked, gripping your hair and holding you against him tightly. You moaned around him, sending vibrations through his body as you slid down more.

You bobbed your head up and down, wetting his cock with your spit and gagging around him multiple times and Minho couldn't help his desire as he slowly started to fuck into your warm mouth.

"Ah, y/n!" he groaned, accidentally pushing harder and making you gag. You slid off of him and he looked at you with panic in his eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his palm gentle against your cheek.

"No, I'm fine." you said, biting on your lip. "Just very needy right now."

"For what?" he smirked and you whined.

"You."

"Get on the bed, kitten." he said and you stood up immediately, lying down on the bed.

Minho climbed in after you, kneeling between your legs as he pushed your panties aside.

"This what you need?" he smirked, sliding the tip of his cock against your wet folds.

"Mm, yes." you moaned, already arching your back at the slightest touch.

"Hmm, I'm not convinced." he smirked.

"Please!" you whined desperately, making Minho chuckle.

"Okay." he said but you saw the mischievous glint in his eyes and you knew he was going to tease you some more.

He pushed in just the tip, fucking you slowly with it.

"Ah, Min!" you whined as he kept smirking, giving you a minimal amount of stimulation.

Your eyes teared up in frustration as Minho kept fucking you only with the tip, your pussy clenching and begging for more.

"Please, please!" you cried.

"More?" he teased, pushing a bit more in and staying still.

"All of it."

"As you wish darling." he said before pushing all of his length in and fucking you slowly.

You moaned as you wrapped your arms and legs around him and Minho held you close as he kept rocking his hips into you.

You reached bliss together, wrapped up in each other, completely content.

"Wait." you giggled as Minho started getting up so he can get a cloth to clean you up.

"What?" he asked and you pulled him closer, patting his head gently.

"Oh." he giggled cutely before standing up and almost running off to the bathroom.

While you laid there waiting for him, your phone started ringing.

"Ugh." you groaned and rolled over to grab it.

"Hello?"

"Miss l/n?"

"Yes, this is she." you sat up, thinking it was someone calling for your funeral services.

"We are calling regarding our dolly collection. We understand you have purchased our dark doll, Minho." the cold voice on the other end said.

"Yes, I have."

"We regret to inform you that the collection will be pulled back from the public and we will be taking all the dolls back to our company due to a malfunction. You will get your refund of course. We will come pick the doll up tomorrow morning." they said right as Minho came in.

"Okay, thank you for calling." you said politely before finishing the call.

"Who was that?" Minho asked.

"It was your company, apparently they are taking all the dolls back to the lab due to a malfunction."

"What? Please, don't let them take me! I can't go back there!" Minho looked angry and scared instantly.

"Oh they can come here. But they won't find anything. I have a plan, my love." you smirked.

You were not about to let anyone take away your happiness.

The doorbell rang at 9am sharp and you took a deep breath before opening the door.

There were six men in black suits and emotionless faces standing there and looking at you.

"We've come to pick the doll up."

Suddenly, you hiccuped and started crying.

"He is gone! My dolly is gone! I woke up this morning and looked for him everywhere. But there is no trace of him. I-I put him in my bed like always but he disappeared!" you cried and the men exchanged a look.

"Mind if we take a look around?" one of them asked.

"Please, go ahead." you let them in and they started snooping around immediately. Shadow hissed at them, running away as soon as one of the men came anywhere near her.

They were definitely dangerous.

"W-what kind of malfunction happened to the dolls?" you asked, blowing your nose in a napkin.

"We aren't allowed to discuss that." they answered.

"What's downstairs?" one of them asked.

"My preparation room. This is a funeral home." you said and they gave you suspicious looks.

"Can we take a look there?"

"Of course." you nodded and opened the door.

Then men looked around as you followed them, still crying silently and hiccuping a few more times.

"Well, he is not here. Don't worry about it, miss. You will still get your refund and the doll will be found." they finally gave up after checking every nook and cranny, or so they thought.

"Okay, thank you for coming." you said as they left.

You waited for them to get into their van and drive away before you ran back downstairs.

"They left!" you quickly opened one of the caskets and Minho sat up, taking a deep breath in.

"Gosh, I almost suffocated. I could hear them walking around here, it was so scary." he said as you grabbed his face gently.

"But they didn't find you." you smiled.

"No, thanks to my genius lover." he smiled back at you as you leaned in to kiss him.

"What do we do now?" he asked when you parted.

"We wait to get the refund. And then we'll see what our next step will be."

"Are you sure they won't come looking for me here again?" Minho sighed.

"They can try. But I won't let them take you away from me. I promise."

Minho wrapped his arms around you tightly, putting all his trust into your hands.

You knew you were running a risk as long as you stayed here, but there were preparations needed to be done before you could get away.

And you wanted to make sure there was no trace left for the wrong people to find you.

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ervotica · 1 year ago

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please don’t go, i love you so

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x reader

warnings: a lil toxic!coriolanus, he’s rough with r, possessive talk, quite tame in this but imma tamp it up soon, a bit of making out and being lovey

note: i do not careee about who likes this character or who doesn’t okay i am writing about him because he is literally one of the hottest men i’ve ever seen, kay? i’m not here for moral dilemmas thank u, enjoy (yes i will follow up w smut and my young!coriolanus snow reqs are OPEN!) please please remember to comment and rb, it helps me so much!

hunger games masterlist

Coriolanus is possessive.

It sickens him to his very core, sends nausea rolling like a wave through his chest; he’s not a child. Yet, the mere sight - thought - of you engaging with any other man, even innocently, is enough to have him seeing red: white-knuckled, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring, ready to eliminate any and all threat standing between him and his girl.

It's the way those boys look at you. As if you're a piece of meat, a toy to play with that they're just begging, aching to sink their teeth into, to leave a permanent mark on. The boys in this district are barbaric- that's what Coryo thinks anyway. It's disgusting, the things that he knows they think about you.

It's been a long day in District Twelve. Coriolanus' grey jumpsuit rubs and itches and his skin crawls with an uneasiness settled at the pit of his stomach. It's a warm day, his skin sticky as he peels the top half of the jumpsuit from his slender arms and ties it neatly around his waist. The grass by the lake is damp with the leftover dew from the morning.

He catches sight of you amongst the trees, weaving and bobbing through the undergrowth as you do, your lithe fingers brushing against leaves. Your head dips and then raises as his tall figure creeps into your peripheral vision. A smile graces your features, real and earnest with all your teeth.

There’s a slight waver in your countenance when you catch Coriolanus’ own expression; his brows are knit, pushing his forehead into a crease, lips pushed together tersely.

You walk straight into his arms, balancing yourself on one leg and pushing your shoulder underneath his armpit. You needle your way in, your forehead rested against his chin, so close you can feel his breath against your face.

“Hi, gorgeous,” you murmur. You reach up to push out the ridge in his brow and your thumb traces the bridge of his nose in a way that couldn’t be perceived as anything other than unbridled affection. “Something wrong?”

His slender fingers settle against your waist. You shiver at the contact when he spins and pushes you back into a tree. The bark digs into your back as you shuffle to meet his eyes— his eyes that have suddenly clouded with something dark and possessive.

“What is it?” you ask again; your voice is becoming more strained the longer he stays quiet, your own hands snaking up his arms like vines and squeezing.

He shakes his head and drops his face to look at you properly.

“Nothing. I have you.”

“Okay.” You click your tongue, tilting your head at him. His face gravitates towards yours, breath hot and mixing with your own. “You gonna kiss me or what, handsome?”

He doesn’t need any encouragement, surging forward to catch your lips between his own; his hands are rough, kneading the soft flesh of your hip. His other makes its way up to your jaw, fingertips pressing so hard you’re sure he’s branding you. You’ve never been kissed like this, with such fervour and passion and need. You gasp into his mouth and your arm wraps around his neck to pull him further into you.

“Coryo,” you pant.

“Shh,” he forces out, his fingers suddenly an iron grip around your neck; the hollow of your throat is bared to him and bobs under his cruel touch.

“Coriolanus, that hurts,” you say, strangled. His eyes are alight with a fire, a blazing inferno roaring in his head as he squeezes your throat and laughs.

You wheeze, clutching at his wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip. He obliges you, running a thumb over the indents he’s left in your soft skin to smooth them away.

“You know I’d never hurt you, right?” he asks. His head drops to the juncture of your neck, arms hooking loosely around your middle as he relaxes into you. “I just wanted to feel you. To know you’re mine.”

The incident is forgotten as soon as it ends. He has a charm in that sort of way; you don’t see his faults even when he shows them to you clear as day. You’ll never see what’s right in front of you even if he wants you to.

“Of course I’m yours, Coryo. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The way they all look at you here…” He falters. “Like they all want you. Like they want to take you away from me. You’re mine- they have to understand that.”

“No one could take me away from you,” you giggle, your temple resting against the tip of his shoulder so you can duck your head to meet his eyes. “I know where I belong. And that’s right here with you.”

“Good.” He mouths at your neck like a man starved, arms coming right up until they’re hooked just underneath your own. He pulls away heaving for breath.

“Wanna show me just where you belong?”

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow fic #coriolanus snow fluff #coriolanus snow x you #the hunger games x you #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games fic #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes fanfic #writer #writers on tumblr #writing #coryo snow #writing for fun #coriolanus snow smut

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darkbluekies · 3 months ago

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In the hands of a madman 2024 ver

Doctor!yandere oc x reader

Summary: a doctor is very peculiar about his favorite patient, and senses a threat once they disobey him.

Warnings: yandere, poison, murder, cuff restraints

Word count: 2.4k

You gag.

“Yes, yes, I know”, he coos, grimacing and removes the wooden stick out of your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

You're left with a bitter taste in your mouth. Why does he always stick that thing as far down your throat as humanly possible? You thank heavens that it’s not one of the needles extracting blood from your arm, although you’re sure that’s what’s waiting tomorrow.

“Still nothing?” you ask cautiously.

He meets your eyes and you know immediately. You sigh heavily. Your heart sinks to your stomach.

Every three months, he’s doing all sorts of tests to see if you’re getting better — or what’s what he’s saying. Every three months, Dr Kry has to check every vital sign on you to make sure that his sickness isn’t getting out of his control. But you don’t like them. They hurt. Badly.

“Will I ever get to go home? I want to.”

Dr Kry sighs and sits down on his rolling stool, coming over to your bed.

“I know you do, but you that’s not possible”, he says apologetically. “You know that too.”

“Yeah, because you keep reminding me”, you mutter.

“That’s better than giving you false hope, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that drive you insane?”

It would, but you don’t say it out loud. Doesn’t need to.

“I want to go home!” you say again, louder this time.

“Saying it louder won’t make you better or me change my mind”, Dr Kry says.

You sigh and press your palms to your eyes, trying to press the tears back into your eyes before they escape. You’ve been here for too long by now. You’ve been isolated for so incredibly long. ALl you want is to go home. You know no one, talk to no one beside him. The proper, sophisticated man who’s stiffer than a stick. Dr Kry sighs and moves closer.

“I know that you’re disappointed”, he says and puts his large hand on your shoulder. “But this is for the best. “I don’t want you to get worse.”

“I hate these fucking tests! They hurt.”

“I know.”

He glances towards the white air purifier on the shelf beside the bed. The poisoned air purifier. He’s always making sure it’s not too much, not too little. Just the exact amount to keep you where he wants you — weak and vulnerable, dependent on him.

“I know it’s hard”, he says encouragingly. “I know that you’re in pain, but you’re doing so good. You can always call for me if you need me, okay? I’m available all day and night for you.”

You press forward a smile, but can’t help but feel a wave of sadness wash over you. Why did this happen to you? Where did you go wrong to end up here? How could a sore throat get you bed bound in a hospital room? If only you knew.

“Let’s get you tucked in again”, Dr Kry says and helps you lie down in bed. “You shouldn’t be putting to much pressure on your body.”

He pushes up your pillows, having you lie in a 45-degree angle. It helps you breathe at night. He always tucks the blanket close to your body, as if you were a butterfly in a cocoon. He gives you a small smile before standing up.

“Please don’t go”, you whisper. “I don’t want to be left here.”

The man looks at you, studies you carefully before nodding and sitting back down. He wipes your lonely tear with his finger. He looks at his wet finger, thinking.

“I feel helpless”, you admit. “I don’t think I’ll ever get well again.”

Little do you know that’s exactly what he wants.

“It’s okay, Y/N”, he says. “I will take care of you. I will stay with you until you’re well again.”

He has to force back a smile.

“I don’t want to do these anymore”, you say monotonously.

“I know you don’t, but you have to”, Dr Kry says apologetically and moves closer to the bed on his rolling stool. “They’re important.”

“They hurt …”

“I know, but you’re doing so good, okay? I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a small, painful smile.

“I’ll sit here until you fall asleep, don’t worry”, he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes slowly. He fades out.

He takes blood tests the following day. Needles, pain.

“Now, you need to take a nap”, he says and tucks you in.

The daily afternoon nap. You hate it, but he insists. While you sleep, he’s out taking care of other patients that are not you. He hates it, hates wasting his time and skill on people that aren’t you. Those patients are one time patients that are there for surgeries, consultations or checkups. No long term patients that have to stay in the hospital. Everyone gets to leave after he meets them. Everyone but you. You stay.

You keep your eyes closed until Dr Kry leaves the room. Quickly, you sit up and get out of bed. After all these fucking tests, you’re deserving of something else than the tasteless cardboard Dr Kry gets you. Just one brownie. Something that has sugar. And maybe some coffee for caffeine too.

Quietly, you sneak out into the corridor. There’s something about these sterile passageways that makes the hair on your back stand on its end. Is it the dehumanized area or the fact that you’re never allowed here? Is it nerves or excitement? Whatever it is, you decide to speed up your steps and hurry towards the elevators before anyone sees you. They’ll tell him. Just as the doors are about to close, someone stops the doors. A boy dressed in a similar hospital gown as yourself forces his way into the elevator. He gives you a rushed, apologetic smile.

“Sorry”, he says sheepishly. “I am in a hurry.”

“What happened to you?” you ask and smile halfly.

“I escaped from the therapist. A real pain in my ass.”

You can’t help but giggle. The young man licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair.

“Have you met her?” he asks. “The therapist?”

“No”, you say.

You haven’t met anyone but your stiff and proper doctor.

“Don’t”, the young man advices you and leans his back against the wall. “She’s mental. I honestly think she should be the one getting interrogated — not me.” He looks at you, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Do you meet others?” you ask.

“In the lounge. Have you been there?”

You shake your head and lower your eyes.

“Did you just arrive?” the man asks.

You shake your head again.

“How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

The elevator stops and the doors open at your floor.

“Are you going to the cafeteria?” the man asks.

“Yes”, you reply.

“I’m coming with you. Maybe you can help me blend in.”

“Okay.”

The boy seems frantic, but happy. Running on adrenaline and excitement. Together, you walk through the hospital to the cafeteria and realize that you don’t have any money. Your shoulders fall. Did you come here for nothing?

“Aren’t you going to order something?” the young man asks.

“I don’t know”, you reply quietly.

Before you have the time to come up with a lie why you can’t order anything, you recognise something in the corner of your eye. A blonde man dressed in a white robe. You feel your blood run cold.

“What do we have here?” Dr Kry asks and you have a hard time reading his tone or facial expressions. “What do you think you are doing out of bed?”

He walks over to you and grabs your shoulder. You flinch. His grip is … tight. Painful.

“You’re supposed to rest”, Dr Kry says shortly.

He looks at the young man. His eyes seem to go right through him.

“Where are you supposed to be?” he asks.

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry gives him a cold gaze before grabbing your upper arm in a tight grip. He doesn’t say anything as he starts to pull you with him. His steps are quick, steady. Angry.

“Doctor …”, you try.

He doesn’t answer. Dr Kry pushes you into the elevator and presses the button. He doesn't let go of your arm.

“Doctor, I’m sorry”, you say.

He still doesn’t answer. You barely dare to look at him. There’s something about his face that scares you. It's stoic, unreadable. But he oozes anger. Like a dark cloud.

The elevator stops, the doors open. His tight grip remains as he drags you back into your room.

“Lay down”, he instructs shortly.

You do, too scared to disobey. Dr Kry walks past you, to the drawers by your bed. He rips out two leather bands that look like belts for dolls. Before you're aware of what he's doing, he's strapped one of your wrists to the bed railing.

“Wait, doctor-”, you blurt out.

“Be quiet.”

He locks your other wrist to the other railing. You tug at the restraints, and find them secure.

“Are they too tight?” Dr Kry asks, still with that short tone that sends icy needles down your spine.

“Doctor, what are you-?”

“Answer the question. Do they hurt?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He turns to his desk, ignoring you.

“Doctor, I'm sorry”, you say.

“You broke my trust”, he says without giving you any attention. “It's important, for your healing, that you do not deceive me. I need to be able to trust that you do as I say. How many times have you done this?”

“Only this time, I promise.”

He doesn't answer. You feel how your eyes fill with tears. Your body is in such a vulnerable state that your body betrays you. You didn't want to upset him, didn't want to put your own health at risk by doing this.

“I'm sorry, doctor”, you sniffle. “I didn't mean to break your trust.”

He sighs and turns his head to look at you. His blue eyes soften and he rises from his chair, coming over to your bed. He can't stay mad at you, not when you're clearly dumb. You don't understand, he can't be mad at you for not understanding. He should — and is — mad at himself for not foreseeing these situations and making sure you don't do it.

“You know that I only want what's best for you, don't you?” he asks and wipes your tears with his hand.

“Yes”, you reply.

“In that case, I want you to never repeat this mistake. Mistakes are forgivable, but they should be minimized, do you understand that?”

“Yes. Do you forgive me?”

He has to force back a smile. You're so unbelievably cute.

“Yes, I do forgive you”, he says.

“Can you take off the restraints?”

“No. I might forgive you, but I need you to know what happens once mistakes occur. This is the consequences that follow. If I can't trust you to be where I want you to be, I need to take precautions to make sure you are.”

You lower your gaze.

“Who was that, by the way?” he asks. “That young … man. Why did you speak to him?”

“I don't know, he took the same elevator as me.”

“I don't want you to speak with him again. If he's the one they're looking for, I don't want you getting influenced by his reckless ideas.”

“I don't get to speak to anyone, anyways.”

“And that's how it should be. We don't know why you're sick, and you shouldn't contaminate someone else.”

“What about you, then? You can get sick too.”

“I'm ready to take that risk.”

He's too nice, you think. All he wants is to take care of you and you put his selfless risks to hell when you decide to disobey him. How horrible of you.

“Now, you need to take that nap for real”, he says. “I will sit by my desk. If you need something you can just let me know.”

He walks back to his desk and sits down, starting to file some paperwork. You tug at the restraints. You're not going anywhere.

When you’ve fallen asleep, Dr Kry makes his way through the hospital. They’ve captured that young man and put him back into his room … and Dr Kry wants a talk with him. He opens the door quietly. The young lays in bed, sleeping. Dr Kry circles around him, taking a good look at him. Did you find him cute? Hot? Did you like talking to him? Did you think that he was better than him? Did you enjoy those ten minutes with him more than these months with Kry? Do you want to meet with him again? He glares at the sleeping man. Dr Kry walks over to the supply closet, an identical to the one in your room, and takes out one of the spare pillows. Silently, he walks over to the bed, lifts the pillow and presses it over the young man’s face. He widen his eyes, pulled out of his slumber. He screams against the pillow, his voice getting muffled in the fabric.

“Normally, I’d make this easy for you”, Dr Kry grunts as the man starts to fight against him. “Out of pity, but you don’t deserve that mercy.”

He screams in confusion, fear. Dr Kry can make out words. What. No. Help. Stop.

“Just give in and give yourself that mercy”, Dr Kry continues. “If you continue to fight against me, you’ll be in more pain.”

The man cries. Dr Kry breaks out into a smile.

“You’re going to die either way, you can choose to end it quicker.”

The young man doesn’t seem to get the memo. He continues to fight, cry, plead. He drinks it all in. The horror, the helplessness. The dear in headlight. He has seen the light in people’s eyes disappear multiple times during his job as a doctor. To see the moment someone becomes just a piece of flesh. He has never enjoyed it as much as now. The man stops moving. Dr Kry removes the pillow and takes a step back, looking at the lifeless body. He breathes out. Finally, he can calm down.

And now, all he needs to do is to make sure he can not be traced back.

He finds you sleeping soundly as he comes back to your room, wrists still locked to the sides of the bed. You make his heart ache. He sits down beside you, brushing his fingertips over your cheek.

I control your life, my little one. You’re going to say with me and I’ll take every repercussion to make sure you don’t disappear.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere doctor #yandere fics #yandere oneshot #yandere oc

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leonkennedybreedingkink · 3 months ago

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ANYTIME YOU WANT (JUMP BACK TO ME ANYTIME)

husband!leon kennedy x reader

tags: established relationship. you guys are beefing ngl. masturbation (brief reference, m receiving). leon loves his wife a lot. title from eve 6 anytime.

Your therapist takes in the way you both sit on her couch over the rims of her glasses. Your legs and arms are crossed and you don’t dare look in his direction, lest he thinks he’s not in the doghouse. The first fifteen minutes of this session have been an awkward, stilted silence.

Leon’s legs are spread, his arms folded as he sneaks glances at you from the corners of his eyes. His mouth is downturned at the corners, contrasting the thin line yours is pressed into.

Not to stereotype or anything, but she can definitely see which one dragged the other to marriage therapy. She’s just surprised it’s the man wanting to fix something.

Okay. Since neither of you want to speak, she’ll go first. “Would either of you like to tell me why we’re here this week?” She asks, writing the date in the top left corner of the legal pad’s page.

11 - 18 - 17

She watches you scoff and shift where you sit, balancing your temple on two fingers. “You’re a marriage counselor, aren’t you?” You don’t even look at her as you speak, words ground out from your teeth. “Why else does a couple come to you?”

Alright, not a good start. She watches Leon reach over before he stops himself, a hand returning to his lap. Instead, he says your name softly, begging you to look over at him with those big blue eyes.

You don’t look over.

He changes tactics, head lifting. “Be nice.” He says softly, body shifting to face you as he looks over, drinking you in.

You don’t respond, staring angrily into a space over the therapist’s shoulder.

Leon sucks in a breath through his teeth as he leans back, his hand midway between you two on the ugly upholstery.

Your therapist clears her throat, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Why are you two here?”

Leon takes the lead, his eyes sliding over to you. “We’re having… problems.”

You scoff immediately. “Understatement.” You mutter under your breath, arms folding tightly again.

Leon’s mouth presses into a line as he restrains himself from giving into your baiting before he says, “I’ll lay my cards out on the table.”

You bristle, eyes flicking over at him. Your face is stonily neutral, the slight knot of your brows betraying your frustration.

Wife and husband in habit of needling one another.

“I drank. A lot.” Leon leans back, crossing an ankle over his opposite knee. “And she did a lot to try and keep our marriage afloat before I got my head out of my ass.”

Your therapist notes this on her legal pad. “How long ago was this?”

“Three-ish years.” Leon offers, lacing his fingers together. His wedding band glints in the light—yours is conspicuously absent. His eyes land on you, the second time he’s spoken directly to you. “And I’m forever grateful.”

“Mhm.” Therapist writes that husband is apologetic and open, attempting to bridge the gap. Wife is unreceptive. “And how long have you both been married?”

Shit. That’s a better question for you, you have the dates straight, somehow. Your first time, the date you two got married, the day you two met, your first daughter’s birthday, your first son’s birthday, your second daughter and son’s birthday.

He used to tease you about your calendar brain early on. You’d look a little sheepish and he’d kiss it right off you.

Leon sneaks a glance at you like a drowning man looks at a float. “Um…” He can feel his face warming up, a pretty flush spreading across his cheeks.

You shift, sighing through your nose and picking at the seam of your jeans. “Sixteen years.”

Right. Wife seems to defrost when asked how long they’ve been together—sixteen years.

“And how did you meet?” Just so she has the dates straight.

“College.” Your face heats the longer Leon stares holes into your cheek. Wife seems nostalgic of the early days of relationship. “I worked at the campus dining hall.”

A small, helpless smile spreads across Leon’s face. “I came over to the sandwich and pasta stations as much as I could.”

Husband holds affection for wife still.

You don’t look up at him and your therapist can watch the heartache bloom in his eyes before he looks away.

“What’s your perspective, Mrs. Kennedy?” The therapist asks you, crossing her legs.

You stay silent for so long that the therapist wonders whether you heard her before you say emotionlessly, “He did drink.” Your eyes fall to your fingers. “And mope, and feel bad for himself.”

“I went through a lot of things.” Leon says quietly. Your therapist opens her mouth to hush him, but you beat him to the punch.

“Nobody’s saying you didn’t.” You look up at him for the first time. “If you’d let me finish, you’d understand what I’m saying.”

Your therapist holds up her hands before this can devolve into a full-on argument. “Excuse me.” Two pairs of eyes settle on her. “Let’s not interrupt one another, please. And let’s keep the hostility to the minimum.”

“I’m not being hostile.” You retort, brows furrowing in the middle.

“You’re not exactly being gentle, either.” Leon mutters, raising a brow when you look at him with a frown on your face.

Husband and wife have habit of speaking over one another. “Please.” Your therapist says a little louder. “Mrs. Kennedy, continue.” Wife is on defense.

You take a steadying breath and let it out slowly. Wife employs self-soothing mechanisms. “I was going to say that the previous drinking isn’t the issue to me.” You uncross and recross your legs, bouncing the one on top. “The drinking, frankly, wasn’t a surprise.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Your lips part, eyes flicking over to Leon as you attempt to figure out the best way to talk without breaking his confidentiality.

Leon doesn’t look at you, head balanced on two fingers.

“I…” You take another deep breath. “It’s his job. It’s… it’s a tedious and stressful job. And he’d—“ you cut yourself off, glancing at him again.

“You can say it, it’s fine.” Leon says, sounding particularly weary.

You look particularly conflicted when he says that, mouth turning down at the corners. “He’d got the job from a big incident in ninety-eight. He wasn’t supposed to have this job.”

Wife employing vagaries to protect husband.

“Mhm.” Your therapist looks vaguely uneasy at the omission, but lets you go on.

“He hadn’t started drinking heavily until he was working for the President.” You chew on your cheek, eyes on your husband. “Then after that, he tried to go away to Colorado for a week, leaving me pregnant with three kids.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a line. “So that’s what this is about.”

Husband and wife hold vague resentment for husband’s job.

Your therapist refrains from rolling her eyes, clearing her throat and waiting for you to go on.

“And then,” you say pointedly, eyebrows raising, “you didn’t have a vacation at all because your job called you in. That’s what I was getting at.”

“More like it found me, but close enough.” Leon replies flippantly, crossing his legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut, measuring your breaths. Your therapist is almost tempted to write that husband has a bad attitude, but holds back.

You look away, one hand moving to twiddle your wedding band out of habit before you register that your finger is empty. You pull your hand away. “He sobered up after the Colorado thing.” You say quietly.

Husband’s work takes him away from the wife and kids fairly often.

Your therapist nods, looking between you two. Wife was angry at beginning of session, now looks downcast, switching role with husband who was earlier downcast, now is irritated. “And how many children do you share with one another?”

“Four.” Leon fills in, hand twitching for his phone as if to show pictures. “Two boys, two girls.”

Four children, two boys and two girls.

“And how has this break—“ When she asks, Leon flinches and you look guilty. “in your relationship impacted your children?”

You glance at one another in tandem. Wife and husband still look for support in one another when asked questions pertaining to them as a family unit. Leon looks away first, cheeks turning red.

You sigh, reaching up and rubbing the back of your neck. “Our eldest girl started acting out in school. She’s defiant, she’s antisocial. She…”

Leon waits as you trail off, then picks up. “She’s an extrovert, like her mom. Which is why it raised alarm bells when her teachers told us that she’d been angry about having to do group work because she wanted to be left alone. She had to be taken home one day because she got in a physical fight with some kids who just wanted to play with her.”

“And your other children?” Her eyes flick between the two of you.

“Our youngest two aren’t in school yet.” You inform her, shifting a little and fiddling with your nails. “Our eldest boy—he’s six—had begun isolating himself from everyone. He wouldn’t even sit at his desk, he just wanted to sit in the library area and do his work—which is completely fine and I don’t see why the teacher threw a fit about it, frankly—but he’d also refused to play with other children. He would just watch other kids at recess—and he’s a very energetic kid.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “I see.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a small smile at all the information you throw at the therapist. That’s his girl, always motormouthing and talking about anything and everything. Though, you could start an argument with your echo, so maybe there’s a drawback to your ability to talk about anything.

Parental relationship affecting children in household.

“Our youngest two don’t really understand why mommy and daddy are fighting.” Leon muses, watching you play with your fingers. He has half a mind to reach over and hold your hand so you stop fidgeting, but refrains.

“How old are your children?”

“Eight, six, four, and two.” You sneakily reference a tattoo on your forearm of the kid’s birthdates with their initials—he knew you were cheating when it came to remembering their birthdates.

Your therapist glances at her watch, jotting down a few more notes before she closes the legal pad, marking it as Mr. & Mrs. Kennedy. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have this week. If you both are willing to come back, my receptionist out front will schedule you for another session next week.”

Leon watches his cum swirl down the drain miserably, leaning his forehead against the shower tile. What a waste.

That session last week could’ve gone worse, admittedly. It could’ve had you two throwing shit at one another and both of you getting arrested.

The silence during the drive home was excruciating. In the early days, you could fill up the whole fucking car just talking about anything: your coursework, which kid in your class you think is autistic, this new show you watched, anything.

Leon’s a quiet guy, he doesn’t have the capacity to talk about nothing and everything for an hour and you’re his favorite little chatterbox in the world.

He turns off the faucet and shakes his hair out like a dog, raking the curtain aside and grabbing his towel, mopping his face and hair before he dries off his body.

He wraps the towel around himself and steps out of the shower, slicking his hair back and wiping a streak in the foggy mirror so he can somewhat see where he needs to shave.

For good measure, he opens the window and leans forward to the mirror, inspecting his face.

You knock on the door thrice. “Can I come in?”

He turns around, one hand on the knot holding his towel up and the other unlocking the door and pulling it open. You step inside without so much as a glance at him, pausing when you see the streak on the mirror. “I hate when you do that.” you mutter, pulling open the cabinet and rooting around for some disinfectant.

“You hate when I do anything.” Leon mutters back, retrieving the trimmer from the cabinet and being careful not to whack you in the head with it. He jams the plug in the wall, undoing his towel both to dab his cheeks and jaw dry with a corner of it, but also to see if he can get a reaction from you.

You give none, coming back with some rubbing alcohol and cotton pads from the cabinet. Somebody must’ve scraped their knee. You bonk the back of your head on the way out. “Motherfucker!”

Leon puts down the trimmer with a stifled laugh, leaning down and stroking the back of your head gently. “Jesus. You okay?”

You swat at his covered thigh, sitting down on the tile. “It’s not funny.”

“Did you hear me laugh?” Maybe you did. His bad, he should’ve been quieter. He strokes the back of your head one last time before pulling his hand away.

“No, but I know you want to.” You grouse, getting up from the floor and picking up the rubbing alcohol and the cotton pads. Safe, just like a guy stealing a base at the last second.

You walk away without anything further and Leon feels stupidly self-conscious as he watches your ass. Is it the hair? No, you said you liked the body hair. Is it the body? Is he out of shape? Well, he’s not far outside the realm of dad bod. Besides, you told him a couple years ago that you liked seeing the give to his tummy, means he’s eating well.

He shakes his head, leaning into the mirror and picking up the trimmer as he buzzes his stubble down a little more. Your four year old runs into the bathroom with a smile and he pauses, face half-shaven to give some love to one of his three girls, plopping her on the counter as she talks his ear off and he continues shaving.

After a while, he helps her down so she can go run around with her siblings and so he can get changed, hanging his towel up when she’s gone and changing into a pair of boxers. He comes into his bedroom and heads over to his dresser, pulling out a shirt and some sweatpants.

He comes downstairs fully dressed to utter chaos.

Your kids are too busy running around the living room and body slamming one another to listen to you. You stand there frustratedly as you try to configure a game plan, one temple aching. You don’t like raising your voice at them, your voice goes too high and at a certain point, kids tune it out.

“Hey!” Leon, on the other hand, has no qualms about raising his voice. He doesn’t have to do much, he has a lot of diaphragm support.

The kids pause, immediately looking guilty.

Wordlessly, he points out to the back door and they scramble away, shouting and ordering each other around and back to playing with one another.

Leon goes over and shuts the door with a sigh. “They get that energy from you, you know.” He muses, heading over to the kitchen to get himself a snack.

“I know.” You sit down on your humongous couch, rubbing a temple. In the corner is your pillow, your blanket hung over the back of the couch. Leon’s heart dully aches when he sees that setup, he’s not sure it ever won’t. God, he misses cuddling you and his babies.

Your therapist holds up a hand in the last ten minutes of your session after having found a good place to cut you off. “So.” She says after letting out a quiet sigh, looking over her notes.

11 - 25 - 17

Making some headway in conversations about the other’s intentions. Husband and wife very similar: hardheaded, hate to lose, want their voices to be heard. Neither want their children to be in a broken home.

Wife sleeps on couch, lacks wedding ring for second session in a row. Husband longing for connection with her but wants her to give the signal that she’s ready.

She looks up. “I’m going to give you both some homework.” She watches your eyebrow raise and Leon smirk. “First, no matter what either of you is doing, when you first see each other for the day, I want you to hug for at least twenty seconds.”

You frown, Leon’s expression lightening. Amateur advice, or so you think.

“Second, I want you both to start keeping journals of your fights.”

Nevermind.

“Journals of our fights?” You repeat, crossing your legs at the ankle.

“I’m not finished.” The therapist reprimands gently, watching you frown. Wife has issues with authority. “These journals should take place over a week’s time. I want you to write down what the fight was about, what was said, how you both reacted. At the end of every week—Sunday, we’ll say—you’ll exchange the journals and read from the other’s point of view.”

Damn, that’s actually really good.

“Third,” The therapist pins you in place with a look. “I want you to wear your wedding band again.“

She watches the embarrassment cross your face, eyes cutting over to Leon when he looks too smug. “Don’t look so smug, Mr. Kennedy. I want you to recite five things you like about her—“

“That’s easy.” Leon says, meaning every word.

She gives him a look. “When you’re in an argument. Mentally, not out loud. Speaking of, you both need a code word for when the argument is getting to be too much and you need to walk away from it.”

She stands up, putting the legal pad in the folder in the Kennedy file. “I’ll see you both next week.”

After the third session, you move right back into the bedroom, after waking up to Leon laying on top of you on the couch.

Leon’s brushing his teeth as you change into pajamas, leaning over and spitting into the sink before he brushes his tongue. He rinses the bristles and puts the brush back in the holder, coming out and helping you ready the bed before your six year old son comes in, saying his tummy’s upset.

“I’ve got it.” Leon comes over and presses a hand to his son’s forehead. Warm. Five out of the six of the Kennedys tend to run warm, which isn’t a worry. “Let’s get you some Pepto, buddy.”

He takes his son’s hand and leads him downstairs, giving him a dose and taking him back up, laying him back in his bed. “Goodnight. Mommy and daddy love you.” He whispers, going over and kissing his three other children goodnight.

He comes back to your room to find you in bed reading, lights dimmed. Instinctively, he comes over to your side and adjusts the lamp so you’re not straining your eyes to read. He comes back around to his side and turns off his light, lying on his right side and facing you.

When you decide it’s time to sleep, you lean over and turn off the light, putting your book on your nightstand and slipping beneath the covers.

It’s silent for a while before Leon whispers, “Sometimes, I wonder if we should have another baby.”

Your head snaps over to his. “What?”

“Not—“ He scoots a little closer, almost reaching out to take your hand. “not, like, a bandage baby or anything. I don’t think a baby can fix this.” A pause before he gestures in the dark. “Us, I mean.”

You snort despite yourself. “I hope not.”

Leon scoffs, coming a little closer. “You know me. That’s not fair to a little baby. And you said four’s your limit.”

Your heart warms. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised he remembered.

“I love you, you know.” Leon murmurs, hesitantly and loosely taking your hand. Even in the dark, you can see him coming.

Your chest aches. “I know.”

Another long pause.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” When your head turns, he’s there, inches from your face.

“That it took me so long to pull my head from my ass. You are… my anchor in this crazy-ass world.” He squeezes your hand, hoping you’ll let him hold it for a while longer. “And I hurt you. You’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, and I love you, and I hurt you.”

Your burning eyes scrunch shut as you press your forehead to his.

“I just hope you forgive me—I hope one day, that I’m good enough for you to forgive me.” He whispers, voice wavering. “I want this to work. I want you. God, I miss you.”

Maybe that’s what you needed, you needed to hear him render his heart open.

You come closer, pressing your front to his.

“And even my job—“ He curses, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the spot between your eyebrows. “I’ll quit.” When you giggle, he huffs. “I’m serious. Give me the word and I’ll quit.”

The tension in his chest eases when you tuck your head beneath his chin. “God, no, don’t do that. At least one of us needs an income.” You mutter, throwing an arm around his waist.

Forgiveness never felt so sweet.

#mine #resident evil #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #editor’s choice

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scary-grace · 2 months ago

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what I don't remember now - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

Tomura's life doesn't end when his death sentence is handed down, and he knows damn well that he's innocent. It won't be long before one of his appeals proves it, and he can come home -- back to his friends, and back to you, the girlfriend who stood by him through the trial. But death row is a nightmare Tomura can't wake up from, and as the years behind bars begin to pile up, Tomura starts to question if it really matters whether he did it. If he'll ever be free. And if you and the other people who love him have forgotten him for good. (cross-posted to Ao3)

This is the prequel fic to 'if my heart was a house', and covers what's happened to Tomura since the last time he and the reader saw each other. I did a not-insignificant amount of research into the criminal justice system in Japan, specifically on prison conditions, prisoner treatment, and the administration of the death penalty. There is some dark and potentially triggering content, especially in later chapters, so please be wary! dividers/banners by @cafekitsune

part i part ii part iii

one

It’s cold. Tomura lies still in the half-darkness of his cell, willing himself not to shiver. If he shivers, that’s it. That’s an admission that he can’t hack it, that being here is getting to him, that he can’t swallow the fistful of bitter pills that have been shoved down his throat. Tomura made a decision, somewhere between his sentencing and when he was shoved out of an armored transport in the yard of an unnamed prison, that he’s not going to give a nanometer. He’s not going to blink, or flinch, or whatever the fuck. Do that, and it’ll look like acceptance. And Tomura’s not going to accept being sentenced to death for something he didn’t fucking do.

Tomura’s not a good person. On his best day he’s lazy and on his worst he’s an unapologetic asshole. The most redeeming feature he has is the fact that better people than him want to be around him for some reason, and it’s not because he’s good-looking or ambitious or rich. Since birth Tomura’s been a disappointment. That’s not the same thing as being a murderer, and as many good reasons as Tomura has to hate the house he grew up in and the family who lived there with him, none of them are enough to make him kill them all.

He doesn’t remember what he was doing the night of the murders, except that he spent part of it in the hospital. He doesn’t remember confessing, which he apparently did, and when he tries to think about any of it, he gets a splitting headache and the kind of nausea that means he’s gotten hosed down in his cell eight times since he arrived three weeks ago. Tomura’s trial is a blur, too. The only thing that’s clear in his head is the memory of you – you, and your hands clasped tight around his, holding on so hard that Tomura thought his fingers would break. Your hands are smaller than his. Your hands were strong. Your hands are warm.

Thinking of you is one way to warm up, but it comes at a cost. A shiver runs through Tomura from his fingers up, and he lurches upright on his cot to hide the motion. A split second later, the lights in his cell go on, so bright that he’s blinded for a second. He raises his hand to shield his eyes, and a guard barks at him over the intercom. “Inmate 230385, return to the rest position immediately.”

“I just sat up,” Tomura says. “Is that illegal or something?”

“Return to the rest position.”

“Why?”

“Return to the rest position or corrective action will be taken.”

Corrective action? Tomura’s already on death row. What the hell do they think they can do to him that will make a difference? Take him out of his cell, probably. And put him somewhere colder. Tomura’s blanket slid down when he sat up. He hitches it back up and lies down again.

He doesn’t need to cause trouble. He’s not going to be here long. He’s got appeals pending, and there’s no way the judge who hears the next one will be as stupid as the one at his trial. Tomura’s not going to die here. Sooner or later, he’s going to get out, and when he does, nothing anyone said at the trial will matter. His friends will still be there, and so will you. Tomura just has to hold out until then.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries not to shiver. It gets easier when he remembers the warmth of your hands around his, the last time he saw you. Tomura thinks about that, about you, and it helps. But even your memory can’t quite keep out the cold.

two

Someone’s coughing. Tomura can’t tell which cell they’re in, but they’re making a hell of a lot of noise, and it’s ripping at Tomura’s nerves. He didn’t use to have such a problem with noise, but the death row is so silent most of the time that Tomura can hear the other inmates breathing in their tiny cells. No one gets to talk unless spoken to by the guards, and the guards never speak to anyone unless it’s to correct someone. Tomura’s been on the receiving end of corrective action more than a few times by now. It’s usually not worth it.

Tomura knows it’s not worth it, and still, the urge is there. He wants to say things. He wants to ask questions – like why he’s not allowed to make phone calls or write letters, what’s happening to all the phone calls and letters that he knows are coming for him. He doesn’t want anything to do with the other prisoners, but if he needed to talk to them, he’d want to know the option was available without risking the loss of his exercise period or getting his meals reduced from three to two per day. Tomura’s heard there are worse punishments. If he’s going to get one of those, it’s not going to be for trying to talk to someone.

Still, the coughing sounds like it’s killing whoever’s doing it – but before it kills them, it’s going to kill Tomura, because he can’t take this fucking noise. He can’t say a word without permission, but this asshole gets to hack out a lung with no consequences at all? Fuck that. Tomura clenches his jaw, trying to hold in the howl of frustration. He clamps his hands over his ears so he won’t have to hear it any longer. They need to stop. No one cares, and it’s driving Tomura insane – more insane than the silence, more insane than the cold. Shut up, he thinks at them, whoever the fuck they are. Shut up, shut up –

“Shut the fuck up!” someone else explodes from somewhere further down death row. “Just die already!”

“Inmate 113019, this is a verbal reprimand for speaking out of turn. If you continue –”

“Yeah. Go for it! Put me in the protection cells! At least then I’ll be away from this fucking noise –”

The coughing takes on a weird, wet note that it hasn’t had before, something that makes Tomura’s skin crawl. It’s drowned out almost instantly by the sound of the guards’ footsteps down the hall on their way to lower the hammer on 113019, whoever he is. Whoever he is, he puts up a fight. Tomura hears heavy thuds, curses, a burst of sound that might be sobs or laughter, and somewhere in the middle of it, the coughing comes to a complete stop. It doesn’t start up again, and once the guards drag 113019 away, the cell block is dead silent once more.

Two minutes ago, all Tomura wanted was for it to be quiet again. Right now, he can’t help wondering why the coughing stopped so suddenly. Right now, he misses the noise.

three

There’s frost on the ground, and Tomura can see his breath. His teeth are chattering, and he’s shivering too hard to walk. He shouldn’t be outside. But he gets one exercise period per day, and it’s the only time he gets to spend outside his cell. The only time he gets to see the sky and breathe air that hasn’t been recycled thousands of times until it tastes old and stale. It doesn’t matter if it’s below freezing. If Tomura has a chance to be outside, he should use it.

He forces himself to take even steps on his way around the tiny exercise yard, and at the same time, he lets his mind wander – back to you, because it’s easier to think about you out here than it is in his cell. He doesn’t want to imagine you in there with him. Out here, it’s easier. He can pretend the two of you are meeting up to go for a walk, like you did on your first date. He can pretend you’re just around the next turn.

After the first time you ran into each other, Tomura didn’t think he’d see you again. Which was stupid. You worked at the library on campus, and he needed to use the library, so of course he was going to see you. And every time you saw him, you talked to him until you had to go do something else – like renew someone’s checked-out book, reserve them a study room, schedule a session with a tutor, find a source they really should have been able to find on their own. At first Tomura took those interruptions as his cue to leave. Then he started waiting through them. Then he started coming by even if you were busy, waiting however long it took for you to have time for him.

Tomura hadn’t meant to ask you out, exactly. He just told you that he wanted to talk more sometime when you weren’t busy, and you suggested taking a walk together. Worked for him. Except for the part where it was really cold, even though the sun was out and the air was still, and the part where Tomura handles the cold the same way cats handle being sprayed with a hose. He was shivering before the two of you made it halfway around campus.

You noticed. Are you okay?

Fine, Tomura muttered, and you gave him a skeptical look – but you didn’t argue. You always knew how to call him on his bullshit, right from the beginning. Aren’t you cold?

I run kind of warm, you said, and you held out your hands. Here.

Tomura knew it didn’t mean anything, but his stomach still twisted, and his hands were shaking from more than the cold when he settled them in yours. Your hands were warm, just like you said they’d be. Warm, but not sweaty, and before Tomura could say anything, you folded his hands together, with yours on either side. You’re freezing, you said. I can keep you warm, but we should probably go inside.

Yeah. Tomura was glad you were holding his hands that way. Any other way, and he’d have latched on tight, refusing to let go. Sorry. This was a dumb idea.

Not really. A walk is a decent first date.

A first date. You wanted it to be a date, and you thought it was a good one. Tomura’s face somehow managed to heat up without making the rest of him any warmer. If I ask you to get coffee with me right now, can that be our second date?

You smiled. That made Tomura feel warmer, almost as warm as your hands felt around his. That works for me.

You always kept Tomura warm, and not for the first time, Tomura wonders what’s happening to you out there. Where you are, what you’re doing. If you found somewhere to live, because you can’t pay the rent in yours and Tomura’s apartment alone. If you’ve got your job still, because Tomura was pretty sure you were going to lose it for calling out so many days to sit with him during the trial. If you’re okay without him.

Tomura’s not okay without you. That’s why he has to be careful where he thinks about you. Not inside, when he can’t escape the fact that he’s been in prison for three years already. Only out here, in the cold, when he can think about what it’ll be like when all this is over. A guard shouts at Tomura that it’s time to come inside, and Tomura picks up the pace. One more circuit around the tiny yard. A few more seconds walking with you.

four

Tomura closes his eyes and listens to the quiet tapping against the bars of the cell beside his. It’s taken him four years in here to learn Morse code, and now that he knows it, he can talk to the other inmates on death row – the ones he feels like talking to, which is basically no one. The person next to him is all right. He calls himself Kurogiri. Tomura doesn’t know why he’s here.

Nobody knows why Tomura’s here, either. On the rare occasions anyone gets to talk to anyone else, they have better things to do than go over what bullshit twist of fate led to their death sentences. Convictions don’t matter when they’re all waiting on the same punishment. All that matters is time – how much time they’ve spent in here, and how much more time it’ll take for this to end. It says something about this place that four years after he was sentenced, Tomura’s still the newest one on the block.

Not for long, though. That’s what Kurogiri’s saying. Tomura taps out a response. H-o-w k-n-o-w?

G-u-a-r-d-s. Kurogiri has some kind of in with the guards. He’s never said what it is, and Tomura’s never asked. K-u-n-i-e-d-a o-l-d c-e-l-l.

So far in Tomura’s time here, only one inmate’s died, and it wasn’t in an execution. The inmate who was sick during Tomura’s second winter here died of whatever he had, and the guards didn’t find him in the cell until the next morning. By that point the smell of death was everywhere, and instead of letting the inmates move somewhere else until it was gone, the guards left all the vents open to flush it out. They let in the cold, too. It took Tomura two weeks to get warm.

He wonders if anyone’s going to tell the new guy what happened to the last person who lived there. Then again, nobody’s told Tomura what happened to the last occupant of his cell. He doesn’t want to know. Kurogiri is tapping out another message, and Tomura listens idly. Y-o-u o-k?

Tomura double-taps – shorthand for yes. W-h-y?

There’s a long pause. A really long pause. Tomura’s in the process of repeating himself when another prisoner responds from down the hall. C-h-i-c-k-e-n-s-h-i-t. T-e-l-l h-i-m o-r I w-i-l-l.

W-h-a-t? Tomura asks. His stomach is clenching, nausea welling up like he hasn’t felt in months. It’s hard to get scared in here. Nothing ever happens. T-e-l-l –

F-i-r-s-t a-p-p-e-a-l d-e-n-i-e-d. Kurogiri answers so fast that Tomura can barely decipher it. O-n-l-y f-i-r-s-t o-n-e. O-t-h-e-r-s –

Tomura’s not listening anymore. He manages to roll sideways off his bed before he throws up, but that’s it. The nausea that overtakes him is too powerful for him to do anything but vomit on the floor, then dry-heave once his stomach empties itself completely. The other inmates are laughing at him, calling out even though the guards are already on their way. The same inmate who always gets dragged out for talking is the loudest. “You’re getting off easy, kid! You killed seven people, but you only have to die once.”

“There are more appeals,” Kurogiri says. His voice is soft, almost comforting, completely at odds with the sound of Tomura’s cell door scraping open, drowned out almost entirely by the rush of cold water spraying from the fire hose, dousing Tomura and the mess and everything in his cell all at once. “You don’t need to worry. The process has already begun –”

“I didn’t know.” Tomura’s voice is hoarse, and his mouth tastes so awful that the sensation of air rushing over his tongue makes him retch again. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

The other inmates jeer at him, pointing out that they did tell him, but they must know that’s not what Tomura meant. Tomura should have heard that news from a lawyer, from an administrator, from a doctor – from somebody important. Not from a bunch of murderers. What if that hadn’t been his first appeal? What if it was his last one? If all his appeals fail, how is Tomura going to find out? Is anyone going to tell him, or is he just going to wake up one morning and find out it’s his last day on earth?

Tomura tries not to think of you in here, when things get bad. But he lets himself this time, just this once. Just to imagine that someone’s here who loves him, someone who cares that he’s sick and lonely and terrified. Someone who could tell him that it’ll be all right. Someone he’d believe. But when his skin is crawling with cold and disgust and terror so strongly that he can’t help but try to scratch it away, it’s hard to imagine that even you could make him feel better.

five

Tomura’s never gotten a letter from the outside. Never gotten a letter from you or any of his friends or whichever lawyer is handling his appeals – or even from Sensei, who spent the entire trial testifying against him so he could “learn his lesson”. Tomura thinks Sensei owes him an explanation, given that Sensei’s testimony put him away. The person he described as committing the murders sounds nothing like Tomura, because Tomura didn’t do it. He wants to hear what Sensei has to say about that. If Sensei thinks he’s learned his lesson yet.

It’s the lack of contact from you and the others that worries him more. He thought for sure he’d hear from you, from Spinner, from Toga, from Twice. Dabi’s not the letter-writing type, and Magne and Compress were newer additions to the group, but Tomura thought they’d maybe write at least once in five years. He’d call and ask, but he’s only got some of the phone numbers memorized, and what if you’ve changed them? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t get visits or phone calls anyway.

It feels like a punishment, but Tomura can’t figure out what he did. He acts up the standard amount for a death row prisoner, enough to lose his exercise period or get his food restricted or have his cell tossed and lose anything he’s managed to keep in there. Nothing that deserves no phone calls for five years. Five fucking years. It’s not until the newest inmate starts acting up that Tomura gets a real answer.

He knows the name of the guy in Kunieda’s old cell only because the guy keeps insisting on being called by it, no matter how many times the guards correct him for speaking out of turn. When he’s not picking stupid fights with the guards, Chisaki is bitching about how this prison compares to his last prison, and everybody got tired of it within six weeks of his arrival. Tomura doesn’t have anything to compare this prison to. Before this, he’d never spent even a night in jail.

As summer turns to fall turns to winter and the temperature inside the cell block drops to just above freezing, Chisaki calms down. For a week, then another week, then an entire month. Did he get religion or something? Tomura’s seen that happen to at least one prisoner by now, but from what he can tell, it usually takes longer. To go from fucking around constantly to not fucking around at all is a big shift. It’s weird.

One day, while he’s huddled up in his cell under his stupidly thin blanket, Tomura hears voices filtering in from the exercise yard. His cell has vents that let in the cold, and apparently also give him the chance to eavesdrop. He’s never had a chance to eavesdrop before, but that’s because no one ever talks.

Of course it’s Chisaki talking. He’s somehow gotten permission from one of the guards to speak up, and he’s getting straight to the point. “My behavior for the last month has been exemplary. In my previous prison such a record has resulted in the renewal of privileges which were previously removed – such as the opportunity for visitors. When will that be restored?”

Whichever guard he’s talking to laughs awkwardly. “Nobody told you?”

“Told me what?”

Tomura’s interested, too. He listens closer. “You were in maximum security before, but it’s – different here,” the guard says awkwardly. “Once a sentence is finalized, no contact is allowed with the outside world.”

“What?” Chisaki demands. “Why not?”

“It’s policy. Contact with the outside world causes distress for condemned prisoners and their families and has no practical benefit. I – no, stop –”

Shouting erupts in the yard, and Tomura cringes away from the vents, his eyes burning. It’s not a punishment. It’s not a punishment, which means it can’t be lifted, which means that even if you and the others have been calling and writing letters, you can’t get through. Tomura will never get those letters. Tomura can’t write back. When Tomura saw you in the courtroom after his sentencing wasn’t just the last time he ever saw you, it’s the last time he’ll ever get to talk to you. And he didn’t know it. If he’d known it he would have said –

The noise from the exercise yard is so intense that the rest of the cell block can hear it, too. They’re doing what they usually do, any time someone shows weakness, and because they’re shouting at Chisaki, who’s bought himself a one-way ticket to the protection cell for the next month, no one notices as Tomura sinks down in the corner of his cell and scratches his neck until it bleeds.

six

Somebody’s death sentence gets reduced to life, and the cell next to Tomura’s opens up. Rather than leaving it open, leaving Tomura alone, the guards move fucking Chisaki into it. It’s not bad enough that Tomura has to rot in here until one of his appeals is successful and gets him out of here – he has to listen to Chisaki’s bitching and whining, too. And eventually Chisaki breaks the cardinal rule, the one rule that keeps everybody on death row even sort of sane. He picked up Morse code faster than Tomura did, and one day he taps out a question aimed at Tomura. W-h-a-t d-i-d y-o-u d-o?

He signs off with the last two numbers of his prisoner number, like Tomura’s confused about who’s sending this dumb message. Tomura doesn’t bother with identifying himself by tacking the last two digits of his ID on the front of his response. f-u-c-k o-f-f.

D-i-d y-o-u d-o i-t?

f-u-c-k o-f-f. Not for the first time, Tomura wishes he could all-caps a message without banging on the bars loudly enough to attract the guards’ attention. Morse code really needs a shift key. W-h-a-t d-i-d y-o-u d-o? Y-o-u f-i-r-s-t.

Silence. Of course. Chisaki can dish it out, but he can’t take it for shit. Tomura settles into the quiet, not hoping to enjoy the break so much as get through it without making himself feel worse. Downtime is bad for Tomura these days. He spends too much time thinking. Too much time getting angry. Too much time figuring out how he got here.

He knows Sensei set him up. It had to have been Sensei, because Sensei was in charge of Tomura when Tomura was fifteen, and Sensei kept hinting that Tomura should try to reconcile with his family. Tomura only agreed so Sensei would leave him alone about it. He’d meet them, deal with whatever happened, see if he could talk Hana at least into staying in touch and sending him pictures of Mon, and get out of there. It was going to be a bad night no matter what. At least Sensei agreed to go with him.

But something went wrong. They never made it there, at least not in Tomura’s memory, because Tomura woke up in the hospital. He’d blacked out or passed out or something, and as soon as he was borderline lucid, Sensei gave him the news. Tomura still remembers the weird way he delivered it, like he was telling Tomura they were having something gross for dinner instead of telling him that his entire family had been murdered. Tomura didn’t react the right way, either. He was supposed to meet his family. Now he wasn’t going to. He laid back down and went under again.

They used that, at the trial, seven years later. The fucking prosecutor asked Sensei a bunch of questions about how Tomura responded to the news, and Sensei told them how unsettling it was that Tomura didn’t care at all about his family dying. Tomura’s lawyer wouldn’t let him get on the stand to explain his side. They’ve already decided you’re guilty. Don’t make it worse.

They were going to kill him. Tomura knew that by then. There was no way to make it worse than it was already going to be, and if he was already guilty, he might as well have told the truth. What little of it he remembers.

Chisaki is tapping on the bars again at a pace Tomura couldn’t keep up with if he wanted to. His fingers are too fucking cold. W-e a-r-e-n-t d-i-s-c-u-s-s-i-n-g m-e.

No, they’re not discussing anybody. Tomura’s done with this. Screw the guards – he taps with emphasis. F-U-C-K O-F-F.

“You want to know what he did? I’ll tell you.” Prisoner 113019 laughs from across the hallway – the same one who always laughs when something bad happens to someone else. For the first time since he got here, Tomura prays for the guards to get here fast. “The little rat bastard’s a mass murderer. Greased his entire family.”

Tomura doesn’t know how 19 got ahold of that information, and right now, he doesn’t care. He just wants the guards to get here and shut him up. “His body count is higher than mine, and he won’t even own up to it like a man,” 19 continues, gleeful. “You’ve heard him talking in his sleep. He says he’s innocent.”

“Shut up,” Tomura says. His voice sounds awful, and he realizes all at once that he can’t remember the last time he spoke. It doesn’t matter if he talks now. They’ve only got one protection cell, and 019 is going in it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about –”

“And not only is his count the second-highest on death row,” 019 continues, ignoring Tomura, “he’s a sadist, too. Maybe his family deserved it – they’d have to for raising something like him – but there’s no way his dog had it coming.”

“Shut up!” Tomura explodes. His voice cracks, and he can feel his face contorting, eyes squeezing shut and jaw clenching tight. He’s not going to cry. He can’t cry here. “You stupid fuck. I didn’t do it!”

Death row erupts in laughter, just in time for the guards to arrive. Sure enough, they head to 019’s cell first, but two guards break off to drag Tomura out of his for a talking-to, also known as getting beaten up in places that won’t show. Tomura’s been in here long enough, knows how it works here well enough, to be almost thankful for a reason to feel pain. If anyone sees him, they’ll think his eyes are watering because he just took a baton to the ribs. Not because he misses his dog.

Tomura didn’t mention his family’s deaths to you for a while. He didn’t want to see you react, because he knows how people react to stuff like that – like Tomura’s just a tragic backstory with an ugly face, like everything he is can be described by the worst things that ever happened to him. He didn’t bring up his family, but he mentioned Mon, and you asked. Tomura told himself to answer like a normal person. He ended up crying instead, and you didn’t laugh or look at him differently. You just reached for his hand and –

A blow to the hip knocks Tomura off-balance, just in time for another hit in the stomach to double him over, and Tomura crashes sideways to the floor. He sprawls out, pinned with a guard’s knee on his back, as 019 marches past, flanked by four guards, and still leering down at him. Something snaps in Tomura’s head. He reaches through the guards’ legs, seizes 019’s ankle, and yanks his leg out from underneath him.

The knee grinds harder into his back, knocking the air out of his lungs, but Tomura can barely feel it. He’s trying to pull his hand back, and he’s too slow. Slow enough for a guard to see what he’s doing. Slow enough for the guard to raise one boot and stomp down on Tomura’s hand with all his strength, and for the first time since he set foot on death row, Tomura screams.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #prison fic #needle compass north #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #a bisquared production

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the-kr8tor · 1 year ago

Text

Pin my Heart

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 3.2k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Sexual innuendos, FLUFF.

*I don't consent to having my work translated/published on other platforms*

Main Masterlist

Thread the Needle Masterlist

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1 >>> Chapter 2

Shielding yourself from the harsh rain with your windbreaker, you bravely wade through it, with one objective - convince Hobie to be your partner and model for your final project. The entire day you've been thinking if he still owes you a favour that you can maybe cash in, and you've got the perfect one. You think at least, You never know with Hobie really. You'd think after more than ten years of being friends, you can get a read on him, but alas he's quite unpredictable, maybe that's why you like him so much, he still has a few surprises up his leather sleeves even after years of friendship.

The loud music coming from Hobie's and his roommates' garage acts as a beacon for you to follow through the downpour.

Entering the band's domain, you wave at them since they wouldn't even hear your greeting with the loud music they're playing. You watch Hobie do his guitar solo as you wrangle your wet windbreaker off you, used to the loud music, you watch his long fingers expertly play with the guitar. You catch yourself staring, so you turn around to hang your soaking windbreaker on an empty shelf, using this excuse to hide your flustered state.

Hobie finishes his solo and you turn back around, avoiding the knowing stares from his bandmates.

"There's our number one fan!" Hobie screams, his ears still ringing from the loud guitar riffs, adrenaline still rushing through him.

"Hey, everyone" you awkwardly greet.

"Hi, shy girl!" Hobie gives you a hug, knowing he's all sweaty from rocking out.

You try to avoid his hug by putting your arms towards him, "Hobie! You're all sweaty! Stop!"

"Look who's talking! You're also wet!"

"Yeah! from the rain, not sweat, asshole!" You try to push him off, but he's too strong, damn him and his strong arms.

He hugs you fully, putting all his weight on you, chin on top of your shoulder, his breath tickles the shell of your ear. "How's your day?" The ringing in his ears finally stops, and he can finally talk without screaming at you.

"It would've been good, if I didn't get Hobie sweat all over me" you huff, leaning away so that Hobie couldn't hear your heart beat quickening.

"Don't act like you don't like it, sweets" he winks at you, releasing you from his grip, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders, you're an arms length away from him. He stares at you, head tilted to the side.

Yuri, their new drummer pipes up, she clears her throat, getting both your attention from eachother. "I'm making Tea, y/n you want some?"

"Yes please, thanks Yuri" You smile at the raven haired sweetly.

They all pile out of the garage, as Hobie manually closes the gate. He reaches up to grab the handle to pull it down, his shirt rides up, you ogle at the exposed skin on his hip. For the second time that day you look away immediately, finding the discarded drum kit more interesting than Hobie's toned back.

The loud crash of the gate closing signals you to look back at Hobie. A chill runs through your body, you wrap your arms around your shivering form.

"Shit, you're gonna catch a cold, let's get you warm, yeah?" Hobie rubs your arms. He grabs your backpack from the floor, and then slings his precious guitar on his back. Hobie leads you inside the house.

The house seems to be much cleaner than the last time you visited, probably thanks to Yuri. The warm aromatic smell of the tea hits you like a truck, you sneeze at the sudden change of smell, or it might just be from the rain soaking you.

"Bless you!" Ned, the band's bassist, yells from the living room.

"Thanks Ned" You sniff.

"C'mon, let's get you dry, don't want you getting sick on me now" Hobie hugs your shoulder with his free arm.

"That was one time, Hobart" you glare at him. He snickers at your comment.

You two stand in front of his door covered in various punk band stickers. He leads you in by your shoulders, and sits you down on the bed.

"I like the new song" you say as Hobie plugs in the portable heater, then places it in front of your shivering form.

"Thanks, we've been working on it for a while" he grabs a towel from his drawer, while rummaging through it for a clean shirt, he tosses the towel on your head.

"Is this even clean?" You get a whiff of soap from the towel, answering your question.

"I'm not a barbarian" Hobie takes off his shirt, before you could ogle at him once more, instead you watch the light on the heater flicker. It's not the first time you've seen him shirtless, so why are you feeling so flustered right now? "What do you wanna do today? Can't go out though 'cause of the rain"

"Can I ask you for a favour?" You try to be blunt, so you could get it over with, wrapping yourself in the towel.

Hobie leans against the door, hands on his hips, he's now wearing a grunge long sleeved shirt that's too big on his shoulders, you see a peek of his skin from the various tears of the shirt.

"Ah, already cashing in the favour I asked you last night?" He raises his pierced brow.

"Yeahh? It's - I need your help" You look at Hobie, determination in your eyes.

"Are you in some kind of trouble? Knew you had it in you" he smirks.

"No, it's not that, I need your help for my final project"

Hobie remembers the tea waiting for you, "hold that thought" he leaves the room, you try to call him back in, but he continues towards the kitchen, you huff but you still follow closely behind. There goes the privacy of convincing him.

Yuri, Ned and their other band mate, James stop their conversation in the kitchen when they see you both walk in.

"Alright, what kind of project?" He questions your intentions, while preparing your tea, your preferred mixture practically ingrained in his mind.

You swallow your nerves, "It's nothing too big really, I - no, we need to create a look that encompasses us both, and for you to model it in front of my class?" The end of your sentence unintentionally sounded like a question.

Hobie stops from pouring milk on your tea, you can't see the growing smirk on his face. You snuggle the towel closer to you. His housemates sip their tea simultaneously.

Hobie stirs your drink wordlessly. He composes himself, turns back towards you, still stirring your drink dramatically. He looks like a Bond villain who can't wait to tell you his master plan.

"What's in it for me?" There it is. He sips your drink loudly, knowing that he's annoying you with the sound.

He doesn't even like milk in his tea, you thought, you bite your tongue from saying it out loud, you need to sweeten him up, so you try playing the nice card.

"What do you want?" Saying it through gritted teeth, trying to give him your best smile, you probably look like you're in pain though.

"Hmm, let me think" he taps the teaspoon against the mug, it clinks against the ceramic, he then brings it to his mouth with a loud slurp, releasing it with a pop. He's doing this on purpose, you cringe at the sound.

"How about I do your laundry for a month?" You negotiate.

"Nah, I can do my own laundry"

"I'll wash your motorbike every month for the rest of the year" you counter.

"Y'know I never let anyone else touch my baby"

His band mates' heads move from Hobie back to you, like they're watching a tennis match.

"Ok, um I'll buy you a new guitar then!" Gotcha you finally got him, hook, line and sinker.

Hobie hums at that "hmm, tempting, but no"

Frustrated at his lack of cooperation, "You know what fine, James," you turn towards his equally punk friend, "you wanna do it with me instead?" You should have worded that out better.

Hobie widens his eyes at the unintentional innuendo, he smiles at the opportunity, "Hey! No! I'm the only one you can do it with!"

His friends snicker, James looks at you with a slight blush on his cheeks.

"Maybe you can ask Yuri, She might be more of your type." Ned teases.

Yuri winks at you. They laugh, Hobie looks at you through his mug with a smile, watching your reaction.

"Guys, really? You're a child, Hobie" You cross your arms over your chest.

"Wait, I've got an idea" Yuri runs off to her room before you could question her.

You and Hobie stare at each other, while he drinks your tea.

"You're lactose intolerant, you're gonna shit yourself later" you grin at him.

"I have lactaid," he says matter-of-fact.

Yuri comes back and gives you a card. "Here"

"What's this? A business card?" You ask.

"Oi, are you actually trying to get a lawyer involved?"

"Yeah, a divorce lawyer, with how you both are acting like you're married" Yuri sarcastically says.

"It's a rewards card from starbucks?" You show Hobie.

Hobie comes closer to see, you both look at Yuri questioningly.

"Since Hobie here can't figure out what to ask of you in exchange for his cooperation with your thing," Yuri points to the both of you. "I figured you both need a rewards system. You poke out a hole in the card every time Hobie wants you to do something for him"

You look at the card with ten logos you can poke out, words printed neatly on top 'buy ten drinks and get a free one!' you look at the back - it expired a year ago.

"So he can ask for ten things then?"

"That's right, better than what you were suggesting, and you can keep track of it all," Yuri adds.

"Nah, I don't think this is better" Hobie declines.

"Do you have any better ideas, genius? Or do you want us to keep going back and forth" you shove the card in his free hand.

"Fine, say pretty please first, lovey" Hobie walks closer to you, the tips of your sock clad toes kisses his bare ones with how close you two have gotten. He looks down at you with a smile.

If you didn't like Hobie so much you would've asked James or any of his punk friends. Honestly you just want an excuse to spend more time with him. With how busy your schedule is, the same goes for Hobie, compared to when you were younger, you two barely hung out this year.

Hobie hopes this project of yours makes you two closer than ever, he also hopes when you finally graduate you get to finally hang out more, but it's a stretch.

You exhale, you look up at him through your eyelashes, "Pretty please, Hobie" you say sweetly. You don't break eye contact, you're not going down without a fight "with cherry on top?" You bat your lashes for added effect.

With how pretty you look up at him, Hobie's breath hitches in his throat, he tries to play it cool though, so he lightly shoves his mug on your chest, signaling his defeat.

You take the mug to your lips, and sip victoriously. You lean against the kitchen island.

"Does that mean I'm out of the picture then" James says, you all look at him unsure if he's joking or if he actually means it.

"Come off it, mate" Hobie shuts him down.

—

You're sweating bullets, wringing your fingers over the other, you wonder where in the world is Hobie? You sneak glances over your classmates and their chosen partners.

You see Flash next to a bombshell of a woman- all high heels, and manicured nails. Compared to his sporty style, he chose well. But judging from how the woman picks at her nails, and sighing every now and then, she definitely did not want to be there.

Your other classmates also chose well, the differences between their partners a stark contrast to each other.

Then there's you, sitting alone, without a partner. You busy yourself by sketching out a prototype of your project, instead of letting your thoughts freak you out.

The creaky doors open, like nails on a chalkboard. You stop in your tracks, head perking up at the sound, is it Hobie?

Your hope fades when your professor's heels echo around the room.

I'm gonna kill him, you internally curse.

Your professor looks around the room, her nose held up high. She opens her mouth to speak—

The door opens in a loud bang, the familiar leather boots strides in nonchalantly.

You would've sighed in relief, if not for Mrs. Williams glaring at Hobie.

"Sorry I'm late, teach" Hobie's hands are tucked inside his leather jacket, your professor's eyes narrow as she looks him up and down.

His eyes zeroes in your form. He smiles lopsidedly, Mrs. Williams follows his gaze, sizing you both up, she finds your pale blue cardigan a glaringly obvious difference to Hobie's leather jacket.

Noticing eyes on both of you, you give Hobie a shy smile, waving to get his ass over to your station.

The various metal on his clothes swing loudly, grabbing attention from everybody else who wasn't already looking your way. You cringe at the unwanted attention.

"Hey, love" Hobie gives his signature smirk.

"You're late!" You whisper-shout.

"Y'know how much I hate waking up early"

"It's half past eleven, Hobie"

"I'm here now aren't I?" He raises a pierced eyebrow.

You would've scolded him more if it weren't for your professor, glaring daggers in your direction.

"Looks like you all partnered up well" Mrs. Williams says plainly "ready your photographs" as she strides up to the nearest station.

"What photograph?" Hobie mimics your professor's cadence.

You elbow him to stop, just in case Mrs Williams has super hearing.

"This picture" you show him a polaroid tucked inside your sketchbook.

Hobie grabs it carefully, it shows you both two years ago, you're smiling widely right next to Hobie as he slings his arm around your neck with his guitar on his back. Hobie grins at the camera as sweat drips on his face.

He chuckles at the memory "I remember this, battle of the bands, right?"

"Yeah, your band won second place" you point at the silver trophy that Hobie's holding in the photograph.

"Should've won though" he slides the picture back to you.

"Aww, still salty, huh"

He leans on your side of the table, hand on his chin "we were robbed, lovey"

"Mmhm, sure" you tease him, even though he's right.

From your peripheral you see your professor looking in your direction.

You swallow down your anxiety, leg bumping up and down, feeling a firm hand on your thigh, you stop, looking at Hobie, a comforting smile on his lips, but all you can give him is a tight lipped smile.

He rubs comforting circles over your thigh, leaning slightly towards you to whisper "it'll be alright, it's just an introduction, you've got this" you would be flustered at the contact, but your nervousness triumphs over it. Hobie shakes your leg, taking his hand back when the professor stops on your station.

She takes one look at the both of you, eyes darting between your forms, she watches as Hobie places an arm behind your chair, smirking at the woman.

You can feel the bead of sweat falling on your forehead, hands shaking.

Mrs. Williams extends a lithe hand to you, asking for the picture on your table. You quickly hand it over, you don't want to make her wait, fumbling a bit, scared to give her a papercut.

She flips the picture to face her, you try to read her reaction, but her straight face makes it hard for you to understand her emotion.

"Good" she hands it over to you after a quick scan of the picture.

"Thank you?" You hold the picture like it's your most precious possession (it is) you can't believe that you actually impressed her, not knowing that the word 'good' is even in her vocabulary.

She moves to the next student, Hobie leans back in his chair, looking at you through his lashes "good? That's it?" He watches as you look at the picture with stars in your eyes, disbelief on your pretty face, Hobie thinks he's gonna have a lot of fun with you in this project, before you inevitably leave him for greener pastures.

He sighs, trying to dampen his thoughts, he's not ready for you to leave his side yet. You've been through thick and thin with him for more than ten years, it's hard for Hobie to think of you not by his side. He's proud of you, truly, but he can't help feeling that you're gonna leave him behind for someone better. He wants to savor every last second with you.

Hobie flicks your cheek, trying to get your attention.

"Ow, what?" You whisper-shout.

"What're you gonna do after this?"

"I don't have other classes today, I guess just go back to the dorms and design?"

"That's loser talk" he pokes your cheeks, what is up with him and your cheeks these days? "Come with me after this snooze fest"

"Where to?" You swat at his hand.

"Somewhere" Hobie shrugs, leather jacket squeaking when he moves.

"Last time you said that, I had to haul your band's equipment, while you lot were blacked out drunk"

"I wasn't blackout drunk" he mimics your voice on the last two words, "I wasn't even drinking that much"

"You introduced me to Ned, I've known him for five years, Hobs"

"So? A reintroduction doesn't hurt?" He tries to play it off, fixing the collar of your shirt.

"Just promise me it's not a pub, I don't want to take care of drunk you again"

He grabs his chest, feigning hurt "I thought you liked taking care of me?"

"I do" his heart sings, you slap your palm over his chest, Hobie's hoping you don't feel the thudding of his chest. "I just don't like getting your sick all over my new trainers"

He winces at the memory, but he bounces back immediately "yeah, but I can't help getting sick over you" Hobie casually flirts, hoping you finally get the hint, ten years isn't too late, right?

You roll your eyes, used to his flirting "stop, my classmates could hear"

"Let 'em" He leans back in his chair, mission failed, he'll get you next time.

Mrs. Williams clasps her hands, one look from her gets the entire room quiet, Hobie doesn't seem fazed though, staring directly in her eyes.

"We'll reconvene next week with your sketches and fabric samples, your partners included. Is that understood?"

A collective "yes ma'am" can be heard from her students, even some of the non-students say it. Hobie mockingly salutes in her direction, you're horrified, good thing she missed it though.

"Hobie!" You say through gritted teeth, grabbing his half raised arm.

"What? She didn't even see" he stands up, heavy boots thudding on the linoleum floors. "C'mon then" Hobie beats you to your backpack, waiting hand stretched towards you.

You hear shuffled feet, your classmates and their partners slowly file out of the room.

"Where are we going?" You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, he's being too nice.

"Told you, somewhere nice"

"Not a pub?"

"Not a bloody pub, it's too early anyway" he flexes his fingers, beckoning you over, "don't make me exercise my rights"

You chuckle "what?"

"The bloody card"

"You want to use one, for this?" You wave the rewards card after grabbing it from your pocket "must be some place important" you tease him.

"Yes, now give me the bloody thing" Hobie snatches it from your fingers, punching out the logo, you see it float down on the table. He hands it back to you, tucking it safely inside your pocket.

"Ooohh one down nine to go" you finally stand up.

"Let's go before they close" He slings his arm over your shoulders.

"Are we taking your bike?"

"Of course, I'm not letting you ride the tube, don't worry I brought your helmet"

"You're such a softie, y'know"

"Yeah, yeah" only for you, he wanted to add, maybe next time he gets to finally say it to you.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it, as always likes and reblogs are appreciated ❤️

*pictures above are from pinterest*

#thread the needle #thread the needle chapter 1 #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #spider punk #hobie brown #the kr8tor's creations #spider man across the spider verse #x reader #atsv fanfiction #atsv x reader #atsv fanfic #atsv hobie #hobie brown x fem!reader #spider punk x fem!reader #hobie brown x you #spider punk x you #fanfic

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violetrainbow412-blog · 1 year ago

Text

A fair payment [W. W.]

Willy Wonka x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k

People who might be interested: @strugglingwriterwattpad @cattail5 [Timothée masterlist]

some minor Wonka spoilers I guess! If you like it, tell me in the comments, that will make me happy :)

“Can you mend it?” Willy asked, carefully holding his emerald green jacket that had the sleeve seam torn.

The boy had arrived a couple of weeks ago to turn the world of everyone present in the laundry upside down and, honestly, you were already beginning to enjoy his presence. You looked in the background at the blackboard that Noodle used at night to give him lessons in the hope that he would learn to read because, according to the girl's words, because of that he was almost eaten by a tiger. But in the man's words, what was important was the almost part.

However, tonight he had asked you especially to go to his room, because he had a problem that he thought only you could solve.

“I think so, I just have to pass the needle a couple of times” you smiled.

Since your arrival Mrs. Scrubbit had used your sewing skills for her own benefit, because after all you had ended up in that mess trying to save a little to be able to buy the necessary materials to make a pretty dress that would be worth enough to advance in the business. Although, obviously, that had not been possible.

"Thank you! I'm afraid that's my only jacket."

“It will be ready in no time. I’ll just go to my room and come back, okay?” you said kindly, placing the garment in the boy's lap and earning a sweet smile from the aforementioned.

Just as Willy had his little briefcase for his chocolates, you had your own, full of threads, needles, and buttons, which you just had to grab from the floor to get everything you needed. When you arrived back you settled at the little table and he remained attentive to your every movement, pulling out a chair so he could observe what you were about to do.

“There was a boy on the ship who helped me with these things,” he began to tell you, keeping his curious nose on your shoulder “But I never thought about learning. You know, for when I had to be alone”

“Well, it's lucky you ended up here. We are a curious collection of workers,” you murmured ironically, referring to all the people gathered there against their will by the work of fate "What did you do on the ship?"

"Cook. Mostly sweet things, but I also know a couple of useful non-chocolate-related recipes. I was the chef,” he said, and you laughed at the exaggerated way he pronounced the last bit.

Willy began to tell you about some of the adventures he had had on the high seas and you listened attentively as the tip of the needle went in and out to join the fabric. It only took a few minutes to get his clothes looking like new, taking the liberty of repairing other places that also needed it.

“Put it on,” you asked, trying not to look at him too much when he did so or pay attention to the way the jacket fit him perfectly.

"It is perfect! You can't even tell it was torn, huh?” he said with emotion, feeling with his hands as much as he could. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, it's nothing.”

“I insist,” the man murmured. His curly hair bounced across his cheeks as he sat next to you and he lifted his small briefcase off the floor, opening it to reveal all the little bottles of ingredients. “Your talent for mine. It's a fair exchange."

You had to admit that the chocolates you had eaten were a complete delicacy, but a part of you didn't want to get used to that luxury or you knew that when Willy was gone you would miss his sweetness. In the literal and figurative sense.

Locked in that laundry it was impossible to meet many people your age and Noodle was your greatest company, as if he were a little sister to you. But now that he was there, there was a certain happiness in chatting with him, much more now that his ingenious mind had devised a way to get you out of there even if it was just for a few hours to see the light of day and get coins from the sale of the chocolates to free you of the enormous debt to Mrs. Scrubbit.

“What flavor do you want to try today? Do you want me to add some unicorn skin glitter? Rays of sunlight from a twilight on the seashore? Tears of an African crocodile?”

“Just give me something you think I need,” you replied softly.

Willy thought about it for a moment, because it wasn't the kind of answer he would have expected. What was he supposed to give you that night? A little hope? Happiness? Nostalgia? It was difficult to decide.

Through his bright eyes you watched him reflect and just a second later his hands began to work. You noticed there was a hint of mischief in his smile as he poured milk, chocolate, and the contents of a couple of jars into the processor, glancing at you from the corner of his eye from time to time.

“What are you going to do when we get out of here?” he asked suddenly, not neglecting the tasks.

“Working in a sewing workshop, I guess.”

“Why don't you open your own fashion house?” Willy suggested carefreely, as if it were a very easy thing to do, “You are a great dressmaker.”

“And you are a great dreamer”

“It's my best quality,” he exclaimed, almost offended. You waited a moment before answering.

“I just don't think it's that simple. It requires effort, time, and a lot of money…”

“We will have everything,” he interrupted you, with that optimism that characterized him. Suddenly he stopped what he was doing and one of his hands traveled to take yours. “When I open my factory, we will all be able to fulfill our dreams. And you are going to have a fashion house, I promise you.”

“You make a lot of promises,” you responded, blushing.

“And he planned to fulfill them all. I always do it"

Maybe there was something about the softness of his grip on your hand or perhaps the sparkle in his eyes that made you look away out of sheer nervousness. He seemed to be good and innocent, to the point that he probably didn't even realize how close he was to you or how inappropriate the position would be if Noodle ever walked in.

A tap interrupted your moment and then he abruptly pulled away, excited to show you the product he had just made. It was a pretty circular candy that was bright pink and seemed to be emanating smoke from the inside.

"What's that?"

“You'll have to try it to find out,” he murmured, as he extended the treat in your direction.

You had to admit that you were somewhat curious to discover what the man was offering you, so you took it between your fingers carefully, and even under his watchful gaze you took a bite.

At first it tasted like ordinary chocolate, but then it took on a strange tone, which made you feel a certain warmth in your chest that spread to your cheeks. It was a most pleasant feeling, like bubbly joy combined with the embarrassment of a hug.

You thought for a moment about what flavor that could be, without any success, until after a few seconds you realized that it wasn’t a flavor in itself, but a feeling, an experience... Was it love that Willy had given you?

“How does it taste?”

“Yummy,” you responded, covering your mouth so he wouldn’t see the wet chocolate on your tongue, but also to hide your smile “Delicious, actually. What does it contain?”

“A special and secret ingredient”

"Oh, come on! Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“I just want to know if I got it right,” he murmured and you frowned slightly, not understanding him “About what you asked for. Did I give you something you needed?”

You had to bite your lip to keep from smiling again, your cheeks feeling hot from the simple fact that he was looking at you. You thought that this could even be a love potion that you had consumed without thinking about it, just because he was the one who was offering it to you.

“We could say yes”

“We're even, then,” he exclaimed as he waved the sleeve of his jacket and you nodded in amusement, eating the rest of the chocolate he had made for you.

A yawn leaving your lips made you aware of how exhausted you were and although you didn't love the idea, you knew it was time to leave.

“It's late, I should go to sleep before we wake anyone up.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Willy said quickly, getting up from his seat to accompany you to the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Rest,” you said kindly, and, gathering courage, you leaned forward a little to say goodbye with a hug that he gladly returned.

As you walked down the hall to your shabby, damp room, you thought that it probably wouldn't have even taken a love potion to fall for the charms of the pleasant chocolatier. You just needed one of his smiles.

#wonka 2023 #willy wonka x reader #wonka x reader #wonka movie #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee x reader #willy wonka #roald dahl #wonka fanfic #willy wonka 2023 #wonka fanfiction #wonka x fem reader

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eupheme · 4 months ago

Text

k02. accidental stim + thigh-riding | just once

frank castle x f!reader

rated e - 3k

tags: hurt/comfort, references to blood/violence, wound-tending, strangers-to-lovers, implied mutual pining, accident stimulation, thigh-riding, oral sex (m rec), reader has hair long enough to tug, swallowing

You know you shouldn’t look for the handsome stranger that shows up, night after night. Should lock your window, forget you saw him. That’s the smart thing to do, after all.

But you think you might like that he needs you. That you can’t stop thinking about him. That you can’t stop wanting more.

It’s interesting how quickly you’ve become used to finding a strange man on your fire escape.

The first time it happened, it had scared you near to death. A dark smudge in the shadows, when you went to close the blinds before bed.

A sharp jab of fear, realizing there was a body propped up against the railing. Phone in hand, fingers hovering on Wade’s contact when you saw the streaks of red against pale skin.

Still not sure how you got him inside. Spent an hour afterwards scrubbing the traces of him from your windowsill. Smeared fingerprints, the scuff of boots against your floor.

Half-conscious. Blood oozing out from a wound at his temple. A clean washcloth from your bathroom pressed to it, as you started to call for help.

The stranger moved then. A broad hand curled around your wrist. Head tipping back, and you could see those brown eyes from beneath the hood.

“No cops.” He croaked, “No hospitals. ‘m fine.”

You had patched him up the best you could. The urge to help outweighing the ringing stranger danger in your head. A little soothed knowing help was next door.

The night spent awake, watching.

He thanked you the next day. Apologized.

It was in the early morning light that you finally got a good look at him, that dark hood pulled back. Handsome face, quiffed hair, pretty lips beneath the curve of his nose.

Broad, when he stands. Slipping back out the way he came. A devil at night, gentleman in the morning - even with his rough edges.

Thought it’d be the last time you saw him.

You were wrong.

That one night turns into another. Something almost like a routine, except for his timing. Twice a week and then nothing for more. Three weekends in a row, and then silence for a month.

On the second night, the stranger tells you his name is Frank.

On another night, some two weeks later, he tells you that your apartment is the only one within two blocks he can reach from the ground. Only stopped because your window was cracked open. Knew you were home.

Could smell the blend of vanilla and sugar from there. Seemed like a safe place to rest, until he could make it back home.

It should deter you.

It doesn’t.

He’s as layered as the clothes he wears. All dark - black field jacket. The splatter of white, some sort of pattern on the shirt beneath another zip-up.

And red.

Always red. Red dripping from his nose. Bruised shadows beneath an eye. Split knuckles, his hand resting against your knee as you yawn - binding them carefully.

Tucked on your couch to sleep a couple hours, gone by the time you’re leaving for work. Midnight breakfasts that always ends in a “thanks, sweetheart” that leaves you pretending that there isn’t a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your chest.

Never tells you what he does. Never lets you in, other than the slip of his last name.

Castle.

It fits him. Something as strong and formidable as he is, with the furrow of his brow. The grit of his jaw, when your needle pierces flesh.

Never complaining. Content to take what you give him. A wary eye when you pick at those layers, a fingernail digging under a chip of paint.

Always seems to be gone longer, after you do.

The last time he was here, you hadn’t seen him for three weeks. Waiting for a tap on the glass that didn’t come.

Only for your window to creak open, barely heard under the rumble of the storm overhead. Some time long after midnight, closer to dawn.

You knew it was him, in your sleepy haze. Knew the sound of his boots as well as your own. The soft rasp of your name, as you propped yourself up.

The worry quickly tempered, when he crouched to your level.

“One hell of a storm,” Frank rasped, “Just need a place to wait it out.”

The relief has sleep pulling you back under. A muttered “no boots in bed”, as you yawn, followed by a “or wet clothes.”

You don’t think you would have said it, if you were awake. It felt like a dream - something made up. Wishing he would come back to you and then he was.

A low huff. Layers peeled off, as the mattress dips.

In the morning, he’s gone.

You’d think it was a dream, if your pillow didn’t smell like him. If the bed wasn’t still warm where he lay - if you could shake the feeling of his breath in your ear, an arm slung around your waist in the night.

It had felt like something had changed.

That was, until now.

Now, your brow furrows. Blood beneath your nails from where you helped ease the vest from his chest.

His hand covering yours, stilling the shake as you gripped the straps. Your little huff of relief when it’s only bruises and scrapes that bloom beneath, instead of the scattering of fired bullets.

Now, they rests on your hips, as you stand between his spread thighs. His chest bare under the warm light of your bathroom - mottled in bruises but it doesn’t take away the breadth of him. The etched muscles that bunch and flex beneath your fingertips.

Something you’re achingly aware of. Something you’re desperately trying not to think of, as you dab antiseptic around the edge of an abrasion.

His eyes are fixed on yours, even as you concentrate.

It’s something you discovered about him quickly. Frank doesn’t shy away from eye contact. Content to keep his on you, even as you work. Skin heating from beneath his watch.

Could just be him. His work is something dangerous, he never needs to tell you for you to know that. And from the splinters you’ve pieced together, you don’t see him as a bad guy. Or at least - he doesn’t see himself that way.

But a part of you wonders if he watches because he wants to. Something greedy. Unblinking - taking you in like you wish he would.

“You’re lucky,” You muse, thumb smoothing over the bandage, “Think this is the least banged up you’ve been.”

“Lucky.” He huffs, “Suppose you could say that.”

The roll of medical tape clatters against the sink, before slipping down into the bowl. His fingers biting into your hips as you lean to grab it, shifting into his space.

“Careful.” It’s a low warning, rumbled out, “Makin’ it real hard to keep my hands to myself, sweetheart.”

Only then do you notice how much you’ve leaned into him. Your thigh pinned firmly against his spread one. A hand on his shoulder for balance, your tits pressed against his bare chest.

You shift back, but it only makes his hands grip harder. His eyes dark, under the glow of the bulb above - making you feel like you took a blow, yourself.

“Don’t have to,” You manage, “Keep them to yourself, I mean.”

There’s a sharp, inhaled breath. His eyes flicking between yours, as a mark deepens between his brows.

“Wouldn’t be right.” It’s gritted out, “This is your home-”

Your heart hammers behind your ribs, as the hand at his shoulder slips to his neck, “I know. I-, I wouldn’t let you in if I didn’t-”

“Trust me?” Frank laughs, the sound hollow, “Sweetheart-”

The word dies on his tongue, with the sudden slam of a door in the hall - ringing out like a gunshot. A loud voice followed by the pounding of footsteps up the stairs, as you are suddenly crushed against Frank’s chest.

His palm slipping over your mouth, as he shoots to his feet. Crowding you against the bathroom door, shushing your muffled yelp.

You can feel every inch of him pressed against you. Breath held as he leans into you, a thigh nudged snugly between yours. Hands flattened against his chest. Unyielding, as you give a little shove.

Something hard curving against your hip. A rough sound in his throat when you squirm against him again - the words trapped behind his hand.

“Fucking stop,” He growls in your ear, “Someone is out there-“

Your shove turns soft. Stroking up his chest until you’re touching at his jaw. Angling his face to meet yours.

His eyes are wild, nearly black. Deadly focused - their sharp edge flicking down to yours. A beat as he considers, when you point to your mouth.

“It’s my neighbor,” You manage with a gasp, when his grip loosens, “He tries to see how fast he can run up every single stair. Drives us all crazy.”

He goes still. Eyes narrowed, as if trying to figure out if he believes you.

You know what he thought.

Might now know a lot about him, but you could sense the danger he thought you were in. Instincts kicking in, as he believes whatever horrors he faced out there were brought back here.

“It’s okay.” You soothe, “You’re safe.”

His nostrils flare, jaw gritting. Fingers fisting in the fabric of your sleep shirt, knuckles biting into your hips.

“Distract me.” He husks, voice low.

Your eyes widen, “How?”

There’s a sharp jerk of his head, his own dark eyes still fixed on yours, “Any way you want.”

He’s still as stone as your eyes sweep across his face again. A million thoughts running through your head, as your thumb sweeps across a stubble-lined jaw.

Head tilting, until you can press your lips just above, against the sharp cut of a cheekbone.

You can feel his exhale against you. The tightly-strung muscles easing, even as he tugs you closer. Even as you hear the hitch in his breath, the way his head tips towards yours.

You move slow.

The next brushing his cheek.

Another, to the corner of his lips.

It’s then that he moves. A rough groan in his throat as his hand shifts to your chin. Holding you in place so his mouth can meet yours.

Something chaste, that turns hungry. His hips canting into yours, as his tongue sweeps into your mouth.

You let him. Fingers slipping against the short, velvet-shorn hair. Up until there’s something to grip onto, as his hips rocks against yours.

“Fuck.” It’s rumbled against your lips, “Been driving me crazy, sweetheart.”

You moan, as his lips drag to press against your jaw. How his thigh rocks against your core, where you’re still pinned between him and the door.

“Haven’t been doing anything,” You protest, weakly, “Just patching you up.”

There’s the rough huff of a laugh.

“Funny how that works.”

There’s the pounding of your heart, just below his lips. Fingers that trace the waistband of your sleep shorts. Slipping beneath your shirt to grasp at your waist.

Tugging, until you’re rubbing yourself on his thigh. The muscles flexing beneath you as you gasp, nails biting into his bare shoulders.

Trying to avoid the bruises, his skin hot to the touch. Another roll - again and again. A rough grunt each time you press flush, when the imprint of his cock ruts against your hip.

The seam on your shorts catch on your clit. Your breath quickens, as your arousal dampens the thin cloth. A dark patch seeping into the dark denim, but Frank only groans when his eyes flick down to see the gleam.

“Feels good.” You breathe, eyes half-lidded.

His teeth flash white, in the dark room. Pressing harder, until you’re whimpering. Until there’s a building pressure in your belly, toes curling against the worn rug.

“Frank.” It’s a plea, it’s a warning.

“Yeah, beautiful?” His knowing tone, the sweet name sends heat to your cheeks, “You close? Think you can come for me like this?”

You don’t know if you can. All you know is the feeling of his thigh nudging against you, as his boot bounces. The rasp of his stubbled cheek against yours.

“Think you can.” Frank hums, “Think you want me to hear how pretty you sound when you come.”

His name strings out. Fingers teasing, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. A rough moan in your ear when he meets bare, slick skin.

Another pulled when your own hand drifts. A palm cupping him, where his clothed cock ruts into your hip. The heel of your hand nudging with the flex of his thigh.

Again, and again. Sweet nothings slipping from you, a heady mix of his name and “please” and “oh my god-”, as your head tips back.

His mouth against your neck, your chin, your mouth. Your cry cut short as his body presses you flush between him and the door.

Fingers slipping down. Beneath the dampened fabric, circles pressed against your clit. Wanting to do this himself, to give this to you.

The pleasure blooms low in your belly. Liquid heat and the release of what feels like weeks of building pressure coursing through you, as he brings you over the edge.

Your orgasm pulsing low and warm, as your hands find his shoulders. Adding fingerprint bruises to one’s he already carries. Ones he’ll look at fondly, when he’s alone.

Frank’s knee only eases from you, when that tight grip on him finally loosens.

The aftershocks still honey-sweet where they thud in your core. Legs like jelly, as your back slips against the door - as you sink to your knees.

You want all of him.

You’re greedy like that - fingers itching to reach out and take. To beg, but your eyes are drawn the bruises. The shadows under his eyes, you don’t know the last time he slept.

There will be more time, later. If you’re lucky.

“Hey. Hey-” His voice is almost worried, broad hands wrapping around your biceps. The words twisting into a choked sound instead, when your hands trace up his thighs. Over the slick patch, darkening the denim.

Eye-level with his hips. Your gaze meeting his, as you press an open-mouthed kiss against the straining curve.

He groans then. Bare chest heaving, as his hands drop to his belt. No words needed, in sync from the nights already spent together - from patching him up in near-silence.

Thumbs hooking into the waistband of dark boxers, tugging down. Your eyes tracing where the dark trail from his belly thickens, hair coarse at the base of his cock.

“Don’t have to.” It’s half-hearted. A tick to his jaw, when your fingers join his.

Another sharp tug, until his cock is freed. Achingly hard, as it bobs in front of you. A pretty shade of pink that grows darker at the tip. A drop leaking from the slit, the head already glossy from where it smeared against fabric.

God, you need to taste him.

“I know.” You breathe, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you grin, “I want to.”

Leaning forward to taste him. A kiss against the shaft, tongue flattening against velvet skin.

“Wanna take care of you.”

His fingers flex, curling into fists.

Your eyes meeting his, “Think you like it when I do.”

Frank stiffens at your words, a sharp inhale through teeth. But you miss it - lips parting to take him into your mouth. A moan as you suck, feeling how his cock jerks against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He grits - the flex of his hand, as he cups the back of your neck. Fingers twining into your hair, tugging.

“Just once.”

Don’t know if he’s telling you, or if he’s telling himself. But he doesn’t need to tell you.

There’s a part of you is certain each time is the last you’ll see him.

Always hoping he will come back, of course. Looking for him, even.

But never expecting it.

You’ll take what you can get. What he gives you inching further into your mouth - the hollow of your cheeks as you suck, head gently bobbing.

He’s big. You knew he would be, could feel the heft of him beneath your palm. An ache in your jaw already, but it’s worth it - to give him this.

“Just this one time.” He repeats, hushed.

As if he’s not imaging how you taste. Knowing you’re slick and bare and dripping beneath those shorts. Knowing that’s the only layer he’d need to rip away, to find out how soft you truly are.

Wet and warm, for him. A perfect fit for his cock, though he can’t get enough of the way you hum around him.

Forgotten what it was like.

Spit strings between your lips and his cock, when you pull back. He lets you - that grip loosening, though his fingers stay twisted in your hair. Keeping you close, only slipping away long enough for you to tug the shirt from your shoulders.

Letting it pool on the floor, letting his eyes drag over more bare skin beneath. His touch following without thinking - calloused fingers tracing your shoulders. The soft curves of your tits, palm cupping flesh.

The other hand anchoring himself to you again as before. The curved weight against the back of your head - a gentle, encouraging pressure.

Urging you to his cock again. Already missing the warmth of your mouth. Working him back up to that peak again, and then further - as you take him into your throat.

His breathing grows shorter. Those same sounds that slip from him when your needle sinks too deep, knitting skin together.

Given freely now. Muscles flexing as he bucks into your mouth, chasing the pleasure that threatens to snap inside him.

“Shit, baby.” Frank rasps, “You want me to come on these?”

A squeeze against your chest. You make a low sound in your throat, in response. Eyes flicking up, sinking another inch deeper as your fingers grasp onto his jeans.

“Fuck.” The syllables draw out, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything you want.”

His fingers tug harder. The flicker of pain along your scalp blending with the heat that lingers between your thighs.

Keeping your eyes on his as his hips move just a little faster. Air inhaled through your nose as a hand slips up to curl around his base.

Easing off just enough that you can jerk him into your mouth.

Your name comes out ragged, slipped into a moan. A curl of his lips over teeth, panting breath.

“Gonna make me come, honey.” It’s a warning, but your tongue only curls around the head. Waiting to taste him fully, as he groans.

Another choked breath, his head tilting back, before his cock throbs between your lips. Pulsing against your tongue, as your fist works him empty.

Your eyes close then. Senses narrowing down to the sounds he makes. Filthy, as his fingers tug hard enough to hurt, unconsciously rocking into the suction of your mouth with each drop that spills against your tongue.

“Fuck.” He mutters again.

Softer, this time. Fingers suddenly dropping, shifting to smooth over your cheeks. A low hiss, when you ease off him - only for your head to dip forward again. To catch the last errant drop on your tongue, as it flicks against his slit.

Desperate to keep him, like this, for just a little longer. Yours, if only for a moment.

“You wanna stay? Can make you a real breakfast.”

It slips from you, from kiss-swollen lips as your head tips up. His boxers still a mess around his thighs, your fingers still circled around him.

You’d taste like him, if he bent down to kiss you.

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Frank rasps.

“I will.”

perhaps my imagining of a potential sugar x frank meet-cute??? 😁💖 thank you for reading!!

#frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle x female reader #frank castle smut #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle #kinktober #kintober 2024

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