#non-con touching | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

paingoes · 2 months ago

Text

Aegean Seas

Destroyer AU

long awaited roleswap AU. featuring royal delta and (defective!) living weapon paris

delta still has some psychic ability in this AU, but only a moderate amount. its nothing to write home about.

paris doesn’t have any powers, just an incredible capacity for violence.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, royal whumper, carewhumper vibes, institutionalized slavery, blood, biting, choking, electrocution, choking, suggestive language, background lady whump, clowns, hidden injury, past abuse, past trauma, PTSD triggers, emotional whump, scars, body image issues, war mention, alcohol, non-con touching (nonsexual), conditioning, magical exhaustion, seizure, kinda fluffy?)

“You don’t have to look so upset about it.” Delta twirling the pearl earring around within the pierced fin. The golden bangles of his wrist clicked together lightly at the motion — and all the silver and sea-glass ornaments he wore jingled in time with the movement of the airship. He hadn’t been looking at Paris when he said it, and they were not the only ones in the cabin, but he understood it was meant for him.

“I’m not upset,” Paris said. At least, not as much as he could’ve been.

Far below, the cerulean sea reflected the sun so that the water itself was blinding. Foam was gathering along the coast — a sure sign of rough waters. On the horizon, the embassy building jutted out from the cape.

The ship lowered itself in a hover just by the surface of the beach. Paris slid the exterior door open. He hopped the remaining few feet onto the sand right before the craft finally landed. By way of reflex, he extended one hand back to Delta, who took it without thanks as he stepped down.

The other members of the court soon followed, a handful of advisors and scribes sent to keep the time. With a home advantage, all support had been reduced to a skeleton crew. Paris shifted carefully in between them, eventually settling a few steps behind Delta and a bit off to the right, which he knew was the best sightline he’d get without drawing too much attention to himself.

The path up to the embassy was lined with basalt — and a pretty long walk uphill, considering how many of its visitors were geriatric. At the peak, he again pulled the entrance doors open, taking a cautious look in through the entryway. He felt the familiar weight of the blade tucked up into his sleeve, though he had no real expectation of using it. He held the door open for Delta alone, but deigned to let the rest of the congregation pass through in the same way. He stole a last glance out at the countryside before he pulled the door shut tight.

At the front, Delta’s eyes flitted up in the same clouded concentration he always fell into before the meetings. He refused to take notes, so dedicated to committing absolutely everything to memory. He played all the information back like rolls of film. He waved vaguely at the prompting of his advisors, but it was clear he was somewhere else.

He only came to when they reached the center. It was a large room, polished, and most everything in it was the soft color of sandalwood. The painted monarch sat perched within the straight-backed chair. His own court spread out in a half-moon around him, all their papers all ready to go. Paris only caught a glimpse of them through the doorway, but the glimpse alone was enough to make him spiteful.

“Watch the entrance,” Delta whispered to him just before they passed through the entryway. Paris nodded and stepped off to the side of the door.

Soon he was alone in the large hallway. The building was old and its halls were echoing, though not quite as bad as the castle. He leaned back against the wall, wishing he’d brought the cigarettes with him. He passed the butterfly knife idly in between his hands, having no better way to occupy the time. He’d gotten good enough at it that he didn’t even need to look while he did. His eyes still scanned the corridors in the way they’d been trained, sizing up each impotent official or underpaid clerk whose heels tapped down the linoleum tiles. There was no real threat. Nothing ever happened.

The jingling bells warned of her approach before she came into view. He sighed, slipped the knife back into hiding. Jo popped out from the doorway. She was quicker than he would’ve thought, skipping out a few paces before she even turned to see him. When she did, her painted face contorted into an express of unadulterated mirth. She giggled — and the bells of her hat jingled again as she flipped over to stand on her head.

“I was wondering where they were keeping you this time.” Her voice was raised in faux cheeriness.

Paris watched her carefully — he couldn’t not. The rapid movements set all his nerves on edge. He was sure she knew that. He was sure it was why she did it. He didn’t answer.

She rolled over into a backbend and let her hands guide her up. When she was upright, she was not more than a few inches from his face. She was shorter than him, the difference exaggerated by the heels of his boots and the flatness of her stupid pointy shoes. She rose up on tiptoes to meet his eyes. He could see the glitter against her sclera.

“No dogs in the house of law, eh?” She stretched one leg up over her head. Her movements continued so fluid and so completely uninfluenced by anything she was saying, as if they were completely different hemispheres of her brain.

“I heard that when the neophytes drop out, they give ‘em a new name and put ‘em out on the street. Painted silver! They spend the rest of their days doing tricks for spare change. Is that true?”

No one ever dropped out. He didn’t answer. She did a back walkover, her speech uninterrupted.

“Or I heard what they’re really doing now is selling all the new grads to Crimson’s West Front,” she paused for dramatic effect, “There’s a famine there, you know. They need new meat!”

She cackled. He stiffened slightly, because that part was probably true. Even if they weren’t getting eaten, a lot of the kids did get bought out for the war effort, and were given no arms when they arrived. They were getting pushed into the meat grinder, literally or figuratively.

She seemed disappointed with his lack of outward reaction. As she rolled onto the floor again, she laid there on her stomach for a second, kicking her legs back and forth.

“You don’t have to worry about that though. I bet he’s nice to you,” She grinned impishly, pushing herself up into another handstand. “I hear he’s nice to everyone.”

She erupted into a laughing fit at that. His eye twitched. He felt the weight of the blade in his sleeve. She looked over to see his expression and her smile widened. She cartwheeled towards him, again landing only inches apart from him.

“People on High Street got a name for him. What was it again? The something wonder? You’ve heard it before, right? You had to. You spend enough time with that whore to-“

He threw her into the ground before she could finish, the last synapse snapping within him.

The sudden violence got a forced, clipped laugh from her. She did a back roll before he could strike again, sitting up on her knees before she swept one of his legs out. He dropped, but it didn’t slow him down. Nothing could have. He still drove his fist full force into her jaw, once, twice, about as many times as it would take to break it off.

She didn’t let him get that far. Jo was stronger than she looked and just as quick as he was. She was not downed easily. When he pinned her, she slipped. When her nails reached up to scratch out his eyes, he bit down upon her fingers hard enough to break them. Her blood gushed into his mouth. It was familiar. He didn’t even stop to spit it out.

She elbowed him in the face at the same time she drove her knee up into his stomach — all sharp angles. It was hard enough to knock him off of her and onto his side. Blood poured from his nose. It splattered on the floor right beside her own. She crawled forward on her bloodied fingers, trying to get even. He forced himself back upwards, lunging at her again. He became vaguely aware of a commotion behind him.

“Stop,” Delta said tiredly.

Paris did not stop. No fucking chance. Not now. She was still moving, still breathing, still fucking laughing. His hands closed around the undulations of her throat.

“Stop,” Delta repeated.

Blood dripped thick and hot from the both of them. Johanna twisted beneath him, her eyes shining like stars. He wanted them barren. He wanted her to stop moving.

“Stop,” Delta said it with no more emphasis than the first two times, but he’d closed the distance between them now. The prongs of the choke collar dug into Paris’s neck, cutting off his oxygen.

He backed up on his knees, leaning backwards into the touch, the only way he could loosen the chain. But for all the slack the proximity created, Delta only pulled it higher, tighter. No air reached him, even when he’d stopped, even when he had stilled. It kept going. The panic gripped him immediately, tempered only by experienced. Delta wouldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, and as soon as he started to think that he would, the chain released. Paris gasped shakily, collapsed down onto his hands and knees. One hand pawed desperately at his throat. Small beads of blood had formed there in the collar’s outline.

He felt the pressure of the chain being picked up and winced, but it did not tighten again.

“Sorry about him.” Delta frowned. “And…sorry about your…clown.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s had worse.”

And sure enough, Jo sat up again, the wounds he’d given her already half-healed. Her stupid fucking hat jingled as she shook her head clear. The sound was enough to re-trigger the prey drive. He lunged.

Sharp and course electricity ran straight through his body, aborting the attack before it could even begin. All his muscles locked up. He’d built up a tolerance for the dryer sparks, but being tased was rare. It was a different story. He knew the shock only lasted a few seconds, but those seconds dragged out like years. Delta didn’t even say anything, the tips of his fingers retreating from the raw skin of his neck.

“Here girl,” the monarch snapped their fingers.

The clown stood up in her wet clothes, skipping happily back into the employ. Paris kept his eyes trained on the empty space in front of him, the blood spots on the floor. He heard their footsteps retreating. The hallway was silent. One of Delta’s fingers was still hooked around the circle of his collar.

“Clean it up,” he said. Paris nodded. The chain went slack and he was alone in the hall once again.

“She started it-“

“She is a jester,” Delta cut him off. “She was doing her job. If she didn’t have that healing factor, you would have killed her.”

His eye twitched. Killed her. Kill her. It flared up within him again, without any target. He dug his nails into his wrist to keep from something worse. The anger burning so hot inside of him he thought he might just be sick from it. She’d done it on purpose. She’d got him on purpose, but it shouldn’t have worked.

“You weren’t there,” he said, the ache of defensiveness rising in his voice. “You don’t know what she was doing.”

“Did she draw on you?” Delta asked, sounding bored. He already knew the answer.

Paris’s face flushed anyway. He gave no reply.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Some small satisfaction crept into his voice, then faded quickly into irritation. “You didn’t have any impetus. Nobody was in any danger until you snapped. And now they know that if they so much as wave a flag in front of you, you act like a rabid fucking animal.”

“I was defending you, you ungrateful fuck!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Delta looked up in shock.

“I’m sorry,” Paris amended quickly, retaining at least some sense of self-preservation. He covered his mouth with his hand in a a belated effort to silence himself. It wasn’t enough. He’d been on thin ice before, but that could not be tolerated. They both knew it.

“Why are you like this?” Delta asked. He didn’t say it as an insult. He asked like he really wanted to know.

That only made it worse.

The inner courtyard of the Aegean palace was dense with marble and wildflowers. He always thought the statues looked out of place among the foliage, the vines creeping up the legs of the gods as if they’d already been forgotten. The last of the day’s light was held up in the violet clouds. Beneath them, the walls were doused in the cool blue of dusk. The air was warm and wet.

Paris went without prompting, without needing to be forced. He pulled the shirt off of his back, shivering a bit as the scars that already laid there were exposed to the open air. He knelt down by the post. The guard shackled his wrists to the side of it. He rested his forehead against the wood, curling and uncurling his fingers. It made it more tolerable.

He heard the whip crack against the ground as the guard made practice shots. Delta sat off to the side, one elbow propped up against the aluminum garden table, watching without much interest. He’d never get his hands dirty doing it himself. He wouldn’t even know how.

That idiot guard didn’t know much better. The first strike came down unpracticed, landing diagonally along his shoulder and against the old scars. He pressed his head further into the post, preferring the pressure he felt there to the hot pain that was forming along his back.

It only grew. It layered. It would’ve layered already, in just a single beating, but his body had years worth of them just waiting to be reignited. The whip dredged up the old pain easily. It didn’t split the skin, but he could remember when it had. The thought alone made him dizzy. The pain quickly became all he could focus on. It kept going.

“Please stop,” he said, beginning to get truly nervous now. It’d been going on too long and was pushing up against the bounds of what he could tolerate. His hands turned over anxiously in the solid iron of the manacles. He couldn’t have gotten out even if he tried.

Delta held a hand up. The whip temporarily ceased. He stood up from the table, electrifying the air as he got closer.

He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Hm?” Delta asked, leaning down a little, “Stop?”

He could tell that he was feeling vindictive. Delta’s voice took on that soft, too-patient tone it always had when he was furious.

“Paris, when I told you to stop, what did you do?” he chided.

“…Kept doing it,” he muttered miserably into the post. He hated when he got like this.

“So you do understand.”

“It hurts.” He kept his voice soft, somewhat whiny. It was calculated, but he didn’t have to force it. It didhurt.

“It’s supposed to. I wouldn’t have to do this if you would just listen the first time. You don’t have anyone to blame for this but yourself.”

There was no making him understand. Delta had no concept of what hurt meant — of how much was too much. His own body was unblemished. He’d never bled for anything.

For as long as he was standing there, the punishment couldn’t continue. They wouldn’t dare swing the whip when Delta was in line of it, god forbid. He took the break for what it was, a few needed seconds for him to catch his breath. Delta seemed to catch onto what he was doing, taking a few steps back. He turned back to the guard.

“Finish up. Gag him if he talks again. He knows better,” he instructed.

He paced out of the courtyard, retreating back inside the castle walks. He never liked to see the aftermath, either.

Delta had been sixteen years old on the eve of his first and only assassination attempt. It had been a failure, in the sense that he had not died from it. It had also been a failure in the sense that the assailant had not even gotten close. 36,000 volts ran straight through his circulatory system before the knife could even fall.

Delta had been uninjured — and in the end, unshaken. The King and Queen were not. They had no other heir.

Paris came as a knee-jerk reaction, dredged up out of whatever trench they’d found him in. He could play nice, when he needed to. He knew exactly what was on the line.

He was passable. The King bought him alone and unannounced. He’d complain for years afterwards that he’d been ripped off.

Paris had glanced up when he was first made to kneel in the throne room. His first impression was that Delta looked awfully calm for someone who had just survived an assassination attempt.

Delta was unimpressed by it, and had been unimpressed by everything since.

Almost everything. Kitty glowed blue in the light of the lounge. It was Delta’s favorite room. in the palace. It had been even since he was little. The walls were all made of glass, with thousands of gallons of seawater lying just behind them. Whole shoals of fish reflected silver onto the dark floor. The sequins of Kitty’s slit dress had the same effect.

She was wearing a collar. He didn’t know why he found this so funny. He guessed it could be considered a choker, if he wanted to be generous, but with the ears and the tail, “collar” was the first word that came to mind.

Hers wouldn’t choke her. If he wanted her to, he’d have to do it himself.

She draped herself over the arm of his chair. Kitty was growing into herself so beautifully. Her eyes still lit up at the sight of the fish swimming, just the way they had when they were kids, and he knew she wanted nothing more than to break straight through the glass to get at them. But everything else about her now shone with such a honed sophistication.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, her eyes widening with concern.

“What?” He blinked. He hadn’t meant to.

But sure enough, a thin stream of blood trickled from his nose just as soon as she got close to him. Delta blushed, a pale blue hue rising up beneath his freckles. It came as a betrayal.

“You’re so predictable.” She almost smiled, pressing a pink handkerchief to his face before the blood could drip onto the soft sheen of his clothes.

The air around him crackled so badly both their hair stood on end.

Apollo tread into the kitchen with the golden fringes of his clothing catching all the light. He dragged the kitchen chair out and fell lightly into the seat. He made a soft sound of surprise as he found Paris leaning back against the edge of the counter.

“You have to stay up as long as he does?” Apollo asked. He leaned forward against the marble table, rocking the chair from side to side.

“I’m not supposed to sleep at all,” Paris responded flatly, only half joking. It was a bad look for him to be sleeping while Delta was awake, in the same way it was a bad look for him to be sleeping in. That left a very small window for him to get any rest at all.

Apollo grimaced in sympathy. He placed the empty glass down on the counter. Wordlessly, Paris took it to refill.

“Oh, I didn’t- Is that even your job?” Apollo asked, a blush rising to his face.

Paris shrugged, pouring the last of the bottle out into the glass. He slid it back across the table.

“You should let me fix that for you,” Apollo offered.

Paris yanked his hand back as violently as if he’d been burned. He thought it was invisible. It hadn’t healed that wrong. It still worked. It wasn’t an impediment. He clutched it to his chest protectively, shielding his wrist with his other hand.

Apollo gave him a knowing look. He stirred the drink idly. The ice made a soft noise as it clattered against the edges of the glass.

“They didn’t splint that for you in training?” He tilted his head.

Paris looked down. He tentatively loosened the grip on his wrist. It’d just been a fall. He’d gotten knocked backwards and he’d needed to stop himself from cracking his skull onto the floor. He’d done it wrong. The wrist had taken the brunt of the impact. He kept it in a splint at night — and when he was alone — but he couldn’t ever wear it around the trainers. He made use with the bandages instead, prayed everyday that medical didn’t come see him. In time, the bones had stitched themselves back together. Not enough, apparently.

Apollo was still staring at him.

“…It’s disqualifying,” he said softly.

“Ah,” Apollo leaned his elbow on the counter. He pressed one finger up against his lips. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Paris looked at him gratefully. Apollo took another sip of the drink, seeming to study the swirling patterns of the table’s surface. After a while, he added:

“He wouldn’t mind, though.”

Paris frowned. He didn’t think so either. That wasn’t the point. He couldn’t have his wrist be unusable for a full six weeks. He could not stand to be any more unusable than he already was.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He never would. The silence endured. Apollo shrugged, taking the drink back with him as he ducked out of the bright kitchen. Paris drew the sleeve of his shirt all the way past his fingertips.

ponyboy: heyyyyy

headrooms: holy shit

headrooms: i thought you fucking died

ponyboy: nope :-)

ponyboy: just busy yk how it is

headrooms: fuck

headrooms: dont scare me like that

ponyboy: sorryyyyy

ponyboy: how have you been

headrooms: im chill

headrooms: i got beat up by a jester last week

ponyboy: lmfao

ponyboy: dude shut up your job is cushy as shit

ponyboy: you wanna know what they had me doing last week????

headrooms: uphill both ways in the snow

ponyboy: i was pushing whole barrels full of petroleum and poison uphill in the coldest day of winter. they didnt even give me gloves until my fingers were already falling off!!!

ponyboy: hey fuck you

headrooms: lol

headrooms: are you good though like actually

ponyboy: ya i mean

ponyboy: its definitely heating up here but we’re still holding a good position

ponyboy: they kinda treat me like shit but they also dont want to lose me so im not being sent for the real suicide missions yet <3

headrooms: thats good i guess

headrooms: is vi chill

ponyboy: omg no shes been on her fuckin period lately

ponyboy: bitch mode

headrooms: lmfao mine too

headrooms: i swear its the full moon

ponyboy: IT LITERALLY IS IDK WHAT HER PROBLEM IS

ponyboy: ughhhhhh

headrooms: i miss you

headrooms: like

headrooms: all the time

ponyboy: i miss you too !

ponyboy: ill let you know if im ever in your corner of the galaxy! i want to see you again so badly <3

Paris winced. If her people ever ended up in his corner of the galaxy, that was a bad, bad sign. Selfishly, he wished for it anyway.

He heard footsteps approaching and quickly slid the phone back into his pocket. He was not quick enough to get rid of the cigarette. Delta paced out onto the balcony in a whirlwind. Little bouts of lighting lit up by his eyes.

He plucked the cigarette straight out of his mouth. His other hand smacked hard against the side of Paris’s skull.

“Ow,” Paris winced, though it didn’t really hurt. Because he wanted Delta to feel bad. Or because he knew he wanted to hear it. Whichever it was that day. Whichever worked.

“Those are my fucking lungs,” he hissed. The guilt trip hadn’t worked. Paris shrugged.

“Sorry.”

The apology worked better. Delta’s body language relaxed some as he snubbed the cigarette out on the palace wall. He didn’t ask for the rest of the pack. Smoking was fair game, really. It was getting caught doing it that was the issue.

“Who were you texting?” he asked mildly.

He hadn’t hid the phone quick enough. He tried to play it off.

“Just Lorry.” He looked down.

“Oh.” Delta’s expression seemed to soften, almost imperceptibly. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” he answered automatically. His heart quickened right after. “…Why? Did you-“

“No,” Delta cut off that train of thought before it could really begin. “No news. I was just wondering.”

“She’s fine, then,” he confirmed. As much as she could be.

It was only then that Delta actually looked guilty. He didn’t have to. It wasn’t his fault. Lorelai had been purchased months before Paris had. It was a miracle he was even allowed to stay in touch with her. He knew most of the program’s graduates weren’t half as lucky.

He still wanted the cigarette. He leaned back against the wall, unsure what to do with his hands or his mouth when it was gone. Delta didn’t leave after that, the way he’d expected him to. He pulled himself up onto the railing with a kind of stupid abandon.

The air carried the scent of salt from over the ocean. Down on the beach, two kids flew a white kite right above the waves, blissfully unaware of the peacetime’s fragility.

“Keep?” Paris asked, holding up the alligator skin boots. They’d been dyed a shade of ruby red.

“Absolutely not.” Delta shook his head frantically, “Toss. Don’t even tell anyone I had those.”

“I thought they were nice,” Paris muttered.

He tossed them into the trash pile anyway. He crossed back over the length of the massive closet, pulling another bag off the shelf. This was absolutely, definitely not his job. But it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He liked anything that did not make him feel like a total waste of space.

His knees hit the ground before he really knew what he was doing. It was a better instinct, though, probably the least harmful out of all the ones he could not control. Delta looked up in surprise, only realizing what had just happened as the King stepped in through the doorway. Delta’s attention recentered on his father. They both acted as like he wasn’t even there.

“Don’t you have a dispatch to be filling out?” Ulysses leaned against the doorway, surprisingly casual in the company of his only son. It was a reprimand, but his tone was still playful.

“I’m fuckin’ working on it, jeez,” Delta snapped.

“Doesn’t look like it,” the King glanced around the room. Paris flinched a bit as his gaze passed over him, but it didn’t linger long.

“Oh!” The queen Andromeda appeared in the entrance before Delta could even respond, looking excitedly at the gown Delta held in one hand. “I’ve always loved that dress! You never wear it!”

“Oh my god,” Delta said, “Can you leave me alone.”

She rushed forward anyway, squishing his face with one hand as she kissed his cheek.

“Mom!” He blushed terribly.

She smiled, knowing exactly how much she was embarrassing him. He shoved her lightly back towards the door and shut it quickly before either of them could protest. He slammed his head against it once it was closed.

“You can get up,” Delta rolled his eyes. Paris did, rigidly so, in the same mechanical way as when he’d gone down. He blinked a few times, trying to bring himself back to the present.

“They’re so fucking annoying,” Delta muttered to no one in particular, wiping his face off.

“Your parents are nice,” Paris protested weakly in their defense.

“He beat you with a 2x4,” Delta reminded him.

Paris shrugged. The King could’ve done much worse. He’d snapped at Delta that time — not on purpose. Never on purpose. It was only the nerves firing wrong, the signals getting twisted. He couldn’t help it. But it’d been grounds for immediate termination. Paris got off easy, and had moved on from it fairly quickly. Delta still held a grudge against his father for it.

“Keep?” Delta asked this time, desperate to change the subject. Paris guessed he was glad, too. Something in him ached awfully whenever they were around.

“Keep,” he affirmed.

It was awful. They had to hold court later, had to hold it in ten fucking minutes, and his heart felt like it was about to explode if he didn’t kill something. He paced uncontrollably, snapping at the air no matter how hard he tried to stop it. Delta watched idly from the throne. Not angry. Just visibly unpleased with it all.

“Come here,” he called finally.

Paris flinched. It was not a request. He tried anyway.

“I don’t…want you to…” he protested weakly.

“I didn’t ask if you wanted it.”

Paris reluctantly approached, kneeling beside the throne. Delta tilted his head, the tiara slipping down a bit as he did so. A soft blush rose to Paris’s face. He pulled his shirt off, then lowered further onto the floor, laying down flat on his stomach. He rested his head against his arm, burying his face. He heard Delta rising up from the throne and settling cross-legged onto the floor beside him.

Delta made that same soft, dissatisfied noise he always did when he saw the old whip scars all along his back. Not his work. The lashes he gave didn’t leave a mark. He didn’t like it when they did. Paris winced.

They were ugly. Paris knew that if the King had caught a single look at the lattice, he’d have never been bought in the first place. Because it was defacement. Because they were ugly. The thought echoed in Paris’s brain every time he caught a glimpse. It was pure vanity. He was a weapon, he knew it didn’t matter, he shouldn’t have even cared about that kind of thing. But he did. He hated them.

“So tense,” Delta murmured from above him. His hands kneaded into the ridges along Paris’s spine – that strange, analgesic touch. Paris could feel his muscles softening involuntarily, the tension in them forcefully removed.

The urchin spine slid into the center of his shoulder blades. He bit his arm to keep from gasping.

It wasn’t the toxin alone that did it. He knew that because he’d pricked himself with it once, just out of curiosity, and he had felt almost nothing at all. It was the way he used it.

He didn’t always hate it; sometimes it was almost nice. It was nicer when they did it alone, when he wasn’t forced to take it, exposed on the floor of the throne room. It was viscerally unpleasant to experience against his will. He did not like Delta having that much control over his body. He didn’t want to calm down.

The spine entered again, and he calmed anyway.

It went on like that until all the rigid tension seeped out through his skin like poison, then a while afterwards too. It was gentle, despite everything. He could’ve cried.

“Better?”

He nodded, though he really just felt hazy. He didn’t think he could even hold a sword anymore. The calm felt intrusive. He was sure he couldn’t move at all, almost limp in the aftermath. He didn’t need to, though. Delta pulled him up a little, trying to straighten him out. He found his position again, on his knees.

He pulled the shirt back on, roughly. His arms had gone numb; it took so much more effort than it had to take off. He shifted, readjusting so that he was facing the rest of the room this time. It took so much effort just to sit upright then. He felt high.

“Good boy,” Delta said, about a half second before the doors opened. He was only saying it to be mean, but in the moment, Paris couldn’t bring himself to care.

Delta yanked his hand away from his face just before Paris could snap it off. Paris hissed in frustration, falling abruptly to the ground. He pounded his fists against the tile. It was all he could do to not fucking kill him.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” He hissed out through gritted teeth. It was wrong. He was making it worse for himself. He had no fucking right to be talking to him like that.

He couldn’t help it. He felt like he was going to scream.

Delta watched impassively.

“It’s getting worse,” Delta said. There was real concern in his voice.

Paris pressed his forehead to the ground, curling up. Anything else.

“I know it’s getting worse,” he growled.

Delta started to bend down, which was the worst thing he could’ve done.

“Get away,” Paris warned. For fucking once, Delta actually listened, taking a few cautious steps back.

It took ten whole minutes for him to get back to a state where the prey drive wasn’t waiting two inches beneath the surface. He sat up wearily. Exhausted. Fucking embarrassed.

Delta’s eyes were wide, but then, they always were. The rest of his expression revealed nothing at all.

“You need to figure that out,” he announced quietly.

“I’m not doing it on purpose.” Paris buried his face in his hands. “You know I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“That isn’t going to matter to them and you know it.” His voice was soft. Almost sympathetic. “And don’t talk to me like that,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Delta…” Paris whined into his hands. It was an undisguised plea. As if the way he was talking was what mattered right now.

“I’m serious. Don’t.” The plea went unanswered. If anything, his voice hardened. Paris watched with some small horror as all the patience seemed to bleed out of him. As if he could afford to lose a single ally.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Figure it out,” Delta said with such sincere urgency that it seemed like now was his turn to beg. He stormed off, unwilling to let anyone else get the last word in.

Paris picked himself up off the ground and put his fist through the nearest wall.

No matter what happened that day, he still came crying in the night like a little kid.

Paris flinched a bit as he was awoken, but not for very long. He guessed he should’ve been used to it by now. Delta stood over him, tugging at his sleeve impatiently, wordless. His eyes shone like beacons in the darkness of the bedroom. His hair was down. He looked so young when he was like this. His look was all pleading.

Paris sighed, letting himself be roused from the bed. He just barely had time to grab the sword before he was dragged out into the hallway. He followed Delta all the way up the stairs, all the way up to his bedroom. He could hear the water trickling well before he entered.

His parents really did spoil him. Delta’s room was probably the most expensive part of the entire palace. Water rushed down from the ceiling in an artificial waterfall, landing into the koi pond that took up a whole quarter of the room. All the rest of the room was crystalline, opalescent. Absolutely cluttered with anything that would shine.

Paris didn’t roll his eyes at the giant seashell that held Delta’s mattress. He’d seen it enough times that it had lost its novelty. He didn’t expect anything less.

“Watch the door,” he begged.

Paris nodded. He knew the drill. He sat down on the floor by Delta’s bed while the sheathed sword rested in his lap. He wouldn’t need it. He knew he wouldn’t need it. Delta was just scared.

Delta crawled up into the bed, arranging himself carefully for the meditation. The low drone of electricity began to fill the room. Channeling again. All the stars had aligned for it.

“παρακαλῶ,” Delta muttered beneath his breath. “παρακαλῶ, παρακαλῶ, παρακαλῶ…”

The incantation began shortly after that. The hair on the back of Paris’s neck stood up. He kept his eyes on the door. He didn’t like to watch.

He’d learned to tune out the rambling, for the most past. He knew Delta didn’t like it when people overheard — and he only let Paris do it out of necessity. It was fine. He didn’t understand any of the Greek. It was only the rapid, manic way he spoke that really scared him. Hushed and quick and ancient. It felt right to avert his eyes for it. It was something he had no business witnessing.

His eye twitched a little bit as he realized just how loud the incantation was growing behind him. The room was getting brighter. He got the awful feeling he always did when he felt lightning was about to strike. It was getting bad this time. It was getting worse than he could ever remember it being.

He turned around.

It was about as bad as he imagined. The light burned and radiated off of him, bright enough to be blinding. Delta was definitely seizing beneath it all. His eyes were shut tight like the power was painful. His hands clutched at the blanket. Paris realized with horror that the bedding was turning blue from all the blood that then dripped from his mouth and his eyes.

“Fuck,” Paris muttered beneath his breath.

He should have known better than to wake a sleepwalker.

He regretted it as soon as he touched him. For a minute, he thought he’d really gone blind. The pain exploded in his arm as he was thrown back against the wall. His own body seized with the residual electricity. He gasped, crumbling down into a heap onto the soft floor.

“What the fuck did you do?” Delta coughed up blood onto the floor. Blood or tears poured from his eyes. In all likelihood, it was both. He wiped at them idly, not seeming to be in any particular hurry. It wasn’t like he’d be able to get all of it off with his hands.

He stumbled up from the bed — and immediately fell onto the floor. He crawled the rest of the way over to the koi pond, scooping the water up with his hands to remove the rest of the blood.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” he repeated, even angrier now.

“You were seizing.” Paris gasped. His arm hurt badly enough that he thought it might be broken. He couldn’t tell. He was still mostly blind.

“I told you not to interrupt,” Delta pressed his forehead onto the stone. He couldn’t even stand.

“You’re pushing it too far,” Paris said. It was all he said. It was all he needed to.

“Shut up,” Delta warned.

“You’re pushing it too far,” he repeated, sing-song.

“Shut the fuck up!” Delta stood up again. Paris knew he meant to hit him, meant to fight him, and suddenly that was what was happening.

“Oh god damn it, you fucking moron.” Paris blocked his fists with his arms. It hurt a little bit, but not nearly enough to incapacitate. He pushed Delta off with zero effort, which only seemed to piss him off more.

Delta growled, stumbling to his feet. He marched over to the bedside table, pulled out what Paris recognized belatedly as a fucking muzzle.

“Wait.” He tensed up, still not having risen off the floor. “Wait, wait, wait, chill-“

Delta fell messily to his knees, trying to secure it onto him. This time, Paris actually did fight. He caught his wrists. He hated that thing so much. It was the middle of the fucking night, he’d never be able to sleep with it on. He didn’t deserve it. He’d been trying to help.

“Stop,” he pleaded while he still had the ability to. “Come on. Stop. Please.”

Delta sighed in defeat. He dropped the muzzle to the floor — and let himself fall to it a few seconds later. He mumbled something in Greek.

“I’m tired,” he muttered into the carpet. His mouth was still bleeding.

Paris stood up, with a lot of effort, but he was still in better shape that Delta was. He picked him up with his uninjured arm. It wasn’t difficult. Delta was light. He wouldn’t have won the fight he’d tried to start. Paris pushed him back onto the bed, letting him collapse there.

“On your side,” Paris reminded him. Delta readjusted onto his side so that the blood wouldn’t asphyxiate him.

“Fucking goodnight, I guess,” Paris muttered, picking his sword back up from the ground. He picked the muzzle up too, placing it back in the drawer. Should’ve just thrown the damn thing out.

“Stay?” Delta asked.

“Yeah, think I’m good on that.” Paris started to walk out the door.

“Stay.” It was an entreaty, now. Paris groaned. He walked back, collapsing onto the other side of the bed.

“Not all night. You cry in your sleep. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this.”

“So do you,” Delta muttered in reply, already half-asleep.

Paris shrugged. The waterfall was quiet and reassuring. He could stay for that, if nothing else.

~~~

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter @sir-fenris @a-formless-whumper

60 notes · View notes

blackberrysummerblog · 7 months ago

Text

Happy Sunday everyone! I had so many tags last Sunday and I had the best time reading/enjoying everyone’s shares! I didn’t have anything to share then, but thanks so much @artsyunderstudy, @monbons, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @facewithoutheart, @roomwithanopenfire, @rimeswithpurple, @drowninginships, @larkral, @ileadacharmedlife, @fiend-for-culture, @prettygoododds, @forabeatofadrum, @tender-ministrations, and @mooncello for thinking of me this week!

Today I’m sharing another snippet from my increasingly un-secret COBB. I’m putting it under the cut for sleazy harassment and non-con touching. I censored a name with ** just to keep certain details under wraps for a bit longer.

** slaps his hand over Dev’s mouth and pulls him close, grinning in the rear view mirror.

“Take your paw off my cousin right now, unless you’re prepared to lose it,” I suggest, my voice low, dangerous. Dev’s eyes widen slightly, and then he gasps in a breath as ** pushes him away, laughing.

“You’re the good one, aren’t you, Basilton?” ** teases, leaning forward. His seat belt isn’t buckled, and if Dev’s was, I’d seriously consider slamming on the brakes. If ** went through the fucking windscreen, the world would know no great loss. “Always living by the rules, doing what you’re supposed to.”

He’s touching my hair now, coiling a strand around his finger. I’m less offended than when he was mauling Dev, but it still makes my skin crawl. “You don’t know anything about me,” I say softly. Least of all how far I’ll go for the people I love.

“You have an aristocratic profile, Basil,” ** coos, his breath warm on my neck. “I can see the family resemblance.” He takes another glug from whatever cheap fuckboy liquor he’s got wrapped in that paper bag, and then I grimace when his lips brush beneath my ear. “I could be feeling very into cousins tonight.”

And with that, have a great week everybody! No pressure tags to: @cutestkilla @supercutedinosaurs @aristocratic-otter @iamamythologicalcreature @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @orange-peony @thewholelemon @beastmonstertitan @shrekgogurt @bookish-bogwitch @raenestee @letraspal @arthurkko @papierhaikuphoto @stitchy-queerista @c0nsumemy5oul @asocialpessimist @skee3000 @cows4247 @ic3-que3n @nausikaaa @palimpsessed @alexalexinii @youarenevertooold and anybody else who’d like to share!

#six sentences sunday #the simon snow series #COBB #carry on big bang #COBB 2024 #baz pitch #dev grimm #this snippet is pretty gross sorry #sleazy come-ons #unwanted touching #non-con touching

54 notes · View notes

tara-the-quiet-bookworm-2016 · 5 months ago

Text

Home Alone Yandere! Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female Reader Chapter Two

Author note- Here we are back again with chapter two of Home Alone. Now as you can gather I like to mention any and all trigger warnings in the authors notes before we proceed. If that's okay with everyone. Anyways this chapter will feature such things as stalking, violence. and non-con touching, non-con drugging almost non-con SA as well as more obsessive thoughts from our boy, Simon. And more paranoia from our poor reader.

Now that we got THAT out of the way here is Chapter Two. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Two.

You were exhausted. Having spent most of the night tossing and turning, and now you were on your third coffee of the day. The good news was that you didn't have to work today. The bad news was you were meeting your sisters for lunch soon and all you wanted to do was sleep. And to top it off? Was you were so sure you had closed your window last night, the one that didn't lock, the one you had meant to talk to your landlord about but it always slipped your mind. Normally it wouldn't bother you but you could swear that someone had been watching you.

And during the night you could have swore you saw a large figure concealed in the shadows of you room, wearing a mask with a skull on it. But as dawn broke you brushed it off as a nightmare. And in all honesty nothing seemed out of place, though if you really looked you would noticed that a couple pairs of panties were missing, thankfully not the ones that were your favorites, but if you really looked you would notice a pair of pink and red panties with a bow on the butt had gone missing, as well as a pair of maroon panties. No big deal you bought panties in bulk it would seem, considering how often you lost panties. Oh, if only you knew...

Heaving a tired sigh that turned into another yawn you went to your bathroom intent on grabbing a shower, not knowing that during the night the seaweed scented body wash you had been using, that you loved had been replaced with a new bottle, or how your razor, one that had been replaced because your old one had looked rather rough. Not that you'd really notice the difference you never did, brushing it off as something you did but had forgotten about.

Turning on the water you heaved a sigh as hot water cascaded over you, tilting your head back you tried to push the odd thoughts from your head, surely there was no one following you, right? Shaking your head you turned off the water, and stepped out of it, wrapping a towel around yourself you stepped into your bedroom, getting dressed for the day. Unbeknownst to you of the man clad in black sitting outside your apartment, staring up at the window of your apartment.

One day Simon would find the courage to speak to you, to actually meet you, not as Ghost, but as the real him, the real Simon Riley. Taking a drag of his cigarette he turned away from your apartment and walked off. He would be back tonight. But for now he would be watching, always.

***

"Are you okay?" You older sister, Lynda asked.

You nodded, before stifling another yawn. You, Lynda, and your younger sister, Amy sat in one of your favorite cafes catching up on your day to day life. Lynda had told you about her job, and her current boyfriend that she had been dating for a few weeks now. And your younger sister had told you about her job, and school. Claiming that she was having trouble with one of her classmates, but things had worked out in the end.

"And you?" Amy asked, looking to you.

You bit down on your bottom lip and shrugged your shoulders. "Works been okay, but it's funny..." You trailed off, glancing out the window of the cafe, your eyes widening when you caught a glimpse of a large man staring right at you. Dark brown eyes that were almost black stared right at you. The rest of his face covered with a black balaclava with a skull emblazoned on it. A chill running down her spine.

"Y/N?" Lynda asked, jerking you from your thoughts. "You okay?"

You continued to stare when Lynda tapped you on your shoulder, jerking you from your staring contest, when you looked back he was gone. "I think I'm going crazy." You told your sisters.

The both of them looked to you. "Old news." Amy joked, and was rewarded with a laugh from Lynda.

Okay, you couldn't help but muster a chuckle at that, however your smile soon disappeared.

"No, seriously." Any spoke, placing a hand on your shoulder. "What's going on?"

Taking a sip of your tea you took a deep breath. Maybe you were being silly, maybe you were being paranoid. But maybe telling your sisters what was going on, how you thought you were being followed, how you thought someone had been in your apartment, had seen some guy at your work, and now outside the cafe.

Both Amy and Lynda looked to you as you spilled your guts, looks of worry etched on their faces. "Have you done anything about it? Asked your manager? Or called the cops?"

You shook your head. You knew they had a point, if someone was stalking you it would be best to get others involved. But whenever you noticed the stranger he was gone in a blink of an eye. So quickly you thought it was just your imagination. But maybe it would be best to get someone involved. The the big question was, what would you tell the cops. 'Help, there's a strange man stalking me. And I have no idea what he looks like.' Yeah, that would go over so well. Aside from his eyes and the fact that he was a big dude you really didn't have much on him.

Shaking your head sigh, you're at a loss for what to do. Downing the rest of your drink you get up from your seat, wishing your sisters a good day before leaving.

***

You knew I was watching you, didn't you? Simon thought, dark eyes tracking you as you left the cafe and headed home, Simon trailing behind you. Occasionally you would glance over your shoulder, and every time you did he would dart down an alleyway, occasionally you'd catch a glimpse of him and quicken your pace. Until you finally reached your apartment, glancing over your shoulder as you did. And as he watched you Simon couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be a day when he would be able to talk to you, touch you.

Shaking his head he walked away.

***

Days had passed since you had spoke with your sisters, and now you found yourself in your work breakroom, a cup of bitter black coffee in you hands as you talked with your coworkers, listening to them discuss their plans for the night. When one of them turns to you, Stacy.

"So, Y/N what are your plans for the night?" She asked.

You thought for a moment, if you were being honest you really didn't want to go home. Didn't want to be alone. So maybe hanging out with your friends after work would do you some good.

"No really, why?" You asked.

"Well me and Kayla are going to this new club downtown, want to come?"

That sounded like a good idea. Smiling you nodded. Perhaps this would help you forget about what was going on, there was no way your stalker would follow you to a crowded place like that, right?

"Great! We'll pick you up around eight. Wear something cute, there are going to be a ton of cute guys there, you might meet someone there." Stacy said.

If you were being honest you weren't really looking for anyone but you weren't going to tell her that. You liked Stacy and Kayla but they always seemed to be trying to hook you up with someone. So you said nothing. And before long your shift ended without incident. And were now wandering around your apartment trying on various outfits, before finally picking on a short black dress. And were now fixing up your make up, painting your lips a dark red.

Placing the lipstick in your purse, before looking at yourself in the mirror, smiling, satisfied with how you look before turning away from your mirror as you hear a knock at the door. Opening it you were greeted your friends, a wide smile on your lips.

"You ready?" Kayla asked.

Smiling you nodded, before closing and locking the door, before following after your friends. Unaware of the eyes on your retreating back. Unaware of the large man following you as you laughed and joked with your friends, as you got into the car, Simon following suit, following you into the club you and your friends had gone to, him following after. And soon disappeared into the crowd and drunken and probably high club goers.

Eyes on you, always on you, watching as you danced, the tight black dress you wore hugging your curves, and perhaps to him was a tad too short if the hungry glances other men shot were were any indication. Anger swelled in Simon's chest as he moved closer to you, when from the corner of his eye he caught movement, seeing a man with spiky black hair and torn jeans saunter up to you while you were dancing. Alarm bells began to ring in Simon's head at the hungry look on the mans face as he placed his hands on you, clenching his fists he moved closer to you, watching as you and this man, no, not a man, a boy danced, a sultry smile on your painted lips.

***

God, you needed this. You thought as you stepped into the club, eyes widening as you looked around at all the dancing people, before following your friends to the bar, and ordering a few drinks, before glancing at the over crowded dance floor, Kayla and Stacy glancing around at the men, who looked at the three of you, and you would admit it did make you feel kind of uncomfortable, but you quickly brushed it off. You would have fun tonight, whether you went home with someone or by yourself.

Downing your drink you looked to the girls, and blinked as they were nowhere in sight, obviously having melted into the throbbing mass of people before you. Great. Hopefully you would be able to find them by the end of the night. And if you couldn't you had your phone to where they were at when it was time to call it a night-

You didn't have your phone...

"Fuck..." you muttered, looking through your purse once more, and found it gone. Obviously you had left it on your nightstand as you busied yourself with getting ready to go out. Great.

Hopefully you wouldn't need it, or run into trouble where you'd need to call someone. Shoving that thought from your head you moved towards the dance floor, letting the music take you away from all your problems, occasionally going to the bar to buy a few more drinks, and as the night went on you felt yourself getting more and more tipsy. When you felt hands on your swaying hips, followed by the feel of someone pressing up against you, looking over your shoulder you saw a man around your age looking down at you, and offered him a smile as you looked him up and down.

He wasn't too bad looking, but perhaps that was the alcohol talking. But hell, you had come here to let loose and have fun. So why not dance with this guy? Turning around in his grasp you place your hands on his shoulders. Smiling seductively at him as the music continued on and you and your unnamed friend continued to dance until the song ended.

"You got some pretty sweet moves." He said, smirking down at you.

"Thanks." God, you never knew what to say in these situations. But this unnamed gentleman only chuckled. "Names Danny, and you are..."

"Y/N." You answered.

"Well, Y/N, can I buy you a drink? You look like you could use it after all of that." Danny said.

You should say no. Something about him seems...off. But maybe it's the alcohol maybe it's the fact that something seems off, but still you accept. Smiling when Danny went off to get you another drink. Unknown to you that Danny had slipped something into your drink before approaching you once more.

You thanked him, smiling at him. Danny watching as you took a sip, a dark look on his face as you did so. Little did he know was that a certain someone was watch him and was seeing red.

***

A low, animalistic growl escaped Simon as he witnessed this all happening before him, fists clenched he stalked to where the two of you were. Eyes glued on you as he saw that whatever that guy slipped into your drink finally took effect, and the guy wasted no time putting his hands on you, muttering some reassurances that you would be okay, a slimy smile on his face as he guided you towards the exit, Simon trailing behind.

While it was true you would be okay, the man that had drugged you, wouldn't live to see tomorrow...

***

Something was wrong. You felt wrong, all the colors were swimming together and you felt dizzy, were you sick?

"You okay?" Danny asked you, placing a hand on your shoulder, steadying you. Concern in his voice.

"I-I don't... know?" you murmured, your words slurring. Stumbling into his arms.

"Let's get you home then."

"B-but..." You tried to get out, he didn't know where you lived, so where was he taking you? Fear gripped you as he guided you towards the exit as you struggled to get away, to no avail as Danny lead you outside towards what you couldn't only assume was his car.

"Please, I just want to find my friends." You whimpered, trying in vain to break free of his grip.

"Relax, beautiful. Everything is going to be all right." Danny drawled, a slimy grin on his face, eyes looking you up and down, his cock twitching at the thought of all the things he would do to you when he got you to his home. Completely unaware of the large looming figure creeping up behind him, a figure clad in all black.

Not until he found himself slammed against the brick wall of the building the two of you stepped out of, the air knocked out of his lungs.

"What the fu-" Before he could even finish his sentence a fist connected with his face, breaking his nose in the process, blood spilling down his lips. Crying out he stumbled, blinking back tears as he managed to push himself away from the wall, and the walking pillar of death that was one Simon Riley, towards where you lay on the dirty ground. Having finally passed out, and were completely unaware of the danger you were in.

But he didn't get far as Simon grabbed him and drove his fist into his stomach, making him vomit up the contents of his stomach. The punch was soon followed by a kick to the ribs, dropping him to the ground. Poor Danny tried emphasis on tried to ward off the blows that rained down on him in rapid succession, he screamed and cried as he felt his bones snap, as he spat out his teeth. Oh, he tried to scream, to beg, to get whoever was beating him to stop but he was too busy spitting out his teeth and vomiting blood to get a word out. And sadly, he was pretty certain whoever this guy was, and he was beginning to suspect that this guy was one of your friends wasn't going to stop until he was dead.

And he was a right, as the last thing he saw was a size twelve boot stomping down on his head, then nothing.

Simon saw red, anger like he had never felt before consuming him as he grabbed that scum that thought he could hurt you, take advantage of you. An animalist growl escaping him as he threw the guy against the building as that was the last thing he remembered as he slowly calmed down, looking down at the bloody body, he had beaten the guy to an unrecognizable mess, his face was a mess of blood, his teeth laying scattered on the ground. Simon heaved a deep breath as he looked down at his hands, noting that he had beaten the guy so damned hard he had split the skin on his knuckles.

Nothing he hadn't endured before, something he could take care of later. But for now, he needed to take you home. Wiping his hands on his jeans he picked you up, dark eyes looking you over, looking for any sign of injuries and noted your skinned knees. Obviously from when he had grabbed the guy, forcing him to drop you. He would take care of those when he got you home. Nodding to himself Simon headed to where his truck was, placing you in the passenger seat before driving off to your apartment. Even though all he really wanted was to bring you to his home, to keep you locked away, safe from people like that man who drugged you, and from your friends that left you all alone at the club. Leaving you vulnerable.

But no matter, when he was sure you were safe he would take care of your friends and then he would work on turning his home into the perfect place for you.

The drive to your house wasn't very long, Simon was silent as he carried you to your apartment, fishing through your purse for your apartment key, and unlocking the door. Simon wasted no time carrying you to your room, and undressing you before putting you in your pajamas, before moving to your bathroom where he would assume you kept your medical supplies and found some disinfectant as well as some band aids. Cleaning up your skinned knees he bandaged them before looking down at you once more as he pulled the covers over you.

You had no idea who he was, to you he was just another face in the crowd, one of many. But to him you were everything, there was just something about you that drew him to you. And he knew he couldn't just walk away this time, not yet. Pulling his mask over his nose he brushed his thumb against your bottom lip, relishing the feel of how soft your lips were against the rough pad of his thumb. Licking his lips he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to them before pulling away somewhat reluctantly.

Trailing his fingers across your cheek he turned away from you. You would be his one day, but for now Simon had some work to do getting rid of those that would harm you. "Goodnight, Y/N." He whispered, before melting into the shadows.

***

Authors Notes- Thus concludes Chapter Two. Sorry it took forever, life you know. Also I apologize if Simon might be a little OOC. Couldn't help it.

#female reader #tw obsessive thoughts #tw stalking #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #yandere ghost #yandere simon #tw violence #tw paranoia #non-con touching #Simon's fave thing is watching reader sleep.#Non-con drugging #Almost Non-con SA #Tw death

47 notes · View notes

scratchandplaster · 1 year ago

Text

Stack The Deck - PART 13

CW: Carewhumper, non-con touching, referenced stalking/non-con bathing/nudity, gaslighting, panic attack

PART 12 ⇽ [Masterlist] ⇾ PART 14

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

All of this could be worse, Elliot had to constantly remind himself of this fact; so, so much worse.

At the very least he didn't find himself in the trunk of a Honda or a crack house bathroom, just the sparsely decorated home of Chris, being far more tidy than he'd like to give him credit for. Said man had disappeared a few minutes ago, leaving Elliot to stew in bewilderment. The spots where skin had met skin started to itch.

Focus, come on. Neither the lonely houseplant next to the TV nor the properly aligned armchair could help him; behind the bed he was placed in stood a dresser with a full ashtray on it. The sun that had so rudely woken him up before already moved on, but the window it entered through didn't budge an inch, letting the muffled sound of cars driving up and down the road flow through the glass. They were at least on the third floor.

Jump, a harsh force pulled at his stomach, now. What else would he break in the process?

The smell of vanilla and sugar let him come to a bit more, a sour taste gathering at the thought of what's next to come. Even though Elliot had no idea why he was taken again, the animal part of his brain prepared for the worst regardless; knowing this time could be dangerous in a whole different sort of way.

"Do you like pancakes?" Morris called out, looking back from the kitchen to check if this was still real, if Elliot was really with him now, "Of course you do."

Did he? Elliot wasn't so sure about it anymore, he couldn't get his next steps on track: a rescue he couldn't remember, the warm welcome, the fact that Amber was just old news - where did this suddenly come from? What do you call a joke nobody's laughing about?

Wrapped up in the hysteric circle of repetitive thoughts, his hands started to knead hills and valleys into the blanket and rewarded his already tense arm with a short sting of fire. Elliot usually avoided to, but looking down at his palms, he noticed the rough red lines of dark scab across them.

"Did I fall?" he whispered to nobody in particular.

"Yeah, I guess so. I mean, you were bleeding; your knees too. Don't you feel that?" The well-meaning hint fell on deaf ears.

Though Elliot did feel that. An all-too familiar burn started spreading its stinging tendrils out to reach his elbow first and if not appeased quickly enough, it would only grow further. On some days, it crawled up behind his eyes.

But not yet, there was still time. Finally ready to act, Elliot threw the heavy covers off his legs, which were not tied together despite the uneasy memories. He could work with that.

The cooked batter already built up bubbles, he could see it from where he was standing now, the kitchen also being the entrance area and final room to separate them from the outside world. After flipping it over to reveal a perfectly browned crust, Morris at last noticed him: "I thought of you, moving north into the wilderness to ride moose and become a park ranger or whatever. She got me good; upstate, my ass!"

Jesus Christ, what is he going on about? Elliot had read an article about brain damage some odd months ago: poor Morris probably had an aneurysm during the time they didn't see each other, and hopefully would be blessed with another one soon. This had to be it. He, for one, didn't act like a guy who got invested in a spontaneous religious awakening.

Elliot swallowed hard, interrupting the senseless yapping and looking into Morris' steam-covert face that only underlined his unsettling glassy expression: "I can't do this again. Please, I give you everything."

They faced each-other while still keeping a good distance, with the door to the hallway practically only a jump away. Elliot could make it.

"The bathroom is on your right," Morris said through a patient smile, "Freshen up a bit."

--------

Coward. Even a splash of cold water on his puffy eyes didn't soothe the lingering frustration; if this were the Olympics, he'd be awarded the golden medal for backpedaling, especially when it came to his own survival. You dumb fucking coward.

Elliot even lacked the guts to lock the bathroom door. When push comes to shove, one could bet Morris would just kick the hinges in.

Where had the time gone; the time he should have used to prepare, to take action against Morris? Not boxing, naturally, but something... anything meaningful. All that followed was well deserved, it seemed, the punishment for wasting away in his childhood bedroom and staring motionless at a wall for eight months.

The bathroom mirror gave a flash of relief as Elliot pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Think!

For the first time in a long year, he looked at his reflection. A broken man glared back through empty eyes. Single beads of water ran down his chin to be soaked up into his shirt, already damp with the stench of fear and sweat.

The shirt he wore the whole night; a shirt he did not wear yesterday, one he did not even own, meaning that Morris had to- Oh god.

Maybe he should think less, before losing the last bit of sanity.

Not that it mattered, Elliot's only goal was clear: convince Chris to leave him alone, even when he had to bear his unorthodox signs of reparation. Smile and nod and play Crazy Eights until he opens the door: old habits and such. Nothing to lose this time, he could do it!

As Elliot awkwardly stalked back to the kitchen, the stinging had already engulfed his whole left hand and throbbed with every horrid expectation. One favor Morris could do him, if this went south too, was to cut the damn thing off already. Turning around into the kitchen fully now, he was greeted by the same stupid grin that send him away. At least one of us is having fun.

Elliot was gently led to the table and forced to sit tight until the chef was gracious enough to join him; dragging his chair to position it opposite to his guest. A stack of warm pancakes was placed carefully in front of both; they didn't look half bad.

So this was the apology breakfast then.

"Here you go, Ell!"

The cutlery slid right next to the plate and with Chris closer than ever before, Elliot could feel his body heat on his face. By reflex, his head curled down to make himself as small as possible, as if mesmerized by the pancakes he was blankly staring at.

"Say when." A thin stream of sticky maple started to coat them: the apology syrup, surely.

He would have appreciated all the effort in a different context, but with his sweaty right clenched around the butter knife, any sense of domestic bliss was lost.

Elliot felt his mouth go dry in anticipation; bile already collecting further.

None of them had noticed how heavy their breathing went, so Morris decided to be more brisk and let the hand he had positioned so innocently on the backrest slip down the small of Elliot's neck.

This is the apology- the-the apology...

The touch of rough fingers against his sensitive skin made Elliot shudder violently and writhe away from the contact. Even though that wasn't a "when", the steady drizzle of syrup stopped in its flow.

Letting his hand wander even further down to dip under his collar and between his shoulder blades, Chris too was mesmerized. His skin felt pleasantly warm to the touch; stroking back and forth, up and down to soothe his boy who was nearly losing it again. So tense.

He knew it only got worse the longer this medicine he demanded was held back, so why not enjoy the last calm moments for a while. Brushing the peach fuzz at the base of his hairline awarded Chris a low whine. So pretty.

His left arm was sore by now and already cooking up a storm, Elliot could feel it.

Morris felt glad his guest was deadly focused on the meal he made them, otherwise his bright red face would only prove how excited he was getting.

He hadn't missed how much longer Elliot's hair had grown, still happy that he managed to wash it last night. Speaking of which, was he always this pale and skinny? He did look kinda rough, Chris determined with a frown, they hadn't taken good care of him, wherever he'd been before.

Not for much longer, of course.

Elliot too had learned from his mistakes, though he never expected to use his newfound knowledge. Enjoying a bite to wake up god-knows-where; no, thank you! It made little sense to take his meds and just drug him still, but he had to anticipate senseless acts from a senseless man.

Elliot wouldn't look up, hell no, that face just helped to make him throw up faster.

"Sorry, but I'm not eating this," Elliot murmured, unsure if there was a gentle way of teaching him that.

Morris looked sheepish: "Oh, is it burned? The first ones always get a little bit more...crispy."

He neither took silence nor no for an answer, but two could play that game.

"So, what do you want to do after this?", Morris asked. He hoped to get the best use out of their intimacy before the inevitable temporary mood killer.

"You talk a lot." Sadly, not one coherent sentence. So Elliot refused to give in to the chit-chat.

"I'm just excited," Morris admitted quietly while desperate to hide the red blotches on his face.

Excited about what?

He had to sound like a broken record by now: "Did I do something wrong? I didn't tell anyone, I swear!"

Morris sighed.

"No, no, I'm not angry with you, is that so hard to believe?" He couldn't stop playing with full, dark strands of hair. "I just said these things to buy more time."

Collecting what remained of his shaky words, Elliot failed to bite his tongue any longer. Sweet-talk me all you want.

"Y-you said, you'd kill my mother."

Morris would never, scout's honor! That woman was huge.

"Yeah, I didn't mean that, obviously!" came the annoyed huff.

Obviously, like Morris wasn't a dangerous man to be around. Obviously, like it was Elliot's fault for believing threats against their lives.

"Wouldn't make a difference if you had told them, either."

A difference for Elliot nonetheless, one could suppose, seeing how drenched in tears he suddenly was. In another life, one where he got to be less of a disappointment, he told his parents and doctors the truth to make peace with himself.

At worse, new accusations only fast-tracked Morris tardy rendezvous with justice. Dragging an unconscious stranger through the streets perhaps did raise some eyebrows... Do you even know about the warrant? Maybe you like a spark of danger.

Unable to protest, free-flowing tears got thumbed away by a caring hand and unbeknownst to Elliot, Morris simply loved that he let himself cry freely.

In the open space behind them, a phone started humming anew. The unhappy musician was finally lucid enough to recognize the melody this time: Für Elise.

In case he had been smart enough to spend the last months growing a backbone, he would have spat Morris straight in the face. The sheer audacity made all tears ebb in an instant.

After what had been more than enough time with strange hair between his fingers, Morris took a seat and let his head drop into his hands: "I hope that doesn't bother you, I'm just gonna let it ring."

Actually, it did bother Elliot, but in a whole different way.

"Where's my phone?", he asked instead, because surly, whatever scenario he was dragged into, Morris considered him sympathetic enough to gift him one call. Like in the movies.

Bet he isn't dumb enough to let it lie around.

The response he got was a worthless shrug: "You didn't have one on you."

How well did that freak search me?

The only other explanation was him losing it during the fall, where and when this supposedly happened was a whole different mystery to him. Taking a hesitant forkful of batter into his mouth, Elliot hoped his good manners would earn him a blink of silence: time he needed to think about his next steps. For now, it only brought a satisfied grin onto himself.

After a few more minutes, the ringing died down.

--------

It became extremely clear that Elliot's plan would go up in flames. A chat with Chris, to smile and look pretty, forcing half a pancake down his tightening throat - he really put all into it. It wasn't enough.

His face burned brightly now too, from fear or rising nerval misery was unclear, all he knew was that it hurt. Pearls of sweat slipped along his fingertips into his lap while Morris was too busy cleaning up the table: "I guess you're full for now, huh?"

The low coo only made him twitch in his seat. Elliot had to stop losing himself.

"How's your...the-the rabbit. You had one of those, right?" Chris asked, turning towards the sink to put the dishes in.

"Good," Elliot tried to say, but any effort to speak was cut off by a choking flare that shot up his neck. The ache hit him without warning throughout every muscle fiber and surged right back into its birthplace, over and over, until nothing but a hollow wheeze shook his body.

It hadn't been this bad in a long time; his skull threatened to split into pieces and if nobody was here to help, then Elliot was glad to take the job.

Fuck Chris and his absolution, if he didn't want to finish what he started, so be it.

This wasn't an abandoned crack house, he didn't need to leave the building, but just had to find someone who lived here too.

Move, the force demanded again, now; and this time Elliot listened.

Without second thought, he slid from the chair and leaped for the door, even closer to it than ever before.

One -two- three steps now and with the door latch just in reach, he-

A thick arm quickly wrapped around his waist to throw him unceremoniously against the nearest wall. His left hand was on fire.

"Let go!" Elliot gasped loudly; too close to screaming for Chris' liking, so a skilled grip around the neck made him shut it quite nicely.

"Calm down, it's alright. Just don't be loud." At least right now. Nobody minded him being noisy elsewhere...soon, he couldn't expect this right off the bat. "Look, I'll let go, but the door is locked anyway, so don't freak out again."

What Elliot tried didn't came as a surprise, but hurt him nonetheless. Morris was more disappointed than upset.

"I'm not doing anything to you, I'm just trying to help!"

Still pressed against the wood-chip wallpaper, one fist grabbing his left arm and one flat on his chest, Elliot could do nothing but take ragged breaths. He was going insane, without question.

"Then help me," he wailed, "nothing of this is alright, I want to leave!"

"You want your next fix, but I won't let that happen, sweetie," he replied sullenly, noticing how Elliot cringed at the pet name. There was enough time to find one that fit.

"I'm not a fucking junkie!" he tried now, his breaking voice didn't make this any more convincing, much less his mood.

"Then why so antsy, huh?"

"It hurts," Elliot mewled, trying to pull his hand free, "just stop!"

"Why? I'm not even holding on tight..."

What was this man going on about? Elliot wondered if he was that dumb; or maybe found it funny.

"You know why," he whispered baffled.

Morris' disappointment spread. He knew what that meant, an imminent truth he tried to sugarcoat for a while: the answer to the question of why Elliot didn't show up for the Oratorio, or any other show after that.

Loosening his grip on the arm, but still pressing Elliot closer against the wall, he took his time to inspect the damned hand in question, to really look at his past fuck-up.

It was clearly thinner and paler, even compared to the rest of Elliot, except for the gnarly red scar line that ran from his wrist all the way to the back of his pinky. Fresh new wounds aside, the weakly curled up pair of fingers, four and five respectively, refused to spread out, not held by force but lack of it.

Morris could feel the rigid metal wires under the dewy, paper-like skin. A few pins in there, or a plate at least. The noise when knife met bone played on loop in his ears: the moment once sharp crunch turned into soft smacks.

This wasn't supposed to happen, all of it was simply wrong.

"Why does it look like that, Ell?"

"You tell me, asshole!"

The tension between them rose high again, and with their faces just inches apart, Elliot prayed that he overheard his insult. Any more pressure and his fingers would just snap on impact.

Despite it all, the confused man didn't pay him any mind, too focused on the fruit of his labor: "That doesn't make sense, it should be back to normal by now."

Through the smoke of pain and leftover narcotics, Elliot wondered if he could be braver this time around, as he pulled the hand back to his side.

"Doesn't matter anymore. I want - I need to go home. I don't understand why you're doing this at all. You're so-"

Different, yes. His Elliot was on the best way to finally understand. Chris didn't want to confess yet, it would be too much at once.

"I missed you." The soothing tone was put on in good faith.

"Missed?" It was practically spat at him. Missed what? Beating me? "Didn't you do enough already?"

Craving revelation, though refusing to back down, both men clenched their jaw tight.

"You need to stop, Morris," Elliot had one last desperate offer to give in case Chris really was insane, not in the pop psychology sort of way, but by being a seriously sick man: "I-I can visit you, okay?!"

Why visit when you can just stay?

"Elliot, quit being so formal."

A buzz ripped them apart. Go to hell, Elise!

Gladly, Morris let go of his chest to stomp over to the kitchen counter.

"Fucking Belanger, I swear to god." With a swift motion, the call was ended. It was obvious that dear Chris tried to keep his facade alive, even with all nerves on edge.

"That's my - uh, that's not really my boss, he only annoys me sometimes."

Elliot nodded wordlessly, as if he could give a rat's ass about Morris and his little pusher friends running around town, playing UNO all night long and ruining other people's relationships.

"Just ignore that, he's from Quebec so," he rolled his eyes excessively, "y'know?!"

No, Elliot didn't know. Respectively, he knew nothing, even after spending all morning with him. The oh-so obvious reason for his stay was still a blank hole of ignorance for him.

He couldn't believe a single word coming from that bastard's mouth, he was a liar back then, and he would be one on every single day to come.

Elliot didn't even register how badly he was shivering.

"We just take it slowly," Morris offered, but struggled to cleanse the atmosphere, "only talk and spend some time together. Do you know Azul? The game with the little tiles?"

Elliot sensed how this would go, the bile in his mouth started having the horrible aftertaste of moonshine and ichor.

Oh god, I can't do this again.

Dizziness hit him from nowhere and took all leftover strength from his already drained body. Panting heavily, Elliot didn't remember how he ended up on the cold floor, just how he kept on shaking whilst staring at Morris through blurry eyes.

As if underwater, no words reached him.

He'd laugh at himself, how the thought of another game night made his already wild panic spike, if his lungs didn't trick him into believing he was drowning on land.

I can't do this again, I can't do this again.

"Hey!"

A weight was placed on his chest, wrapping around his ribs and holding him close - so, so close as if to press all the fear out of him. His mind was racing, partly happy the oncoming lightheadedness alleviated the pain being pumped into him with every fluttering heartbeat.

Inhaling was needles in his lungs, exhaling pointless. The air refused to leave against the source of the comforting pressure.

"-need my pills," was the last thing he could force out, before the rest of Chris' heavy body buried him in a tight embrace. Next to Elliot's ear, he shook his head and shushed him gently.

"You're good for me" he murmured, fighting to keep the clutch, "I'm sorry, we'll make this work."

Unable to help himself, Elliot gave in to the dark walls that were closing in around them, praying for unconsciousness to take him away quickly.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername, @canislycaon24

23 notes · View notes

envy-of-the-apple · 10 months ago

Text

Exception

Dark!Geto Suguru x reader

5.8k wc

Synopsis: You never bothered with Suguru's crush on you, knowing it would fade. After meeting him again years later, you make the horrible discovery that his feelings for you have only festered.

(Warnings: yandere, dark content, murder of a side character, slight gore, violence, rape/noncon, vaginal fingering, piv sex, unsafe sex)

When you were in your first year of college, you got a part-time job at a nearby cafe.

It was easy work. Make coffee. Bake some pastries. Attend to the customers. Nothing too unmanageable. It was an insignificant part of your life.

Then, Gojo and Geto came along.

Insufferably annoying. Especially, the loud one. They always caused a havoc in the cafe, often to the point where the manager had to physically kick them out. It was a turbulent two weeks, until one day you promised them if they kept it down, you'd let them try a few of your experimental pastries.

Really, it was your own damn fault. They started coming every day after that, mostly to bother you. The only reason management hadn't outright banned them was probably because Gojo made 50% of their entire revenue.

You warmed up to them eventually. Your fake smiles turned into more amused ones because of their antics. Once or twice, they'd get a good laugh out of you. You've heard rumors of a private, religious highschool nearby. You always assumed they were a byproduct of that.

Eventually, Gojo becomes Satoru. Geto becomes Suguru. Nice kids, if not a bit overzealous. Despite refusing to hang out with them after work, you had to admit, you grew a bit attached to them. You found yourself asking about their day, hiding sweets for the two of them, sometimes you'd even let them steal a croissant or two.

You bet the reason they hung around you was because, to them, you were some cool college student. Secretly, you found it a little flattering. Some days, their friendship was the highlight of your shift. It's clear Satoru is always the instigator, always looking like he's about to bounce off the walls (you have told him to lay off the sugar), it's not like Suguru was any better. He tried to act like he was the more refined part of the friendship. He often fails, at least in your eyes.

It becomes pretty apparent that Suguru had a crush on you. You're not sure when exactly you started to notice the bashful looks, the slight flush on his cheeks whenever you accidentally brush his hand, the fact that he visits far more often (even though Satoru has the sweet-tooth) but you can't unsee it now. It doesn't help that Satoru looks downright giddy whenever his friend talks to you, barely controlling his giggles in the background. His reaction and Suguru's irritation often start a few skirmishes right outside the cafe doors. You've told them multiple times to take their fights in the alley at least. They never listened.

For his sake, you don't acknowledge it, already knowing what it is. A schoolyard crush. Harmless, it'll pass. Eventually, when you're a distant memory to them, Satoru will tease him about it and Suguru will give a playful elbow nudge. Much to your relief, Suguru doesn't pull you to the side and confess. He's refined, in that way, never giving too much until you have the evidence and clues yourself.

It continued like that for months. And then, something changed.

They stopped coming around as much. Daily visits turned weekly. Weekly turned to every so often. Their energy felt off too. Satoru seemed the same as always, if not a bit more mellowed out. It was Suguru you mainly worried for. Each time he returned, he looked worse and worse. Darker circles. Eyes filled with exhaustion.

You pull him aside eventually, asking if anything is going on, asking if he's okay, asking if he wants to talk. As sincerely as you can, you tell him that you're here for him. He at least attempts to smile at that. When you press, he shakes his head.

"It's nothing," you both know he's lying, "it's just....it's nice to see that there is one exception."

A little while after that, they stop coming entirely. You notice, but you aren't able to focus on it. School gets harder, you're cutting back your work to focus on it. You don't even recognize Satoru at first when he walks in nearly a year later.

He's different. So much taller. Despite being a few years younger than you...he doesn't feel like a kid anymore. An easygoing smile is pulled on his face when he sees you, giving a lazy wave. You return it, though a bit hesitant. He talks to you as though no time has passed at all, asking what you made for him this time. He talks fast. His voice is too laid back. Too casual. Like he's avoiding something. You think you know what.

"Where's Suguru?" you ask when you glance behind Satoru for the third time, "I haven't seen him around lately."

He freezes, like he's been dreading that question ever since he came in. Finally, he shrugs, making a noncommital hum. His sunglasses obscure his eyes but it isn't enough to hide how cold he suddenly turned. Satoru seems to realize that too. His answer is pulled by reluctance.

"We don't talk anymore." He doesn't say anything more. You don't need him to.

When he pulls out his wallet, you tell him it's on the house. He looks at you then. His mouth opens, searching for the right words. He waits too long. His mask slips back into place.

Gojo grins at you, painfully fake.

"Take care of yourself, will ya?"

You never see him again after that. You know it's your fault.

You think about them every so often when you can, Suguru especially. He rests in the back of your mind like an old piece of furniture you can't bring yourself to throw out. Suguru sometimes haunts your dreams with his darkened eyes and the pure brokenness on his face. For some reason, you think you failed him somehow. You felt like you could have done more. Maybe, if you'd tried harder to reach out, things would have been different. Two boys wouldn't be utterly heartbroken.

Years pass by. You quit working at the cafe. You graduate college. You move cities. You get a job. Eventually, you settle into a nice apartment. You forget all about your days in that quaint little restaurant, your attention hogged by a couple of annoying high schoolers. You don't think about Satoru for years. You don't think about Suguru for years.

Until one day, when he calls your name in the street.

He was bigger now, towering over you with broad shoulders. His hair was longer, darker too, less of a green, more black. He's ditched his school uniform, trading it for a more casual outfit. It's his face that makes you hesitate before you use your voice, that same smile, physically at least. He looks the same, but then he doesn't.

"...Suguru?" It's a question because you're still not sure.

He smiles wider.

"Long time, huh?"

Somehow, your reunion culminates in a restaurant. You still feel out of it, somehow, like you're watching yourself in an out-of-body experience. Between the food and him, you're not sure if you can even believe it.

He tells you he heads a temple now. A pious man. You shouldn't be surprised, considering his education, but you never knew he was so invested in religion. The two of you converse about other meaningless things. The conversation becomes less stilted. More sincere. You learned your lesson from last time. You don't bring up Satoru unless he does.

Much to your disappointment, he doesn't.

Compared to yours, his life is so crazy. Not just with the temple. Suguru tells you he's a father now too. Adopted two little girls. He's barely 22. You can barely hold your disbelief, shaking your head as you take another sip of your coffee.

"In any case," you say when the conversation draws to a lull, "I'm just really glad you're happy, Suguru. You deserve it."

When Suguru gives you a questioning look, you continue.

"The last time we saw each other, you looked miserable."

His eyes widen in realization before a laugh bubbles out of his throat. Deep, rich like chocolate.

"Back then, I was going through a lot." He sighs. "I was figuring out what I wanted. It...it was a tough time for me."

You nod along, hoping you aren't forcing him to pry. However, the Suguru you're faced with now doesn't seem like that type of person anymore. He won't give if you press. He talks on his own terms. You never once thought of him as a pushover, but he's less open now. Perhaps it's because he's no longer a child.

Suguru smiles then, a little more sincere than his first.

"You know...I've always wanted to thank you."

You tilt your head. "What for?"

He plays with his empty cup like he's searching for the answer himself. "You gave me hope when no one else did. Everyone was so quick to tell me if I was wrong or right."

He leans back on his chair, eyes drifting towards the ceiling, "Other humans, they're always so enraptured by their own lives. You were the only person who reached out. At least, who cared enough to."

The guilt from years ago slipped back into your throat. So he had been suffering. You should have done more. He was just a kid. They both had been. You could have done something. Maybe you could have saved a little more.

His hand finds yours on the table. They're rough, calloused. You can feel the scars. He squeezes your fingers.

"Thank you," he murmurs, "For being an exception."

You squeeze back.

It's a tumultuous friendship, at first. It's much like a burn. Sensitive, it hurts at first. The wound is too fresh. Eventually, dead skin and memories fade away. You find yourself texting him. Once a week. Maybe a little more, if you get brave enough.

Once, he sends you a picture of a white cat lounging in a sunbeam.

looks like Satoru, he types.

(You stare at the caption for a long longer than necessary.)

It does, you send back.

You visit his temple once. He invited you, actually. A free tour, he had joked. It was beautiful. A large expansive garden filled with all types of flowers. The courtyard felt like it stretched for miles. That was just the outskirts of the temple. The building was something else entirely. A large ceiling. Expansive walls. White pillars that keep going higher and higher and higher.

You notice his followers are everywhere. Most carry the same smile on their face. Bright, happy, cheery, but too strained. Like it's a job for them. It feels weird to say, but he fits nicely here. You think that because this wasn't the place you thought Suguru would end up. He dons the traditional clothing perfectly. Like they were made for him. They probably were, considering how high his reputation was.

If he hadn't had the same face, the same hair color. You wouldn't have recognized him at all. He's managed to replace every single thing in his life with something new. It doesn't go unnoticed by you that you're the only thing he keeps from the past. A momento of sorts. You're a keepsake, for him. You don't mind the symbolism. You've always been easily flattered.

You just failed to realize that not all of his feelings had changed.

It was in front of your house. After, yet another visit to the temple (much at Suguru's insistence), he'd offered to walk you home. You would have declined if it wasn't so dark out. In the end, you accept his offer.

"The girls have come to like you," Suguru says after a lull of pleasant silence. When you glance at him, you find his eyes on you.

"Have they?" you prod.

In all honestly, you didn't think they liked you at all at first. You don't have that much experience with young children, but you found it odd how unnerved Nanako and Mimiko seemed to get around you, practically hiding behind their father's figure, peeking out with untrusting eyes. Suguru had to gently coax them out with soft words, insisting that you were a close friend of his, you were 'different'.

"Yes, they talk about you all the time," he continues, rolling his eyes in affection, "Mimiko especially gets very animated."

Your heart skips a beat at his answer. You never felt one way or the other about children, but it felt nice when two little girls felt so highly about you. Those two especially.

"It must be from all the sweets I bribed them with," you say, jokingly, "Please tell me I didn't cause them any stomach aches."

He laughs, light and pretty.

"It's not that," he responds, "it's because of you, mostly. You're different from the others."

You smile, but it's half-hearted, an attempt more than anything. It takes you a while for you to work up for the question. For some reason, you feel a bit nervous, like you're stepping on something you shouldn't be.

"Different," you start, "you keep saying that. What does that mean? What am I different from?"

He stops, just at the entrance of your flat. Suguru's fingers drum on his pants. You stare at him. He stares right back.

"You are different, in so many different ways," he says, though it feels as though he's speaking to himself, rather than you.

He takes a step forward. Tiny, he barely even moved. And yet, the distance between the two of you has vanished completely.

"You've always been. Different from everyone else. The only one." You can't tell if he cut himself off, or if there was truly nothing else to say.

It was barely a kiss. His lips brushed against yours, barely touching. Soft, like he cherished you the most out of all his possessions. The gentleness of it all is enough for you to freeze.

Then his hand curls around your waist, and you jolt back into your body.

You splay your hands on his chest, pushing him away until you have enough momentum to step back. His loose hold on you falls away. You can't look at him, even when you can feel his stare burn into you.

"Suguru," you say, because you're mind is still running to catch up to your heart, "I-we-"

Your name being called stops your babbling. You don't think he saw, god you hoped he hadn't. When you look over, he's smiling, so you don't think he did. He was never one to hide his feelings. Still, you step away from Suguru, ignoring how stiff the man had become.

"Hey," you say, mostly out of relief because you couldn't deal with this anymore. When he wraps you into a hug and a chaste kiss, you wordlessly accept. Suguru's gaze on your back only gets stronger.

"Who's this?" he asks, gesturing at Suguru. Your smile falters as you glance at Suguru. His face was blank. He wasn't even smiling anymore as he continued to stare at your man.

"A friend," you say before Suguru can make this already worse, "and he was just leaving."

"Oh," he says, before smiling down at you. Delightfully oblivious.

"We'll talk later, okay Suguru?" You send Suguru a hurried smile before dragging him into your shared flat.

You lock the door behind you. He says something just then, you laugh, trying so hard not to sense Suguru's presence through the door. You don't think he leaves. Not for a good long while.

You don't speak to Suguru, after that.

You wince whenever you see his name through your contact list now, as though even seeing a remnant of him is painful. You don't go to the temple anymore. Your communication with the girls turns nonexistent.

Suguru hasn't said anything to you either. The line has grown dead both ways.

You feel guilty, even though you know it wasn't your fault, you still can't help but wonder if you could have done something different. Did you do something that made him think you were interested? You probably had, knowing how unaware you could be, sometimes. You couldn't help but feel ecstatic when the two of you reconnected again. You'd been so excited for Suguru, happy for him because he'd finally found his way. You didn't know he still liked you after all these years. It was a schoolyard crush, at least, it was supposed to be.

Looking back, you didn't think you'd even told Suguru that you were already seeing someone. One blunder after a blunder.

It must have been embarrassing for him, you can't help but think. Even when he was younger, Suguru had always held onto his pride dearly. You don't know if your friendship could ever be the same after this, but you'd like to extend the olive branch. If he'd take it.

You tell your boyfriend about the incident eventually. You know it's not your fault, but you still feel like it is. He takes it well, once you explain, looking at you sweetly.

"I could tell something was going on between you and him," he says, "but thanks for telling me."

"You aren't mad?" you ask, half-afraid of the answer.

"At you? Course not. Him, however"- he made a swing motion with his fist "-he does something like that again and I'll punch his lights out."

You laugh, knowing it's a joke, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek. He beams.

It takes a week of radio silence to forget about the mishap. You're humming a song you've forgotten the lyrics to when you arrive at your apartment. Your boyfriend said that he was coming home early tonight. You'd planned something quiet for the evening. A movie, cheap drinks.

"Welcome home." Suguru grins. You freeze.

He sits on the couch, splayed out like he belonged there. He's not wearing his priest garment, now garbed with a simple shirt and jeans. It takes a minute for you to figure out what you're looking at. Slowly, you close the door behind you.

"Hey," you say, hoping your tone doesn't indicate just off-put by this encounter you are.

Suguru doesn't seem to mind your reluctance.

"He let me in." Suguru points to somewhere behind you. Oh, your boyfriend is probably in the bathroom. "He was such a nice man. You were very lucky."

"Thank you," you find yourself saying, "I am."

His smile grows bigger, and you wonder if there's a joke you aren't let in on. Like he's saying something that's going right above your head.

When you take a glance behind you, your partner is nowhere to be seen. It makes you wonder if you should say something to Suguru right now. Mend the bridge that's shattered between you. Currently, he seemed to be in a good mood.

"Suguru," you start, taking a tiny step forward. You twiddle with your fingers.

"Listen, I'm really sorry for how things went the last time we met. I just-" He hushes you, putting a finger to his lips.

"You shouldn't air out your affairs in front of him like that," he tells you, "you might hurt his feelings."

What? You look behind you again. Nothing.

Suguru laughs. It sounds off. Wordlessly, he points behind you again but angles his finger a tiny bit higher. You follow his direction.

Immediately, you wish you hadn't.

He's in pieces, scattered all over the ceiling. A hand is above the door, a leg is above the kitchen. It's like his appendages were chopped before being glued onto the ceiling. There's no blood, just body parts.

The worst part was that he was still alive. His head was still attached to his torso, the only part of him that was still intact. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide, and it took you a second that he was trying to tell you something. Repeating a word over and over.

Run.

Your hand covers your mouth as you continue to stare up at him. What was left of him. You think your knees are threatening to give before Suguru's holding you up. You can feel him lead you towards the couch, sitting you down in the plush mattress. He curls an arm around you, letting out a sigh.

"I meant what I said." Suguru adjusts your hair. "He was such a nice man, for a monkey anyway."

It doesn't occur to you that Suguru had done this until he speaks. You'd known Suguru said he performed exorcisms in his temple. You didn't-you couldn't-

"You?" you can barely push the wavering words out, "you-how-Suguru-"

He hushes you, drawing you closer to his body. You're completely dwarfed by him as he rests his head on your neck, breathing in your scent. You are barely coherent, sucking in air as your voice dissolves into sobs.

"I would have liked it if things hadn't turned out this way," he sighs, "but I don't believe it would have turned out any differently."

His tone is almost pitying.

"You may be the exception, but you are still one of them. Unaware of the true hierarchy." Suguru hums.

"That's alright. It wasn't your fault. You were simply born this way," he continues, "I don't mind teaching you."

You wiggle, trying your hardest to get out of his grip. Suguru only clicks his tongue. A harsh grip on your waist is enough to still you. You can't understand what's going on, maybe you never will, but you know one thing. You let a monster back into your life. Geto Suguru was not the same person you knew when you were younger.

Or perhaps, he was always this way. He was just better at hiding it, back then.

"I'm sorry," you finally let out, "Suguru, I'm-I'm so so sorry. I'll do whatever-whatever you want. Anything just please please please-"

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for him," Suguru doesn't sound too apologetic, "though, I could put him out of his pain. Would you like that?"

You didn't need him to elaborate. Suguru would kill him. Or perhaps he was already dead. His moving eyes, his twitching lips, were all just muscle memory. The last of his brain synapses. There was no science, no magic, that could bring him back from this.

And maybe, that tiny selfish part of you wanted to stop seeing his mangled body.

You nod and you can feel Suguru's grin. He snaps his fingers. The thing disappears, vanishes into mist.

"All gone!" Suguru declares. "There. Isn't that better?"

You wince when he touches your face, brushing away the tears. You're too scared to do anything more. You don't fight when he kisses your neck. You don't fight when he kisses your jaw. You don't fight when he kisses your lips.

It's with the same gentleness as the last time he'd kissed you, right outside of your apartment. Soft, warm, loving.

You start sobbing then. Ugly, heaving, heartbroken. He takes it in stride, humming as he pushes your body down until your back is pressed on the couch. His lips brush your damp cheek.

"There's no need to be afraid." Through your tears, you can see him smiling down at you. "The worst has passed. I'll take care of you from now on."

The worst part about all of this is how honest he sounds. Like he truly believes he's doing this for your good. It makes you wonder who the delusional one is. Him or you.

He's tuts in sympathy as you lay there, shivering underneath him.

"You must be so confused, poor thing." He tilts his head, the back of his fingers stroking your cheeks. "I should explain, shouldn't I? Unfortunately, I'm more interested in other things right now."

You must look horrible, but Suguru doesn't seem to mind, bending down, melding your lips with his. He sighs, like he'd waited eons for this. You stiffen when you feel his hands play with the band of your skirt. As if he can feel your beginnings of struggle, he pulls back, staring you down. Brown, almost black, eyes peer down at you. There's a hint of a warning curling on his lip.

You still immediately. If he could do that, what could he do to you?

"None of that," he chides, and yet he's so painfully gentle about it, "be good."

What was he? How did he do this? How could he? You want to ask them all but you can only get one out when you lift your head, getting your voice to work.

"Why?"

You don't know what you're asking. He clearly does. Another soft smile. You wish you could tear it off his face.

"You were always the exception, even back then," He says quietly into the stale air of the apartment. His eyes drift and you wonder if he's remembering the you all those years ago, secretly passing pastries to him and Satoru, giggling at jokes only a highschooler could make. "The only one of the humans who didn't utterly disgust me."

Fingers reach for the hem of your skirt, pushing it up your bare legs.

"And it's natural, isn't it? To protect the exceptions, the rarities of the world," he says, "To keep them away from the impure."

You start crying again. He patiently hushes you, kissing away your tears. This time, you don't bother putting up a fight. You just squeeze your eyes closed, flinching when he reaches to your inner thighs, feeling the cotton of your panties. His breath hitches. So does yours.

He bypasses the cloth with two dexterous fingers. When he touches the skin, you flinch, trying to squeeze your thighs closed. It doesn't help. Suguru leans forward, you can feel his breath on your cheek as you shiver underneath him. He finds your clit, teasing it with a calloused thumb. You think you're mouthing it, even when you can't bring yourself to say it. Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me.

He doesn't listen. You don't know if he heard it or not. It didn't matter, either way. It wasn’t like he was planning to stop.

Despite how much you don’t want this, your body doesn’t listen. His touch is gentle, soothing on your pussy despite the horrors you’ve seen him do. It doesn’t take long for your cunt to adjust, dripping.

There’s a satisfied sigh above you and you know Suguru had felt it too.

One finger pushes into you. You gasp, curling your back, unprepared but Suguru’s giving a pleasant hum, easing you into it. Despite how humiliating this entire situation is, your one reprieve is being able to bury your head into his neck, keeping yourself there as he continues to have his way with your body. You can feel him kiss the crown of your head, an action that completely juxtapositions another finger entering your wet hole.

He’s gentle, but not slow. He fingerfucks you with earnestness, curling his fingers when your walls tighten around him. Your crying is interrupted by the reluctant moans and gasps every time he presses deeper into you, finding a spot that has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. You bit your lip, keeping the noises inward. He tuts at that.

“Don’t be shy,” he coos in your ear, “it’s okay to enjoy it. I want you to.”

As if to highlight his words, he gives another particularly intense push, you wince when you can hear the wet squelch of his fingers.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Suguru asks, “I could always be this nice with you.” You let out a squeak when his thumb presses against your clit, unable to keep it in. Suguru gives a breathy laugh.

His other hand starts to explore, reaching up to your button-up, flicking them off with a single-experienced hand. The bra you wore is barely seductive, but Suguru’s tracing the ends of it anyway, touching the fabric just by your skin before pushing the undergarment down.

Whether it’s from the air or his fingers fucking your pussy, your tits are already sensitive. You let out a breathy whine when Suguru grips on of them too hard, squeezing the fat in his large hands.

“So sweet for me.” You can hear the smile on his lips.

Everything becomes too much, and before you can think, your hand is shooting down, grabbing onto his wrist, squeezing as hard as you can, your nails digging into his skin. Your other is pushing against his shoulder. He barely seemed to even notice, holding you down with his weight, thrusting in his fingers all the way to the knuckle.

“Suguru I-” It’s supposed to be another plea for him to stop, but your weak voice calling out his name only seems to excite him further. His thumb dances on your swollen clit, his fingers never relenting until he’s pushing you higher and higher until you fall.

White hot electric pleasure snaps within you, forcing your body to jolt, as you curl up from the sofa. You think he’s saying something, words of comfort as though he could be any crueler, but you’re not listening. You came so hard you almost forget where you are, who you’re with. You can feel Suguru watching until you fall against the cushion again, utterly spent. Your grip slackens against his wrist, before falling away completely.

“See? Didn’t I say I’ll take care of you?” You don't even have the energy to glare at him.

He’s giving another laugh, kissing your cheek before he’s leaning back. His fingers slip out of you, and then there’s a sucking sound. You can’t help it, blinking open your eyes. Suguru stares back at you, eyes half-mast, a pink tongue flicking out to lick at his fingers before he puts them in his mouth completely, swallowing down the evidence of your orgasm. A lewd moan escapes him, muffled. You once again wished you hadn’t looked.

You’re already expecting it, but you still flinch when you hear the zipper loud and clear. He moves his jeans low enough to pull out his cock. He’s already hard, a bead of precum right at the tip as he gives a few cursory pumps. He’s big, you blearily realize. Despite the mind-numbing orgasm he’d just given you, you doubt it’d be enough to even take him.

“It won’t fit,” you find yourself whispering.

Suguru just hums in acknowledgement, giving you a knowing look as he finishes tugging off your panties. The fabric slides off your shaking leg before dropping onto the carpeted floor.

It’s too late for a fight, but you’re rising anyway, pressing your hands against the cushions, trying to create some space. Suguru is quick to shut it down again, leaning back into you as he palms himself some more.

“You’ll be alright,” he assures but it doesn’t help the panic the fear in your soul, “I cherish you too much to break you.”

With little effort, he spreads your thighs. His cock rubs against you once, twice, before entering your throbbing pussy.

Already it’s too much. He’s thick, stretching out your walls, threatening to rip you in half. You close your eyes again, squeezing them shut as the pain starts to edge a little too close to bloody. Helpless, your hand finds his shoulder, not pushing but digging your nails into his shirt. He purrs when you grip him tighter, moving until he’s seated fully into you.

He stays like that, keeping himself there as your walls squeeze him tighter. It’s almost a relief that it ended, but now, he’s taken everything.

“Look at me.”

His voice is rough, almost a rasp, an order. You find yourself obeying. Through your tears, you blink up at him, finding his gaze.

He stares down at you, a look of satisfaction in his eyes and you don’t think you are yours anymore.

He pulls back, your cunt tries to suck him back in, but he drags his cock out anyway until only his head is barely inside.

“Perfect,” Suguru murmurs as though it’s a secret not even you should hear, “absolutely perfect.”

You cry out when he pushes back in. It’s a gentle pace, slow and steady like he’s easing you into it. He’s being kind, you finally realize, a thought that makes your skin crawl. It’s so much worse than if he had been nasty. Harsh and biting with thrusts that would make your body sore and weak afterwards. If he was abusive, not caring about you, just his own pleasure. You wish Suguru was being mean, being cruel. At least then, you wouldn’t like it.

Despite the unexpected size, your body is adjusting. Pain ripples into reluctant pleasure, numbing your mind as his hips meet yours. It gets even worse when Suguru leans down, biting and sucking at your tits, enough for there to leave a mark. Something that will bruise and remind you of what he did.

“You don’t know how long I wanted this,” he’s saying somewhere above you but your head is swimming and you can’t focus where you want to, “how long I’ve wanted you like this.”

Suguru sits up again, grabbing one of your legs, hiking your hips up so his cock can go that much deeper inside of you. You babble something that you yourself can’t decipher. Suguru’s lips curl into another painfully soft smile.

“Ever since highschool,” he’s confessing like he’s a sinner and you’re his God but you know that isn’t true because what sort of god would be humiliated like this? “Remember that apron you wore?”

His hand reaches over, spreading over your pussy, stretching the fatty part of your cunt so he can have a better view of him disappearing inside of you.

“I always wondered what you’d look like wearing nothing but that on, spread out on the counter for me.”

He flicks your clit, and for the second time that day, you can feel yourself crashing. As though he can sense it, his thrusts shorten, grinding against your pussy and there’s a hand catching your chin, forcing you to look.

Suguru’s smile is gone, replaced by a snarl that promises to eat you alive. His eyes are blown wide, and he’s gritting his teeth, barely holding control by a hair.

“Come for me.”

You’re too far gone to do anything but listen.

You stutter in his grasp, arching your back, cumming with a breathy whine. It’s like a tide, pushing you out into sea, refusing to take you in. Unconsciously, the leg he holds tightens around his waist as you pulse around his cock.

He follows after, barely holding himself together, not when your cunt is milking him for all its’ worth. There’s a few particularly harsh thrusts before something warm and sticky fills your battered pussy before he's falling into you, pressing your body against the soft cushions.

You lay there, panting with him on top of you. Slowly, you come back to yourself, feeling your arms your legs. Your brain resets, and you’re suddenly remembering that you have a murderer’s cock inside of you.

Suguru’s face is buried in your neck. He gives a shaky kiss to your jaw; another on the corner of your lips. You can only stare at the ceiling, where the remnants of a body used to be.

"You know, the girls have always wanted a mother," Suguru's saying into your skin.

"I'm sure they will be very pleased with my choice."

#yandere #yandere jjk #x reader #dark content #dark jjk #non con touching #tw:noncon #dark geto suguru #yandere geto suguru #tw:gore

2K notes · View notes

pheavampire · 6 months ago

Text

THE RADIO IS BROKEN: PART 3

Finally some change of scenery!

It's amazing to observe how I am able to draw more and more with every page.

PART 1

PART 2

PART 4

#hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #vox #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel comic #one sided radiostatic #one sided staticradio #onewaybroadcast #valentino #hazbin hotel valentino #hazbin hotel fanart #trigger warnings #aphobia #non con touching #the radio is broken

361 notes · View notes

diejager · 1 year ago

Note

may i ask what's your thoughts on yandere horangi but like specifically just him (Konig excluded pls and thank you 😂)

Yandere Horangi

Headcanon

Pairing: Yan!Horangi x reader

Cw: yandere behaviour, possessive behaviour, DARKFIC, non-con touching, punishment, forced relationship, tell me if I missed anything. Wc: 694

Horangi’s a cold and sarcastic guy, but Yan!Horangi has the added bonus of being mean and stupidly possessive.

Yan!Horangi could be laughing at something you did, be it a clumsy mistake or something he deemed ridiculous. He confronts you, glaring down at you with narrowed eyes filled with dark intent, something dangerous that has you shuddering, but you can’t talk back to him when he looks so menacing in his get up: mask pulled up to his nose, eyes gleaming under his red-rimmed glass, hood shrouding his face in darkness and his body exhuming death with his simple and minimalistic choice of clothes.

Yan!Horangi is cruel with his remarks, he demeans you, breaks you down for him to build up to something more profitable, more likeable to him. He prefers doing things hands-on, as he’s always done, moving you around as he deems fit, one hand on your shoulder, on your waist or the small of your back, anywhere he can touch you.

Yan!Horangi might be means and degrading, but it’s his way of showing KorTac who you belong to. As stated previously, he’s very physical, he isn’t shy of publicly touching you, manhandling you to his pleasure in front of his coworkers, uncaring of your enflamed and shamed flushed cheeks. He’s not bothered by how embarrassed and undignified you feel, you scratch and hiss, fight him whenever you can. He likes the fight, that feisty gleam in your eyes when you glare at him through your lashes and pouty lips, staring up at him with a subtle tremor.

Despite Yan!Horangi’s usual rough handling, he can be gentle, helpful and insightful. He might help you master or better understand a certain skill. If you have issues with a certain gun, he’d stand behind you, chest flushed to your back, hip to ass and him breathing down your neck. He takes training very personally, he expects you to commit to mind every word, every advice and every compliment, but he knows he’s demanding too much from you. He’s easy to understand, teaching with simple wording and visual cues to follow.

That, however, doesn’t stop Yan!Horangi from punishing you if you do something wrong, pulling you to his room to reprimand you for disappointing him. He has you kneeling before him, hands on your thighs, eyes downcast and lower lip pulled between your teeth. It’s a power play for him, to show you who’s in control in this self-proclaimed relationship he forced you into.

Yan!Horangi treats you as a pet behind closed doors, holding you on his lap, fingers carding through your hair and making you abide to his many rules. He’s finicky about it, easy to anger when you’re not doing things by his book. Although he has a few dozens, he only pushes for a few: don’t let other people touch you; don’t talk to anyone for too long; don’t spend too much time with someone who isn’t him, especially alone; don’t forget that you belong to him; and don’t forget to listen to his words. He’s especially hard on you to let people know that you’re his.

Yan!Horangi doesn’t want to be cared for, he has the money, the strength and the independence to live on his own, learning from his past gambling issues. He wants to care for you, that’s all he truly wants, to love and care for his little pet. Despite his wish to lock you up, to keep you to himself and deprive the world of your presence, he’s whimsically desperate, like a feline marking its possession, he likes when you smile, your crazed gleam when you return from a successful mission with him or another operator.

After all, Yan!Horangi is as in love with you sweet and submissive side, obediently listening to him after he pinned you to the ground, hissing at you, as he’s obsessed with your feral smirk, grinning as you cleave a man in half with a bloodthirsty gleam in your eyes, staring at him. You’re his pretty, pedigree cat, clean and posh, listening to him when he asked, yet bratty when you felt like it.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #horangi #kim horangi hong jin #horangi x reader #horangi x you #horangi mw2 #cod x reader #yandere #non-con touching #Punishment #discipline #horangi mwii #mw2 horangi

282 notes · View notes

crookedkryptonitebeliever · 10 months ago

Text

Yandere coworker (part 7)

Tw: non con touching and kissing, reader being cringe on main, cyprus being a horndog as usual

Masterlists, part 1, part 8

You had a mild fever and didn't realize it. You can't believe that it took Cyprus of all people to figure it out. Maybe it's the adrenaline and anxiety that's keeping you chock full of energy.

It was embarrassing when you saw the doctor glancing at the very visible Hickey Cyprus left on your neck. But she doesn't seem to care, all she said was to try and not be so stressed even if it's hard. Because that is most likely whatever is causing your immune system to weaken.

Overall, it's nothing too serious. You just needed a couple of paracetamols and a night of rest. She advised you to come back if any other symptoms arise. You accepted the medical certificate that allows you to be absent from work for 24 hours.

Cyprus paid the bills and collected your medication for you despite your protests and whining about how you can cover it yourself. It isn't because you didn't want to burden him, it's because you knew Cyprus would use this against you later.

You were curled into a pathetic ball on his couch, finally feeling the effects of your fever despite eating a couple of pills earlier. Cyprus made you rest your head on his lap as he watches TV. His arm hanging off the back of the sofa, while the other tangled his fingers in your hair.

He told you that the match doesn't start until later at night, you should take a nap.

You told him straight up that you don't want to, and you rather sleep at home alone. He simply rolled his eyes and huffed at your difficultness.

There was a beat of silence before you asked him another question; why you, out of all the other women he could have pulled? There are others who wanted this... Dynamic between him and them.

"I told you." He leaned in. "You're the only respectful one in that office- you're fishing for compliments, aren't you?" A teasing smirk made it's way to his face.

You vehemently denied, saying that you're no different than anyone else. You bring nothing to the table.

He laughed. "You bring your cute little ass to the table." Cyprus brought his digits to your sides, tickling you to the point of cackling. "You're just what I want. What I need. A genuine, humble, pretty girl for me to spoil rotten."

You tried swatting his hands away, but he ended up firmly pushing you off him and onto the soft cushions, before you could do anything else, Cyprus is already straddling your hips. He grinned as he sees you squirming under him, you had nowhere to escape since he's caging you between his sculpted arms.

"You're such a princess too. So small and so weak against me." He whispered in your ears before brushing his lips against the side of your neck. "I love it. I know I'll love fucking my princess in bed too."

You whined and mewled as he assaulted your jaw with kisses, you couldn't move your head because he was grabbing handfuls of your hair.

You felt yourself heating up, you're unsure whether it's due to your fever or something else.

"But you're not ready yet..." He mumbled against your skin and ceased all movements, he's draped over you like a weighted blanket. Finally, he lifted himself off you, but still hovering over your form.

"You're still so shy." He kissed your forehead, yet his lips never parted with you. "So... meek." Cyprus continued talking. He pulled away and stared deep into your eyes, you noted that his glasses weren't on his face anymore.

"Loosen up, baby. I will make you feel good." Purred Cyprus as he slowly slid his hand under your shirt, feeling up your bare skin.

You stared back while holding your breath, eyes wide and cautious. He snorted and grinned.

"You're so funny, doll. I like your cute, little reactions." He retracted his hand and returned to his original seat beside you.

"Happy now?" He laughed at your flustered state. "Want more? I can give you more. Trust me, I have a lot more to say." Cyprus licked his lips while eyeing you sleazily.

You frantically shook your head, that was enough. You're convinced that he likes you for something that you're trying to get rid of: Your pushover trait. Well, you can't start swinging at him. He's still quadruple your size and you would like to keep all your teeth in your gums.

He guffawed, putting his glasses back onto his face. You flinched when he brought the back of his hand close to you, but somewhat relaxed when you realized that he was only trying to check your temperature.

Cyprus then checked the time on his watch. He got up to go elsewhere but came back a few minutes later with a glass of crisp, refreshing water and your pills.

You muttered a thanks as you went ahead and took another dose.

"Screw the match." You turned your head to him as you took a gulp.

"I'm not going." He slumped back onto the sofa, having his steely grey eyes trained on the television.

You asked why. He narrowed his eyes at you, pointing the remote control at the monitor as he changed the channel.

"My girl is sick. I don't like seeing their ugly mugs and we haven't had dinner yet." You continued staring at him.

"Duh." He concluded his sentence before tossing the remote control onto your lap.

You said that you can take care of yourself. You told him to just let you go home and you'll be out of his hair.

"I don't want you to get out of my hair." He got up and walked to the kitchen. You twisted your head and saw that he was rolling his sleeves up.

Cyprus opened the fridge door to collect the ingredients for dinner. "I'll be taking care of you. What fucking bastard wouldn't care for his girlfriend?"

You said you don't want him to. And you never agreed to be his woman in the first place, you do not care about him as a person at all. You're only here because he kept stealing your belongings, you asked him where your bags are.

"Soap operas are on channel 132, Reality TV, 123." He cut you off as he washed his hands.

You frowned. You said Cyprus is going to let the organizers down.

"And you think I give a crap?" He shot back, putting a metal pot on the stove.

You said they might not let him participate in the future.

"So?" He began julienning some carrots skillfully on a chopping board, you wonder if he had any prior culinary experience with the way he would slice through the vegetable with such precision and speed.

He might... lose his friends? his reputation? And feel bad? You don't know how else to put it.

Cyprus simply hummed and fell into silence, focusing on his cooking instead. You wonder how he could chop a whole onion without tearing up, its invisible fumes are already stinging your eyes at this distance.

You said that he should at least give them a call that he's not coming tonight.

"You know, for someone who doesn't give a damn about me 'as a person', you sure do care a lot. About me." He drizzled some olive oil into the pot. "...As a person." Cyprus continued.

You said that it's common courtesy. You felt bad for the audience and the ones who invited him.

Cyprus scoffed as he went ahead to chop some potatoes. "Are you bored, doll?" He asked. "If you wanted to help out with dinner, you could have just said so."

You're actually bored without your phone, you would take anything at this point to entertain you. The TV isn't showing you anything good. So you asked if there was anything he could let you do.

"You could take a nap." He nonchalantly replied, sauteeing the onions he prepared earlier.

You said you don't want to. You don't trust him.

"Then, let's talk." His eyes never flitted towards you, always on his workbench and stove. "How do you like your foreplay?" Cyprus went on to cut a slab of chicken breast into small cubes, and he threw them into the pot.

You said you don't want anything to do with it.

"So you prefer to fuck straight away?" Once the onions and meat were sufficiently browned, he poured in enough water to cover everything. "Figures. You're always rushing to get to "the point". You should try enjoying the journey sometimes."

You said that you don't want anything to do with sex.

"Whatever you say, beautiful." He laughed.

You sighed and slumped back onto the sofa. Your ears picked up on the sounds of the soup bubbling.

You decided to ask more about him. Might as well gain knowledge that you could use against Cyprus later. You asked about his family.

"Why? Do you want to meet them? I didn't know we were at that stage already. But I'm not complaining." He used a teasing tone when speaking to you.

You stayed silent, wishing that it was easier to talk to him.

He took a deep breath and exhaled, the smile dropped and was replaced with a neutral look. "I have an older sister. Raised by a single mom."

You asked where his father is. He stopped his cooking to look you incredulously in the eyes.

"Really? Not even an "I'm sorry" before asking that straight up? God, you're..." His shoulders sagged in defeat upon seeing your clueless face. "...really something else."

You waited for him to continue. But he simply frowned, almost scowled at your lack of social elegance. Looks like he isn't comfortable telling you about his father.

You asked more about his childhood.

"It was fine." He took out another pot, poured in some raw rice, and washed it under the tap.

You asked about his relationship with his mother.

"She worked three jobs to feed the two of us. Never really saw her around."

What about his sister?

"She raised me. Taught me how to fight, taught me how to cook, built me a backbone, and..." He paused momentarily. "Well. You wouldn't expect a nine-year-old kid to be the best mother in the world. Especially when she never asked for a brother that acts like her son."

He subconsciously brought his hand up to the back of his shoulder.

You asked about the relationship between him and his family now.

"We're doing fine." He placed the lid on the pot of rice and turned the heat up. "My sister lives a couple hours away from me. My mom..."

Now invested in his life story, you stared at him.

"She lives down the street." He placed another lid on the pot containing the soup. Cyprus then walked to the sofa, plopping down next to you.

"She's retired. Good for her, though. She deserves to rest."

You asked if he talks to her. To which, he nods.

"She would sometimes bring some food over. It's weird, I never knew what my own mom's cooking tasted like until I was 19. I only knew my sister's and my own."

You asked if he talks to his sister.

"Nope. Can't say I blame her, though. I was a piece of shit to raise." He brought his hands behind his head and leaned backward.

"What about you?" He asked, his grey eyes piercing into yours.

You gave him a summary of your life since birth and your current status with your family and other relatives, most of them are back in your hometown and home country.

He hummed in acknowledgment. Cyprus went on to check your temperature again, this time by touching the back of your neck.

There was silence between the both of you, accompanied by the sounds of dinner cooking away on the stovetops.

"You look like you have something on your mind. Spit it out." He broke the quietness by gently nudging your leg with his feet.

You blurted out if he chose you because you reminded him of a maternal figure he wanted.

His jaw went slack as he stared at you in disbelief. "What the fuck are you talking about, doll?"

You said that you couldn't give him what he wanted. You suggested going to therapy to work his "mommy issues" out before dating, so he wouldn't get hurt when his girlfriends couldn't fulfill that requirement of his. You do not have a single motherly bone in you, apologizing if you have accidentally come off as that way at first. You can't take care of him like how a proper mothering girlfriend would.

"Obviously! You can't even take care of yourself! What the fuck are you even on about? I'm not looking for another mom. I'm looking for a girlfriend! You-" He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He groaned in frustration and in extreme bafflement.

"Christ, what is with your thoughts? If I was looking for a woman to baby me, you don't even come close. Look at yourself! You barely feed yourself, you either sleep too little or too much, you can't even tell that you've had a fever, You didn't even know when to take your meds, you can't get off that damn phone and you let everyone walk all over you at work. If anything, it's the opposite, I'm looking to baby someone!"

You sat still and listened to his exasperated rant. You cringed internally; yes, you were definitely reaching, desperately trying to get him to let you go by reasoning. You were so sure that this argument would work, because you held this bias where men that have rocky relationships with their maternal figures would want a partner who is motherly. Thanks to your excessive internet usage and limited interaction with the real world.

He tiredly rubbed his face. "You have got to go out more, doll. That... fucking website is rotting you from the inside out."

You looked away in embarrassment.

"You were spewing the exact same bullshit I see online. I can't believe you're--" He heaved a sigh.

"It's fine. Our brains do not work the same during an active addiction." He stood back up and headed to the stove.

You told him you're not addicted to your phone.

"Yeah. And I'm totally not addicted to smoking." He took out a stack of paper bowls from a cabinet. He pulled out a couple of disposable wooden spoons and forks from his drawers.

"Come on, dinner's ready."

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #oc cyprus #yandere x female reader #male yandere x reader #tw afab reader #tw fem reader #tw non con touching

199 notes · View notes

tennessoui · 1 year ago

Text

thinking about a soulmate canon au where you find your soulmate via touch and the jedi order is a bit more pious and has a very respectful no touching culture that obi-wan absolutely abides by. meanwhile anakin is raised on tatooine before coming to the temple and he's really used to touch, and it drives him a little insane, that no one touches him casually in the temple but he learns to abide by it as well and follow his master's example

only for him to fall head over heels for padmé as soon as they touch in aotc and he thinks his reactions to her are due to them being soulmates so they get married because padmé doesn't really know what finding her soulmate feels like either, but anakin's touch and attention feels good (and maybe he unintentionally uses the Force to convince her) so they must be soulmates

meanwhile obi-wan saved his padawan's life when he was like sixteen and was knocked unconscious and tossed into an ocean or something so obi-wan gives him mouth to mouth to resuscitate him---and discovers instantly that they're soulmates....but anakin's out cold and doesn't feel it so obi-wan's left alone with the realization that he's some kind of monster, being the soulmate of a child and anakin can never ever ever know.

so canon happens as canon does but with obi-wan knowing and keeping this secret to himself and carefully making sure he never touches anakin while anakin gets all of his touches from his wife and obi-wan watches from afar knowing he can never tell anakin or anyone else

but palpatine works it out and definitely tells anakin once he's Fallen and killed his wife and also been barbecued (by his soulmate), which makes vader obsess with finding obi-wan (more than he is in canon)

and he finally captures him and has the acolytes chain him up in mustafar. vader visits and asks if obi-wan cut off his arms so he couldn't touch him and know, and it's obi-wan's worst fear and biggest regret that anakin finds out they're soulmates, but now he has no control over the situation. not as vader approaches, not as he takes off his helmet, not as vader leans close and brushes what remains of his lips against obi-wan's cheek

and it feels just as good and right and perfect as it did the first and only time they touched, except now obi-wan isn't sure who the monster is. maybe it's both of them

#kit's silly lil aus #obikin #vaderwan #tw: non consensual touching #to be safe but also in my mind its wayyyy dubious and non con touching when vader captures obi-wan #obi-wan's relatively helpless and vader is still a touch starved cat #rubbing their cheeks together because it feels so good to touch his soulmate #but also his soul mate has made it impossible to touch him #what an obi-wan thing to do #obi-wan probably considers (for a brief brief brief moment)#letting anakin die when he first finds out he's his soulmate #but then he could never #but it adds to his guilt about the whole thing #and his shame #and his feelings of unworthiness #etc etc etc #for this to make sense i guess the jedi are also pretty unimpressed with soulmates because of the attachment issues they cause #and that's one of the reasons theyre very no touch #so shame upon shame upon shame for obi-wan here #also imagining Kenobi show era obiwan using himself as a distraction so leia can get away #all he’ll see is me dialed to 300%#with an added all he’ll want to do is rub the remains of his face against my body and say awful mean things that cut me to the quick #but I can take it because k agree with all the mean things

224 notes · View notes

scratchandplaster · 11 months ago

Text

Stack The Deck - PART 14

CW: defiant Whumpee, explicit threats of noncon, referenced dubcon, multiple Whumper, Whumper-turned-Whumpee, non-con touching, withdrawal, mouth whump, intimidation, pet whump, casual racism, ableist language

PART 13 ⇽ [Masterlist] ⇾ PART 15

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Occasionally, Elliot drifted into consciousness only to be pulled back down at every new spike of fear. This endless dance between waking and dreaming continued until the sun had begun to set. Slowly and with great endeavor, he managed to let his heavy eyelids stay open at last and noticed how his left arm was carefully bedded on a cushion.

"You napped the whole day," a whisper next to Elliot's ear made him suck in a startled breath and flinch around.

Now face to face, Morris laid just inches away from him and the bed groaned under their shared weight as Elliot tried to get some space between them, only to be roughly stopped by a force around his other hand: a leather cuff kept him tied to the bedframe. Its chain rattled as he tugged on it.

Come on! Through the newfound scare, he hit Chris with an appalled look.

"Just for now, don't worry!" he explained apologetically, "You will try to run again, and I need my sleep too."

Messed it up again. Great job, you idiot. Elliot was all out of tears for now, he could feel how sore the edges of his eyelids were from the previous hours.

Fear was milked dry too, so a new burn crawled along his spine, one both of them couldn't dare to afford. This time, it was not pain that spurred him on; Elliot was pissed. After nearly a day spent in his own personal hell, he only had new questions and every cheap answer only turned out to be more confusing than handy.

"Why do you act like you care?" Elliot asked, already suspecting the cryptic answer.

Because he missed me. At least this time it was personal enough that he was the reason of this torture, not his ex ghosting her dealer. If Chris really liked their time together, he shouldn't be docile and polite, on the contrary. He needed to make Morris regret ever meeting him in the first place! During the last few months, Elliot seemingly developed a talent to push people away, a skill he needed to work on him now too.

Well then, Elliot ought to make him suffer for a change.

As Morris fished for a plate full of leftover pancakes on the bedside table, he strained to keep his rough voice gentle: "It's not an act, I worry about you."

An invasive finger tried to caress Elliot's cheekbone.

"Hands off!"

Disappointed, Chris dropped his arms back on the blanket.

"I don't want to scare you. I apologized, I-I thought you were fine, you're fine."

Fine. The word felt like salt in his wounds. Elliot was a wreck of the man he used to be, he couldn't even remember the different phases of his life. By now, there was only before and after Morris.

"So the best way to show your worry was taking me against my will again?"

"I saved you," Chris replied sternly, like he had to convince a jury.

"Saved me. Saved!" Elliot couldn't believe the unending delusions he had to tolerate.

"Yes."

"YOU RUINED MY FUCKING LIFE!"

The shrill cry hammered the undisputed truth in and let them both recoil.

But Elliot didn't even think about stopping, ignoring Morris' desperate attempts to shush him: "I lost my job, my passion, I can't even look my parents in their eyes without imagining what you'd do to them!"

"Nothing!" Chris yelled back and tried to present his outstretched hands as proof, "I don't plan to hurt you or anyone for that matter. I had no idea about the piano thing, I truly didn't know."

"Oh! Oh, you knew where I lived and when to get to me, but the chapter about my job was just too boring to give a single shit about."

"I didn't know, when I did that..." Chris began to trail off, his gaze fixed on the cushioned hand, "I thought you did stock trades, remember? Amber should've-"

"Amber? Yeah, go ahead and blame her, why not! But of all the crap she did to me-"

"To both of us-"

"GOD," Elliot was already kneeling on the bed, successful in ousting his opponent to stand on his own, "at least she didn't turn me into a fucking cripple!"

That bastard was lucky Elliot was chained up now, he never imagined how great it felt to let all bottled-up anger burst through its thickly veiled prison. Morris had to listen and could do nothing but stand around, mortified. Even if he changed his mind any second, beat him to a pulp and threw him into the ocean, it didn't matter: this was worth it!

"I understand why you're mad, but I'm trying to make amends. You forgave me," how Chris' little fish brain was even able to let him breathe on land was a mystery to Elliot, "but if that's not enough, tell me what is."

"You know a good neurosurgeon?" he scoffed instead.

Morris knew Paula-Marie, the veteran nurse with the face of a bulldog who would stitch him and Dutch's men back together when a tour had become ugly. He doubted this would help.

"Let's start small. Baby steps, okay?" Morris was sure Elliot could still play a bit if he really wanted to, but was just too lethargic to try. Another reason to keep him far away from those pills.

"Sure, I tell you how to get even: you'll take this damn chain off, you're going to open the door and never harass me or my family again," Elliot demanded with absurd nerve, given how obviously inept he was to stop his body from shaking. Not only that, countless goosebumps sprouted on his skin despite the heater running high and the sweat-drenched clothes that stuck to even damper skin. Watery eyes gave a hunch of what was happening and hit Chris with welcomed ease. This fight wasn't his fault after all.

"Oh, I get it now. It has already started, huh? That's why you're lashing out at me."

"What started? Don't sidetrack," Elliot replied, nervous about the sudden lack of defensiveness.

Everything was becoming so clear now. Forgiveness, recompense, the taming of Elliot's prejudice: these were all topics for later, when he could get his feelings straight. It had been more than twelve hours since Chris brought him home, so withdrawal was right on time.

"Are you feeling nauseous too?" Chris' voice became impossible soft, "Does it itch?"

Once again, his hand reached out to dab the beads of sweat from Elliot's forehead. A desperate kick to the stomach was all Morris got rewarded with.

"Never ever touch me again!"

Never was a big word; as for waiting, this Chris could do. But first, he had to be sure he still had a good nose in that regard.

"Do you need your meds?"

Yes, oh sweet Jesus, yes! Elliot was desperate for a chance to numb himself. Even though he had to behave for it, he could play along for a while.

"Please," he whispered, dropping to sit hopeful on the bed's edge.

Yet instead of pellets made from synthetic calm, a disappointed sigh escaped his chaperon: "Wrong answer."

Chris plumped down on the armchair again and tried his best to ignore the tirade of curses and insults spewing from Elliot's fair lips. No matter how hard the next days turned out to be, it didn't matter: this was worth it!

--------

For the whole night, nobody in the apartment slept. Chris tried to get some more breakfast into Elliot, but to little avail, he was turning more and more irritated by the second.

Meanwhile, Morris had found the time and energy to tinker a wrist brace, so Elliot wouldn't hurt himself sleeping. Or during other pastimes Chris hoped to initiate soon. Between cardboard, hot glue and the turned back Elliot gave him whilst sulking in bed, the morning had been blissfully quiet.

Until there was a rustle at the door.

First, Chris thought it was his steady-drunk neighbor fiddling with the wrong lock again, but when the first peg clicked dutifully into place, his heart skipped a beat.

Elliot had noticed it too, someone was joining them. Maybe Berry, or whatever his name was, the Montreal angel who could release him into freedom.

Their eyes met.

Before Elliot could even use the fleeting chance to cry out, a handful of fabric was already shoved into his mouth. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

"One noise and your hand will be the last of your worries," Morris hissed in his ear, choosing a tone Elliot definitely recognized.

Nevertheless, he tried to kick the man straddling him off again, but a hard slap to his right cheek whacked his head against the metal frame. Elliot saw stars.

"Sorry," Chris stressed voice whispered and threw a pillow over his face as if to hide the dazed man, "just let me sort this out."

Jumping up again to slam the door between the kitchen and bedroom shut, Morris too suspected who tried this little break-in. Admittedly, yes, he was supposed to be available, but to treat him to a few days of sick-leave surely wouldn't kill Belanger. Adopting a wide stance to welcome the fucker who dared to show up unannounced, Morris was ready. Said man finally opened the door to let Chris' face drain off all color. Oh, no.

"Good morning, Christoph!" The cheerful greeting trickled down his spine like acid.

"Hello, Dutch."

Head not only hung low in terror, but also to keep the conversation at eye level, Morris went through his options. Lying, at any rate, seemed necessary. The man himself felt free to take the first steps into the kitchen, eyeing it from grout to ceiling as he wiped the condensate from his glasses. His judgement-filled stare came to rest on Morris, who unconsciously picked dead skin from his fingers until they bled before opening his mouth again: "You...uhm, you got a spare one?"

"If I have a key to my own apartment, Christoph? Do you want to ask me that again?"

"No! I-I just didn't expect-"

"I do, as you can see. What I don't have is the nerve to tolerate your biannual hissy fits," he started to berate, the speech placid and in tune with his gestures. "I give you a bed to sleep in, a car to borrow and this what I get back for my aid?"

He didn't look irate, though that was rarely the case. The beast disguised its snarl as a laugh.

"No, of course not! I'm very thankful for-"

"Well, somehow it doesn't feel like it, but even your thankfulness doesn't bring in any money. I should be working too, but instead I'm spending my time here…with you."

This was even worse than the lecture Chris had brought onto himself last winter. His knee stung with every gibe.

"So then you go on and cause poor Belanger to lose it. He's practically seething, as you are aware of. And you also know what happens every time he gets fed up." Chris' fingers twitched imagining what he would do to that snitch, still praying Elliot was stunned enough to hold his tongue. "I won't have to stand him, and I doubt he'd like to take a stroll in this part of town, so you know who has to, don't you?"

"The girls." Chris swallowed hard.

"Of course, his poor girls. Now imagine: the whole day you freeze by the slip road to have some greasy cocks shoved up inside you, just to be appreciated by the receiving end of a fist because a certain someone can't be bothered to pick up a call. It's tragic."

"Sorry." Besides all the bootlicking Chris shuffled in front of the door that he needed to keep closed under all circumstances.

"Well, you're going to be sorry when I make you sell your ass out there. Is there anything I must know about?"

"Personal reasons, I was…distracted."

"See, that is where-"

A muffled scream from next door cut them off. Oh, god.

The thin smile which appeared on Dutch's face couldn't make his mild facade budge: "Is there anything I must know about?"

"'S'all good," Morris lied, but couldn't stop the treacherous shiver running down his neck.

"Christoph, what are we doing here?"

Another, more enraged cry was all information necessary. Dutch simply clicked his tongue.

"I can explain!"

Pushing Morris aside, the door swung open to reveal, well, not exactly what the stranger had suspected.

Elliot, for one, tugging loudly on his cuff and not even dreaming to stop making noise for even a second, could hardly believe his luck. His noble savior just had to get him out of this room and he would never bother them again. Just inches behind him, Chris followed, revealing a face he had never seen him in before: true, genuine fear.

"I'm aware I'm not allowed to bring someone over, but look, this is a-a-an emergency, and I didn't know where else to put him."

The older man's eyes lit up further the closer he came.

"He's usually not a screamer!"

All the hassle about missed shifts was forgotten, Dutch powered through this farce with unhealthy patience: "I'm disappointed, to be honest, we could've made a playdate out of this."

The innuendo caught Morris off guard, though he hadn't repressed his last visit to the office. Stepping over to the bed, Dutch examined the man struggling to sit upright. It was clear he was less than thrilled about his current position.

"¿Eres de por aquí?"

What the-, Elliot thought as his chin was roughly grabbed by a leather-gloved hand and turned to the side. Help me, you asshole!

"Is he, Christoph?"

"Huh?"

"You need to know what they are when you want to sell them." Oh, fuck.

"I don't- that's not what's happening here," he yelped and for the first time, Elliot's muffled protest supported him.

"Is that what the H was for? Can't be, it's been forever," he wondered, "Loans? Not that I'm insinuating you to be in the position to lend in general."

"No." Chris felt like he was going to hyperventilate until the eager look of his boss finally got him where he wanted, suddenly tired of the interrogation Dutch expected nothing but straight answers. A lie, Morris decided. No, even better, a true confession that animated Dutch to respect boundaries.

"He's my boyfriend."

The bedroom went deadly quiet. Face held firmly in position, Elliot didn't even react. No yelling, no crying, but simply looking on in silent disgust as if the word itself made him rot internally.

"And does he know that too?" Dutch cared to learn, whirling back to the man under him, "Did you know that?"

Elliot's mind suddenly decided to bow out.

"That's a no, I'm afraid" the stranger pouted back at his employee and this time the comment stung in hot embarrassment. "Apologies, I didn't intend to ruin the pining, but you have to admit that this is…unexpected. I feel like a principal catching you two petting behind the gym in seventh grade."

This man was not shocked by a tied up hostage, not outraged at imprisonment; at best, he acted mildly irritated. He appeared to be in his fifties, Elliot guessed, his thin wire glasses and soft face marked with laugh lines made him look like your favorite neighbor down the street.

Ultimately, his distasteful cues left a foul aftertaste on Elliot's tongue, but as the man picked the gag out of his mouth and sighed deeply, the world turned a bit more peaceful. Elliot couldn't afford to be picky, if this were the only rescue available he'd gladly take it.

"Please help me, sir," he whispered in the best customer-service-voice he could muster, ignoring all of Morris frantic signs to stay quiet.

"You beg so beautifully, do it again."

The world had gone to the dogs and cursed its children to be devoured by the very same. Nobody here wanted to help, and underneath the tweed coat and corny tie Elliot saw the stranger for what he really was: an apex predator.

Observing an erratic, twitchy Christoph at the far side of the room, who was not coming closer but obviously desperate to get him out of the room, Dutch allowed himself to be the only one enjoying the scenery: "Glad I took the walk, this is lovely! But you are confused, so let me explain: your sweetheart here refuses to do what he's told, and I cannot let that stand, now can I? First he neglects his duties to start a late summer romance and the next thing you know, he'll make a deal with the competition to get me out of Chinatown."

"Dutch, I would never-"

Who the fuck is Dutch? This was all backwards.

"I love when he gets like this, all jittery." Helpless, Elliot's head lolled over to see Chris in all his nervous glory.

There was a gleam in the stranger's face he quickly blinked away. An idea had spouted.

"Should we tease him a bit?"

Elliot didn't want to figure out what that tease would entail. Too late.

"No, no, nononono!"

Without warning, the gloved fingers that only just held his face were shoved inside his mouth. Others pressed into his flesh until he was forced to open even wider as he tried to curl away from the brash intrusion.

STOP! Just why wouldn't they stop touching him?

All the squirming to no achievement only earned him a disapproving hum from the man, who seemed horrifying precise in how to toy with his body.

In and out, the vulgar rhythm of his knuckles let him slide deeper and deeper down Elliot's throat, all under the watch of indifferent eyes. Despite the writhing and mewling and arching away, resistance was futile. Elliot's angry left wrapped around the glove with all his might but got swatted away, so the last chance to free himself was to lock his jaw and-

"If you dare- Hey! If you even think about using your teeth, I will break them out of you one by one."

Every word hit a nerve. Elliot couldn't breathe, couldn't stop retching and gasping around Dutch's fingers until he was used as he pleased.

Frozen in place, Chris leaned on the wall with his mouth pressed into a thin line and his gaze fixed onto the carpet floor. If anyone listened, he prayed for it to stop already. Another sin to amend for stacked up.

"Look at him, Christoph," the man demanded coldly, "not at me, at him."

Morris eyes darted full of panic between his duties, fists clenched and released with each heartbeat until his head threatened to explode at any second. All those present knew he was unable to do a thing about it.

Fear beats rage any day.

"This is your fault, and the next time I stick something in him will not be as proper."

"Yes, sir," Chris pressed out between clenched teeth.

Not intruding further, just resting inside Elliot, the leather-gloved hand paused as if to think about its next choice. Yet, the lesson already caught on. Without wasting any more effort, Elliot was released.

Only being held down now, the pressure inside him was slowly vanishing. Despite Elliot retching around the palpable ghosts of the invasion, a gasp of relief came over his spit-smeared lips. Every cough freed him from the dirty taste of leather and fumes.

"Badly trained as well," the man stroked a thumb over his Adam's apple, "Did he try you out already?"

Try me? Try to kill me?

Morris decided to answer for him instead: "No."

"A true gentleman. But you're missing out, Christoph here can suck you off like a champ."

Unsure of how to take this compliment, but no less flustered, Chris doubted the man in his sheets was enticed by this kind of flirting, judged by his horrified stare. Though Elliot had allowed for similar speculation in the past, he never thought it could lead up to this. His mind was granted a useful answer, just a filthy one it couldn't possibly accept.

Luckily, Dutch's attention was pinned down on Morris again: "Are you expecting someone else to join? East Hasting and Kaslo, don't let him wait."

Without another word, Chris darted through the room to grab the bare essentials, leaving a helpless Elliot panting for air. At last, the stranger had pulled his disgusting hand away and also disappeared from his focus. All the vile flavors of worry and weakness tumbled over each other.

By the time he came back to the present, Chris was fully dressed and hovering over the bed again. He, too, was speechless, the cursed word hanging over them like a bad omen.

"I'm not your- What the fuck, Morris?" This had to be a bad joke, not the reason he was brought here. A ruse to get that guy off him.

"We'll discuss it later."

"There's nothing to discuss!"

"You're too loud," Chris had to take a deep breath, "Sorry, I know I will regret this."

Trying to muffle a possible desperate scream that Elliot long hadn't in him, Chris pushed the fabric back into his abused mouth. He hated how Elliot wasn't even trying to fight back anymore, Dutch tended to cause this reaction in people.

Gagging him once seemed insufficient; a roll of duct tape circled around the lower portion of Elliot's face, and he did nothing but simply lie there and take it until the ripping of the tape stopped. The restless tears had begun their trek again.

"Shh, don't cry," Morris whispered sweetly and nodded over to the kitchen, "Seriously, he likes that."

A little peck on the tape stayed unnoticed through Elliot's paralysis.

"I'll be home soon."

Though he would not be not alone, no. Rather, Elliot was left with Dutch and the consequences that would entail in his absence. He'd stay if he had the choice.

Before strutting to the apartment door, he met his eternally poised boss between the pantry and dinner table to interrupt his inspection of the thermostat. Chris prayed that his parting words would calm leftover animosities: "I take full responsibility. He's not-"

"You're running late," Dutch stated, his amusement outlasting the last sliver of patience. All had been said.

Leaping down the staircase and praying for safekeeping, Chris ran west into the unknown.

"There he goes," Dutch's whispered. Now, he was free to take his time looking through strange property and pulling open every single drawer he pleased. The one thing he wouldn't complain about was the well-kept state of his home, it was nearly impressive how well organized a man on the run could be. Dutch kept himself busy by browsing through the few books he discovered between old clothes until his interest got caught on Christoph's latest possession. One with a very pretty mouth. The man was assessing…contemplating.

"- try you out already?"

Locking his knees together just earned Elliot a dirty grin.

"If he doesn't perform like usual, I'm going to blame his incompetence on you. Would you like that?"

He quickly shook his head.

"Speak, boy."

"No, sir", Elliot muttered through the restrictive layers between his teeth.

"Good. In that case, keep your legs spread," came the sober response, "I don't intend to waste any more of my time."

The man grabbed the TV remote from the nightstand, turning on some program about endangered birds Elliot couldn't care less about, the volume high enough to suppress any wayward screams for help.

"Will I hear a single noise complaint from my tenants?"

"No, sir." Being stuck in that piercing stare made shakes wreck through Elliot that didn't come from a lack of artificial opioids.

"Entonces sé un buen chico y escucha a tu novio," was the last thing he was told before the stranger turned on the spot and let the door lock into place.

His wish was granted at last, Elliot remained in solitude.

--------

Somewhere near the harbor, a pleasant walk from city parks and small cafés, an office door swung open. Hanging his thick attire on the coat rack, Dutch let unopened letters drop haphazardly onto stacks upon stacks of paperwork.

They had to get the new shipping load to arrive tomorrow, otherwise the supply chain on the main land would be delayed pretty quickly. He ran a stressed hand through his hair and sighed. He truly couldn't afford to waste more time like this, even if a quick indulgence always lightened the mood around the office.

Speaking of which, his personal joy had to have woken up by now. Dutch circled the room to finally catch a glimpse of the scantily clad figure kneeling on the floor, always securely collard to the desk. A single knuckle under the chin was enough to make once bright eyes stare back in apathy. A view to be savored again and again, one that made Dutch's inside stir in wild pleasure.

"You won't believe the day I had."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername, @canislycaon24

@febuwhump

14 notes · View notes

envy-of-the-apple · 10 months ago

Text

Earth Kills Moon

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word count: 6.3k

Part one: Sun Eats Moon

Part three: Moon Starves Sun

Synopsis: A retelling of Sun Eats Moon in Suguru's perspective

(Warnings: forced relationships, bullying, non con touching, non con kissing)

Suguru liked you.

It wasn't even a crush. A passing interest, maybe. You were pretty. You had a nice smile. Though, he'd never directly spoken to you, he could tell that you were kind. Not in the artificial cherry most people were. Natural, like honey, never spoiling. You share the same homeroom as Satoru, and he'd always tended to be observant, unlike his friend. One thing he liked about you was how observant you were. You were constantly looking out for your friends, mere acquaintances, and everyone in your vicinity. Often, Suguru wondered if being a people-pleaser was natural or from a fear of not fitting in.

Suguru is observant. He notices the lingering gaze Satoru gives you when you walk away, hurrying to catch up with the rest of your friends. Satoru then turns back to the carton of chocolate milk you'd left him.

"Cute," Satoru says after a minute. It's more of an afterthought than anything. He pops the carton open. Suguru hears the fabric tear. He hums in agreement. The topic switches to something else, a hot celebrity maybe? Suguru can't remember. That day had been so insignificant to him. It hadn’t mattered to him for Suguru to remember anything further.

A few days later, Suguru noticed Satoru was spending a lot more time with you.

It was hard not to notice, actually. His friend attached himself to you like he'd die if he couldn’t. Satoru went everywhere with you now. Suguru caught him walking you from school, offering you rides in his new car, following you to the lunch hall. And if he couldn’t go to where you were, he’d drag you back to him. Watching you and Satoru was a bit like watching two magnets. North pole and South pole. So different, yet constantly finding the other.

“Tryna’ run away from me, now?” Satoru asks, a teasing lilt in his voice as he watches you fiddle with your bag.

You laugh, continuing to fish out your lunch box. “Just grabbing lunch.”

“Eat with us,” Satoru insists, “we found a great spot up at the rooftop.”

You meet Suguru’s gaze just then. He’d been silently lounging on a nearby desk, observing the two of you. He gives a smile. You return it. Polite. He wonders if your mother taught you to smile like that.

“I thought students weren’t allowed up there?” You ask Satoru.

The boy rolls his eyes. “So, who cares? It’ll be fun.”

You pause, right then. The tiniest of hesitation. Suguru wonders if you’re noticing just how different you and Satoru were. You, the people pleaser, meek, always more than willing to bend towards authority. Satoru was rougher, more resilient, uncaring of signs and rules. The gap between the two of you is astronomical. Could you feel it as well?

Whatever you’re thinking, it’s gone in a moment. You rise, giving Satoru another laugh. To Suguru, it sounds pretty.

“Well, have fun for me. Besides, I can’t ditch my friends. They’re waiting for me.”

With that, you give both him and Satoru a tiny wave, before disappearing out of the classroom. Suguru waves back. Satoru doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on your back until he can’t see you anymore.

“Got ditched again, hm?” Suguru teases. Satoru only groans, tossing his head back as he leans dangerously on the chair.

“Always leavin’ me for ‘em, too,” he complains, “so fuckin’ annoyin’.”

Suguru can only smile, getting up to follow his friend out the door. He can barely count how many times he’d seen this before, each with a different person. It starts the same. Satoru will cling onto you for a couple more days, and then ask you out. When you say yes, he’d date you for a few weeks before eventually getting bored and dumping you.

It’s a cruel cycle, something that’s just an inevitability with Gojo Satoru. The boy can’t stay in one place, he’s constantly moving around, never one to stop. For Satoru, Suguru was the most permanent thing in his life. Which made sense, they were pretty similar in terms of ideals.

A cruel cycle, and Suguru feels a tiny bit of sympathy for you. You were sweet, unlike the type Satoru typically went for. Honey. Natural. Truthfully, Suguru was a little disappointed as well. The type of disappointment he’d feel when someone took the last crab stick before he could. A fleeting feeling, one that ultimately wouldn’t matter.

◉

From the day they first met, Suguru knew one thing: Gojo Satoru has never been told no before.

It made sense. He was the only child to one of the most powerful families in the country. Spoiled from day one, some could say. Satoru grew up knowing nothing but wealth and prosperity. They met when they were both still in elementary school, still with high-pitched voices and large eyes. Suguru’s family was fairly affluent as well. Now that Suguru thinks back, perhaps their meeting had been orchestrated by meddling parents in order to form more connected. It didn’t matter, either way. It had benefitted all three parties, after all.

Yes, Suguru knew from the moment Satoru pointed at him and declared him his ‘best friend’, that Satoru had never been told no before.

Satoru was the Sun. The universe revolved around him, catered to him. Suguru supposed he wasn't much better considering he too spoiled his best friend in that sense. They were different. They'd been born different, coming from families who cherish them with wealth and power. Suguru supposes it was natural for them to be so intertwined. Like calls for like.

Suguru isn’t aware of the exact details, but he knows you rejected Satoru.

The boy doesn’t have to tell him. His friend is uncharacteristically quiet during that weekend. He has no interest in the arcade, or the next basketball tournament his team is going to compete in. Satoru just sits on top of Suguru’s bed, casually sucking on a carton of chocolate milk. Suguru glanced down at the abandoned PlayStation remote. He’d lost yet another game against his dark-haired friend with no complaints. Satoru didn’t even play

You’d really done a number on him, Suguru thinks to himself. Suguru would assume it’s heartbreak, but he knows his friend better than that. Something burns in his chest, but he’s pushing it away before he can figure out why. Nipping it in the bud. It was a cruel thought. A bad one. He should ignore it.

Well, it’s done. It doesn’t matter anyway. Satoru would eventually get over it. He’s not known to sulk.

He’s not there to see what Satoru tells them, but he’s there to see the effects.

It starts out small. Or perhaps just not noticeable enough. Gojo Satoru has always attracted attention, whether it was satisfactory or not. Lackeys, Satoru often calls them because they're too far beneath him to even be called equals.

Suguru notices their sudden interest in you before even you can. A harsh word here and there. Giggling at the word 'easy'. You peacefully trek on, not noticing the abuse until it turns physical. That starts at the end of Monday.

By Tuesday, they're already shoving you down each chance they get. You get surprised when it happens the first time, then the second, then the third. You have soft skin, plushy, Suguru could tell. He wondered if it was getting marked now. He wonders if you go home, peeling of your uniform, staring at the bruises of hands on your skin because you’re so fragile.

(They never go too far, not enough to completely injure. Suguru knows this because one time, one of the idiots had pushed you too hard. You’d stumbled, nearly hitting the back of your head with a metal locker. Satoru had seen. Suguru doesn’t know what Satoru did, but that particular one was gone the next time and the rest got the memo to scare, not injure.)

Satoru never takes part in this, but he keeps an eye on you sometimes. Tuesday evening comes and they both silently watch you through a window. You move through an empty hall, before they arrive again, slapping your binders out of your hands, chortling with each other. They're too far away to hear, but Suguru could bet it would sound like nails scraping against a chalkboard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Suguru watches his best friend. Satoru looks impassive, face blank as he stares down at your figure. Akin to a child watching ants burning through a magnifying glass, instilled with that innate desire to see them explode into ash.

When the lackeys leave, you bend down on the floor, collecting your stuff. Your hair covers your eyes, so he can't see your expression, but he can see your shoulders tremble. Were you-

A corral of people run to you. They lean down, picking up the stuff you had missed. You look up, your eyes are shiny but you're laughing when they say something. You wipe at your eyes, standing up as they lead you out of the hallway. Suguru had seen them hanging out with you before. They all seemed like they supported each other, supported you.

Suguru feels his frown deepen, conflicted. He doesn’t like it.

"It's not nice to pick on the weak, Satoru," he quietly says.

Satoru's eyes trail your figure out the door. He gives a small hum.

By Wednesday, your friends disappear from your side.

The abuse is getting worse, noticeable to the point where the rest of the student body is heavily avoiding you. Teachers won't raise a finger at what's happening. As much as they like to preach about their 'zero tolerance for bullying', Suguru knows they'll willingly turn a blind eye when matters involve Gojo Satoru. No teacher wants to deal with the wrath the Gojo family is more than willing to unlease for the sake of their heir.

Yet, you aren't getting it. You don't break, don't bend. He can feel the humiliation roll off of you in waves, yet you don't react. Which was strange because he knew your archetype. A people-pleaser, constantly bending over backward for other's sake. You want nothing more than to become part of the crowd again, completely invisible. You’re community-oriented. You thrive off of companionship. This ostracization must be killing you. Suguru doesn't get it until he spots your face, just once, narrowed eyes, anger.

Pride. He'd forgotten other people had that too. Though, Suguru admires it, a part of him knows it shouldn’t last.

Suguru thinks he does it because he pities you. You're a little naive. Suguru has your thought process figured out. You think if you take the torment long enough, Satoru would eventually just forget about you all together. Once he's done with you, you'd focus on picking up the pieces that used to be your life. It's not a bad plan, if you weren't dealing with Gojo Satoru.

The boy is a hurricane. Fast, unrelenting, unforgiving. Satoru won't stop. He won't stop until you're ruined and broken. Turned into a mere asteroid of what you once were.

So, Suguru decides to give you a push in the right direction.

The students have already created a wide circle for you by the time he steps in, bending down, picking up the stuff you had dropped. You're silent until he hands you his pieces. He doesn't bother responding to your timid thanks.

"Give in," he tells you, watching the way your eyes widen as you look up at him.

You're weak. Physically, emotionally. He could easily pick you up with one hand, crush your body with his fist. Satoru could eviscerate your body from existence. You don't stand a chance with him. With either of them.

His advice to you is good. Reasonable. And yet, he sees the face you make, the way you slowly get up. You won’t listen. That same burning feeling in his chest starts. It's gotten more painful.

You don't listen to him until you lose nearly everything. Just as he warned you. Friday comes. You become Satoru's. And it's a little too late for everything.

◉

Suguru doesn't think you ever learn that Satoru loves messing with you.

Or, perhaps you do, but you can't help it. You're too honest, too open. He often wonders if that's how you were raised. To be honest, open, vulnerable. Your parents must have filled your thoughts with delusions, coddling you with words of cheap motivation. The world is your oyster. You just had to reach out and take it.

Maybe now you're finally realizing, sitting on Satoru's lap, that all men aren't created equal.

Clearly, you weren't happy about it. Yet, you aren't complaining, sitting there pliantly legs firmly crossed, hands curled into tiny fists, staring rigidly on the floor. The first few times Satoru had done this in public, you were always biting your lip, tears threatening to fall. Now, Suguru thinks you just dissociate, coming back when Satoru laughs at something, jostling you in his arms.

It's a bit like watching a helpless bird on the ground, twitching and spasming after it had just collided with a glass window. Pitiful, but there was nothing that could be done. It's the inevitability of it all that makes him pity you more than anything else, really.

Every so often, your eyes would catch his. It's a quick glance, as though you were wondering if he was watching. He can barely catch it, but Suguru is observant. Much like you. It's meaningless, and your gaze returns to the floor. Your fists tighten.

Granting you mercy, Suguru stops looking at you during those times.

He's not sure how Satoru sees you. Perhaps, you're akin to a dog for him. Though, that might not be very good for you. Satoru hadn't been very good with animals when he was younger. Satoru had always been rough with any pets he came into contact with, pushing and tugging. Suguru doubted that had changed.

Satoru's is your official title. It isn't a relationship. It's an ownership. Unequal from the start. The one who holds the leash in the end, will always be Satoru.

It took a while for you to fully learn that.

Suguru didn't mean to catch the two of you. Looking back, it was probably because Satoru couldn't care less if someone was watching. Maybe Satoru was being obvious on purpose. It was a little while after school had officially ended. Suguru knew your usual routine would place you right at the library, scrolling through books. Satoru would most likely be there too, pestering you about this and that. It's the scene Suguru prepares himself to walk into.

Instead, you're wedged in between the white-haired boy and the wall, there's no space for you to do anything but sink. You're already crying (when was the last time you smiled?), trying to pull away but Satoru isn't letting you. He's gripping you by the chin, forcing eye contact. His sunglasses are off, tucked on his collar.

Suguru's close enough to hear. You're begging. Apology after apology. It's barely a whisper, but they're spilling out of you like a prayer. He can't discern the context, but he knows enough.

You made Satoru angry.

He's still smiling, but it isn't sincere. Almost bordering on mania as he tightens his grip on you, forcing you further into the wall. Suguru doesn't think Satoru has ever hit you before, but now he's wondering if quick violence was preferable to this.

"Don't be like that," Satoru chides as another squeak leaves your lips, "Where was that smile you were givin' him, hm? C'mon, pretty girl. You were wearin' it just a second ago."

"It-it wasn't like that, I swear," you continue to plead, still not realizing that it's too late, "he was giving me his notes. Please-please Satoru-"

"Wrong answer," he cuts you off, you flinch at his harshness but Suguru decides Satoru's being nice to you. He's been known to do worse, "we've been over this before, haven't we? Or did your stupid brain forget?"

You're choking down another hiccup. It takes a minute for you to calm down enough to speak clearly. Ever impatient, Satoru's hand digs into your shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Satoru," you say, "it won't happen again."

He tilts his head, waiting. You wilt under his gaze.

"I'm sorry...’Toru."

Satoru gives a satisfied hum, pulling back and Suguru can practically see your lungs sag with relief. His mania is gone, replaced by something much more lighthearted and carefree. Suguru'd seen it before, but it was certainly something watching Satoru go from one high to the next. Even to Suguru, it's terrifying to witness.

Suguru decides to make himself known right then. He comes out of the shadows, acting as though he'd just arrived. His friend lazily gives him a wave, curling an arm around your waist. You try to scrub away your tears with your forearms, unaware of how much Suguru had seen. Another mercy Suguru grants you. He doesn't acknowledge it.

The three of you sit in the library for half an hour until you're done pretending that you're studying. When Satoru walks you home, Suguru follows. He notes that you barely hesitate to give Satoru a chaste kiss on the lips, and he wonders how often his friend has demanded one from you for you to be so casual about it.

He thinks he gets it when he and Satoru are walking on the street without you. To Satoru, you aren't a dog. You aren't a pet, something that he keeps to see bark.

No, you are just Satoru's.

◉

Towards the end of the year, Suguru realizes that Satoru loves you.

He's nicer to you, now. Suguru doesn't think you've realized how softer Satoru's gotten, but the change is there. He spots less marks on you now. The biggest evidence he has is that stolen moment of you and Satoru. You'd accidentally fallen asleep during lunch break, dozing off on your desk. Satoru was right next to you, gently pushing your hair out of your face. Satoru loves you.

You've changed too. Adapted, he should say. You cry less, now. Each time he sees you, you look more and more put together. As though, you're done mourning. The final stage of grief. Acceptance.

Despite how much nicer Satoru is to you, he's still just as clingy. Suguru notices that even now, none of your former friends speak to you. No one at school does. It's an unspoken rule to not mess with Satoru's things.

Suguru can still remember the last guy who hadn't gotten the memo. A new student. Freshly transferred. Suguru had heard the conversation. The guy was hardly interested in you. It was nothing more than small talk. The pat on your shoulder had been thoughtless at least, friendly at most.

Satoru beat him until the boy was bloody and had a broken nose. A week later, he'd transferred again.

You're off limits. To everyone but Suguru.

The Earth is the only planet capable of sustaining life within this cold solar system. It's close enough to the sun to feel the warmth, yet far enough so it doesn't burn. It's strong, too. A powerful magnetic forcefield, capable of shutting down the sun's cosmic radiation. Thus, the Earth spins happily around the Sun, surrounded by a sea of dead planets.

So, sometimes when Satoru can't walk you home. Suguru does.

It was just the beginning of spring. The school year was starting to end. The school itself was starting to slow down. Teachers were getting less and less strict, less work was given out. It didn't matter. Colleges had already been picked. They were all close to the end.

You don't say much when the two of you are alone. Suguru understands. It's hard to say much of anything when you're crushed by the weight of Gojo Satoru. But Suguru could have sworn he'd seen a flicker of relief when he came to pick you up and not his friend. You're clearly happier when it's him. Suguru decides he likes how that feels. It's a quick feeling of superiority. Something that quickly disappears when your eyes flick down.

He knows where your house is, but he lets you take the lead anyway. Suguru figures it's the least he can do, give you that sense of control when nothing you do ever really does anymore.

You and him have forged a shaky companionship. He's not sure what he is to you entirely, but you seem reliant on him in some way. it’s his fault, he thinks. He wonders if it has to do with the contraception he'd given you. He can still remember the trembling hands as you took it from him, curling the packet into your grip. That day he went home and his fingers felt strangely itchy.

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

When he asks you a question, you answer. At least you aren't mute, though Suguru doesn't think he'd blame you if you ignored him. Your voice is stilted, with enough words to answer the question, but still not enough to fully sate him.

And then, you break.

Just a bit.

A tiny piece of you shatters, and you show yourself to him.

He'd been talking about something insignificant, college, his plans. Just ramblings. Somehow, Satoru comes into the conversation and he's talking about the area of his friend's college campus, how Satoru mentioned that he's looking for apartments for the two of you to stay in. And then, you're uncharacteristically scoffing.

"Right," you say, head faced down on the sidewalk as you kick a rock, "because I'm following him there."

Suguru can't help but place the sarcasm in your voice. The bitterness. He's heard it before, but it's a fascinating thing hearing it come from you. And then Suguru realizes that you accidentally gave something away.

You were leaving.

Somehow, it never crossed Suguru's mind that you were still rebelling, even now. And yet, he can't shake off the heat in your voice, your words.

You seem to realize this too, freezing.

He lets you falter for a few more moments before giving you a reprieve.

"Satoru's idealistic like that," he let out.

Your shoulders lower, and for the sake of both you and him, he doesn't press any further.

He doesn't let himself let it go, even when he drops you home, arriving to his own house. Always cold. The mansion's lights are always off. No one's ever home. And Satoru's out of town.

It's better this way, Suguru thinks as he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. No distractions, he can think better, as he replays your words over and over again. You were leaving. You were leaving. You were leaving Satoru.

The night passes. When Satoru comes back to town, he's joyful as always, an arm slung around your shoulders. Suguru watches the way he coos at you, saying how much he missed you. You take his affections the way you always do, with a strained smile and wavering eyes.

You glance at Suguru. Suguru stares right back.

For a moment, Suguru thinks he understands why people are so enthralled with solar eclipses. The moon is seen as an underdog in most instances. It must be thrilling when a weak satellite can cover the sun's rays. Even for just a little bit.

Suguru doesn't tell Satoru. He pushes the burning in his chest, ignoring the itchiness in his fingers. Things are better this way, right? After all, the two of you come from completely different worlds. It's nonsensical to think otherwise.

Two weeks before graduation, you disappear without a trace.

And Satoru breaks.

It's a slow dissent. It comes in stages. The boy is angry at first, searching for you at school, when he can't find you there he loses his facade and demands where you are from your parents. They can't give him a clear answer because you're an adult now and you barely told them a thing before moving out. Suguru doesn’t think they knew what Satoru was to you. He doesn’t think they ever will.

The heat fades day by day, Week by week. Satoru starts to deflate the longer you aren't in his hold, his to mangle, and grab, and keep. He stops taking care of himself. His skin became paler, cracked lips, hollow cheeks. His eyes turn into this grayish blue that Suguru can't bring himself to look at for too long. He loses weight day by day.

Suguru had never seen him react this way before. Satoru was always shining. He was the sun. Now, the center of the solar system was dying. He can feel himself dying with it.

Satoru hadn't just loved you. Satoru had been obsessed with you. He breathed you in, inhaled your essence like oxygen. You'd been a part of him; a necessity. And then, you tore yourself away, leaving him bleeding on the concrete.

Guilt. Suguru feels it in his stomach, rising to his throat, threatening to stain his clothes. It's too late to say anything now, so he keeps it huddled deep inside of him. Suguru hopes it'll never come out. He helps the best he can, being there for his friend, his best friend.

It takes a month for Satoru to start eating properly again. A few months later he starts regaining his usual physique. The gray in his eyes stays for a bit longer than Suguru likes. Suguru supposes he should take what he can get.

A year passes like that. The evidence of what you left behind fades, like bruises disappearing on skin. Suguru and Satoru become college students. Then, they graduate.

When Satoru joins the business, Suguru, his right-hand man, his second, his best friend, is right next to him. They’ve always worked well together, but that doesn’t change as they shift into adulthood. Despite how different Suguru and Satoru were, Suguru liked to think that their personalities were stagnant; unchanging even to the times.

What Satoru feels about you remains stagnant as well.

Suguru doesn’t think about you often, these days. Barely a few times a year, when he feels nostalgic enough to get out his old high school yearbook. He’d page through, spot your smiling portrait face. He’d find himself staring at you far longer than he liked too.

At first, Suguru thought Satoru was the same. Much like how one thinks about a lost toy they cherished when they were younger. The resentment would fade with time. Satoru didn’t speak about you for years.

Suguru hadn’t expected the girls, however.

He doesn’t notice the first one. He sees her, but he doesn’t internalize it. She’s hurriedly putting on her clothes after a clearly exciting night, so Suguru respectfully averts his gaze. He’s more focused on his exasperation at how Satoru had missed yet another meeting with the board. They would be less than pleased if they discovered Satoru didn’t show up because he was hungover.

The second time it happens, Suguru has a passing thought of how familiar the girl looked, despite being sure he’d never seen her in his life.

The third time it happens, Suguru realizes all the recent girls Satoru’s been bringing strike an uncanny resemblance towards you.

It’s not anything too obvious, but all of them would look a bit like you. Most would have your skin tone, your hair. One had your eyes, not the color, rather the shape of it. Satoru had kept her around the longest.

Suguru doesn’t say anything about it. Part of him wonders if Satoru is even doing it on purpose.

Suguru loves Satoru like he would his own brother, but his recent hobby was starting to get on his nerves a bit.

“So much work,” the man complains, “Why can’t we just send all this off to Ijichi?”

“He has his own work to complete,” Suguru reprimands, “the sooner you stop complaining, the sooner we can finish.”

Satoru rolls his eyes but moves to another page of meaningless paperwork; Something that would be scanned into their system and then tucked away into a random file cabinet. They currently sat in Satoru’s grand kitchen, lounging on the barstools after Suguru had pounded Satoru’s door in. Satoru had let him in with an irritated look, complaining that it was the weekend and he had ‘stuff’ to do.

“He’s my assistant,” Satoru retorts, “my work is his work.”

“The reason why we’re in this mess in the first place is because you kept pawning off your job to the poor man in the first place. You’ve given him wrinkles from just the stress of being in your vicinity.”

“That’s insulting,” Satoru counters, “my presence is nothing but calming.”

“You do the exact opposite, actually. A black hole that sucks the soul out of everyone who hangs around you.”

“You hang around me all the time and you don’t have wrinkles.”

Suguru smiles. “It’s because I don’t respect you enough to listen to anything you’re saying.”

Satoru’s about to respond, when another voice interrupts him. Alluring, feminine.

“Satoru,” she coos, “When are you getting back here?”

From his seat, Suguru has a clear view of Satoru’s bedroom. Only her head is peeked out, and Suguru notes her bare shoulders. Your eyes, and your lips this time. She’s tilting her head, mouth curved in a coy smile.

Of course. Suguru can only roll his eyes. There’s that same burning feeling in his chest. During the years, it hasn’t really gotten any better.

“Coming, coming,” Satoru calls back, “just a minute, babe.”

“Stuff to do, hm?” Suguru drawls with amusement. Satoru flips him off.

"Worry 'bout yourself," Satoru says, "when's the last time you got any, huh? Honestly, when's the last time you've taken a break? A vacation?"

"I can't," Suguru replies, "I'm always stuck babysitting you."

“I’ve been waiting for half an hour, ‘Toru." The woman interrupts. "Can’t you just do it later?”

Suguru hadn’t even noticed it. He brushed it off, barely hearing their conversation as he shuffled around the papers.

Satoru had.

He hums. Straightening his back.

“Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. You should head on home.”

At first, he thought Satoru was talking to him. Then, he hears the woman’s annoyed huff.

“Hold on, you’re kicking me out?” She asks.

“Yeah, sorry,” Satoru says, not sounding very apologetic, “I got a lotta’ stuff to do and you’re not gonna wanna stick around.”

His tone is light, but Suguru can’t help but place a sense of annoyance in them. The anger. His posture is stiff, almost like he’s primed for a fight.

‘Toru. She called him ‘Toru.

You used to call him ‘Toru.

“Seriously, I-”

“I hate repeating myself: Get the fuck out.”

There’s silence, and then Suguru can hear her mutter to herself as she shuffles inside the room. She comes out minutes later, not quite dressed, but presentable. She shoots Satoru a glare, to which he only waves off. The door shuts with a noticable thud.

“Back to work,” Satoru says, “do you feel hot? The AC has been acting up, lately.”

He carries on like that, back to normal, as though he wasn’t about to snap just a few minutes ago. Suguru follows suit, not aknowledging the outburst, much like he doesn’t aknowledge most things regarding you.

Later, Suguru laughs about the hypocrisy of it all. Satoru brings home physical reminders of you, but he refuses the remnants of you. The most intimate parts, he’d kept hidden away from his life, yet he still wishes to touch, to feel. He wonders how you’d feel if you knew that Gojo Satoru is wrapped around your finger, even now.

◉

Satoru had done something yet again. It's always something with Gojo Satoru. Suguru should have left him to deal with the legal team himself, but here he was, trailing beside the firm’s directors as the man droned on and on how well Mr.Gojo would be well taken care of how here our clients are family. He forces himself to push away that feeling in his chest, scorching his throat. He was getting sick of the constant blabbering. He’d glanced away for just a second.

And then he saw you.

You, not some remnant, not some picture, not someone similar. You. He knew it was you. A little older, a little taller. You’d switched the high school uniform for a blouse and a pencil skirt. Suguru stares. He’s tempted to say your name, seek you out, as though you’re old friends-

He reels himself back in.

You disappear through a frosted glass door, completely unaware of his gawking. You hadn’t seen him. Good. The firm’s director didn’t notice his pause, carrying on as though nothing happened. Suguru smiles and laughs at the horrible ice breakers, but he also steals a glance at the name of the door you went through.

Later, Suguru looks up Higuruma Hiromi. A well-established lawyer. Worked at the firm for nearly a decade.

You are his sole paralegal.

Law. He had never considered it for you. Now, he thinks it’s a little fitting. He can’t help it. He looks you up. You have no social media, most likely from a remnant fear, but he finds where you went to college, what your area of study was, where else you’d worked, your life. Questions he’d had for nearly a decade he finally has an answer.

Honestly, Suguru was a little mad it was all so easy.

He can’t see the entire scope of your life, but he knows you were happy after high school, away from Satoru. You seemed happy when he caught that glimpse of you. There was a slight smile on your face, you never did that with Satoru around.

Satoru’s a little pathetic, a thought he has to concede to. He’s still hung over you, while you clearly hadn’t thought of him in years.

Suguru stares at your picture a little more.

The burning feeling comes back again. Hotter, melting.

Oh.

Suguru is disgusted by you.

You, that bitch loitering in Satoru’s bedroom, that greedy firm director. Disgust, that sick feeling crawling down his stomach, seeping into his bones. He’s disgusted by the weak.

He’s even more disgusted when they think they can defeat the strong. Decieve them.

You always thought you were better than Satoru, better than Suguru, even from the beginning. Even when you rejected him. Even when Satoru’s goons were torturing you, you still thought you could get out of it somehow. Even when Satoru had his hand on your shoulder, claws sinking into your flesh, you were still looking for a way out. It was like watching a rat trapped in a cage, pathetically sniffing around for an exit.

The weak could never escape the whims of the strong. It was a truth of the world, something he’d always known and yet it’d take a decade for him to put the words together. The weak could never make a fool of the strong.

You are weak. A mere satellite floating along, before getting trapped in the Earth’s gravitational force. Suguru could crush you with one fist. Satoru could evisirate you to atoms.

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

“I’ve put together a legal team that will represent you.”

Suguru places the neat stack of documents onto Satoru’s desk. The white-haired man barely gives them a glance. Suguru knows Satoru won’t ever look at them, even when your name is hidden somewhere within the sheets, along with Higuruma’s. Suguru wonders how long it’d take for Satoru to figure it out. It’s a shame he won’t be there to see it unfold in real-time, but perhaps, once Satoru puts the pieces together, he’ll thank him.

Here, in the present, Satoru types away at his computer, barely paying attention to Suguru’s words.

“Oh, great,” Satoru says off handedly, “thanks, man.”

Suguru sighs.

“Uh, I love you?” Satoru tries again.

“Never repeat those words to me ever again,” Suguru responds, “I wish you’d be a bit more interested in this, considering it’s your fault the company is in this mess in the first place.”

Satoru gives a hushed hum of agreement. Suguru smiles.

“In other news: I won’t be here next week.”

That catches his best friend’s attention. Satoru gapes at him.

“You’re quitting?”

“No, idiot. I’m taking your advice. I’m taking a few weeks off. I already put it in the calendar that you never check so why did I even bother.”

“A vacation? You never take vacations, even when I beg you to,” Satoru squints at him, “What’s the occasion?”

Eventually, Satoru will figure it out. For now, Suguru wants to enjoy this.

“I worked hard this year. I should reward myself, shouldn’t I?” He reasons, “oh, and I have a surprise for you showing up in a week or so. Let me know what you think of it.”

“A gift? For me?” Satoru beams. “You really do love me.”

“Don’t push it.”

If Satoru was the Sun, then Suguru supposed he would be the Earth. Close enough to receive the star's radiance, but with a strong enough magnetitic field to shield from solar winds.

If Suguru was the Earth, then Suguru supposed you would be the Moon. A tiny cratered satellite he tugs along with him, forever in sight of the burning sun.

#yandere #yandere jjk #dark content #dark gojo satoru #dark jjk #non con touching #gojo satoru #yandere gojo satoru #x reader #bullying #harrassment #non con kissing #geto suguru

2K notes · View notes

pheavampire · 7 months ago

Text

THE RADIO IS BROKEN: PART 2

It’s still toxic and dark, but they talk more. And I still can’t believe I managed to draw a comic this complicated…!

…and sad? :v

Seriously, I’m so, SO proud of how it looks!

PS. I refuse to decide what exactly happened between parts 1 and 2. I’m leaving it to your interpretation.

PART 1

PART 3

PART 4

#hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #vox #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel fanart #hazbin hotel comic #trigger warnings #aphobia #non con touching #onewaybroadcast #one sided staticradio #one sided radiostatic #radiostatic #month of work two minutes of reading :')#the radio is broken

353 notes · View notes

konigsblog · 4 months ago

Note

i dont care what anyone says you!! are the best!! i live for the gross and nasty könig stuff sm. has me giggling and kicking my feet and gnawing on my laptop and spinning in my chair.

keep going because you're doing great!! 💐💐🍪

Gross, Rapist!König has become my #1 headcannon. You can't tell me this freakish, deranged social recluse wouldn't crave control and authority. His status means he has control over recruits — that's all he knows. That's all he wants, is to prove that he isn't weak anymore, that he's no longer that weak and socially anxious kid that he once was, being harassed and ridiculed by his bullies nonstop.

Thank you, my sweetest — I appreciate you much 🌷

#tw: rape #tw: non con #tw: non consensual touching

112 notes · View notes

xoalin4 · 10 months ago

Text

VIKING!NIKTO

I am so, so sorry this took so long. Haven’t been in the best mood lately and lost motivation to write. But I got a little baby birdie the other week, he is three weeks old now and I am in a better mood.

So here is the Viking!nikto hc (or half story, I don’t really know where I was going with this but I tried) Sorry if it isn’t how you hoped/would have liked.

WARNINGS: Non-con?/dub-con?/kidnapping/unwanted touching/murder/blood/mention of slavery?(They are Vikings after all)/mention of rape(not directed at ‘user’)/piv.

Again, deeply sorry it took so long. And forgive me if any mistakes in the writing

Nikto wasn’t a kind man, killed many too much people in times that wasn’t needed. But the king always forgave the violent Viking, he was a good fighter after all, he would be needed in raids or wars to come.

Despite his often violent actions, he was quite popular amongst the women. He had a good body, he was strong, a good fighter and he was decently good looking, and he was just really good with sex. So it wasn’t a surprise to know he had most likely fucked half the women in his village. After all, who is he to deny a woman that comes to him asking for some pleasure?

He often had sex to release some of his pent up anger which seemingly spawns out of nowhere, in a less violent way. He had a few acquaintances, he wouldn’t dare call them friends, he just tolerated them the most. So he was well known in his village for being a woman pleaser and a skilled fighter.

He enjoyed the attention— not all of it, he hated when too much attention was on him. He only wanted people to know who he was, what he has done, and fear him. Nothing more than that. But he didn’t mind the attention from the women, he loved that, and he thrived in it, knowing that he can always get a woman to let him pound his cock into.

That was until that one, fatal day. The day where he was no longer the same person— fuck, he didn’t even know who he was anymore. He could barely feel his hands that much anymore, his face felt stiff, the skin melted together in parts, burnt. His body littered in scars, burn marks from when they had thrown a torch onto him. His face, he doesn’t even want to look at it. Hates seeing it in the reflection in the lakes he cleans himself in, hated seeing the fact that his mouth was in a permanent snare.

He would do anything, take all the pain in the world, if it meant his face would be normal again. He doesn’t even know how he is alive, he swore he had died that day, he wishes he did, then maybe he would have been spared this life of pain and humiliation.

It’s funny how much scars can change someone, mentally and physically. He heard things, people, more than one, or is there just one? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore, the peace of death or the feeling of killing someone with his bare hands again, both sound pleasing.

He didn’t get much attention from women that much more, often times they looked disgusted or scared. It was funny in a way, how people easily give up on someone after their looks change. He can’t blame them tho, he would be disgusted too. The men didn’t seem to care that much for it, they seemed quite pleased in a way, they got more women after all.

So he wears a mask to cover his face, save him the humiliation. It was uncomfortable but he got used to it quickly, it put more weight onto his body as it was metal. But he felt comforted in a way, the mask was now his face, less gruelling, less hideous.

Kill, Kill, Kill. That was the only thing going through nikto’s mind, kill them all, his axe piercing through a man’s back as the pain had tried to run, blood pooling out of his mouth as he drops to the floor. Nikto chest rising fast and heavy, his eyes wide and pupils small in an almost animalistic way. He loved this, the blood, the screams, the horror of it all.

On to the next, another man dead, another life taken by nikto’s hands, or axe in other words. Blood splattered on his mask, hands and axe dripping with it, the ground red as screams go off around him. A raid, he loved them, loved destruction, loved the fear in the people’s eyes as Vikings raid their land, taking the women and some of men to use as slaves, slaughtering the people that resided here.

Nikto wasn’t really into all the kidnapping shit, he was there for the death, none of the rape and slavery stuff. He wanted to kill people that’s all, that’s the only thing he is good at. But when he saw you, something changed in him, he completely forgot about the man he was currently killing, his axe logged into the man’s side as the man cries in pain on the ground. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, you were.. beautiful. Okay, maybe not the number one beautifulest person, but on the Gods you were the beautifulest he has seen.

You were different, instead of crying and pleading on your knees like the other women, you had a knife in your hand, stabbing it into the neck of one of his village buddies who was trying to grab you. I mean, sure, he has seen women kill in his village, a lot actually, a couple were in on the raids. But it was different coming from you, you dressed differently from the women in this village he was raiding, you looked odd compared to the other women.

You were trying to protect yourself and get out of the village, but the other people that were running were in your way. He never found the idea of taking a woman for himself that pleasing, he used to get them all the time, but that was years ago, when he actually had looks. But Gods be dammed if he was going to let this opportunity go. Taking his axe and logging it through the man’s skull, shutting him up.

Walking over to you, his eyes locked onto your form and yours only, pushing some of the people out of the way, he needed to get to you, it was as if his body willed him to do that and that only. He watched as you saw him at the last second, turning around and trying to stab him. But completely failed as he snatched your wrist, he picked you up hoisted your body over his shoulder, as if you weighed nothing. You didn’t! Not much to him anyway, you were easy to carry. If he ignored your squirming around and your fists hitting his back that is.

Oh, oh you were perfect, perfect for him, if only you would stop screaming and crying that is. He is going to give you a good life, back at his small house tucked away in the trees, away from the village, but in his home. A little trophy you were, a feisty one that is, but hey, he always liked a bit of a challenge.

Tho he hadn’t anticipated the fact that you wouldn’t be used to the weather in his village, it was almost winter, and soon snow would cover every part of ground. Back where he had saved you kidnapped you you didn’t have snow, you had cold weathers but not this cold. You were freezing your ass off, teeth chattering and fingers numb.

Nikto and his horrible ability to look after anything that is alive, he forgot to get you extra clothes for your small, weak body. You had gotten sick within the first week. And now nikto had to go back to the village and try to get some herbs and thicker clothes to keep you warm, he wouldn’t want his slave to die just yet.

Thankfully he had managed to help you over your sickness, getting you back to health. Tho, that is where the problems started. He kept his house warm, gave you thick clothes and even offered to help you warm up (tired to have sex with you). He fed you, decently enough. He kept you warm, gave you a house to live in, didnt try and force himself on you yet. didn’t give you your own bed sadly, you had to share one with him. But other than that, he had given you everything you could have possibly needed!

So this is how you repay him, by smashing the leg of the wooden chair that was in his house over his head when he had came through the front door. Using the fact he had stumbled over and grabbed the back of his head in pain as your advantage, and running out the door. Stupid thing to do.

A man like him only had so much patience, and he just happens to have little of it. But he had tried to be patient with you, he was slow with everything, didn’t go overboard with touching you, even tho he wanted nothing more then to stuff his fat cock into your cunt the moment he saw you.

So why did you have to run? Had he not given you enough stuff to keep you here? Had he done something wrong? Possibly not! He saved you from that stinky village you were in, saved you from working at that farm, around shit and mud. Given you a home to do nothing, no work, nothing but to please him in.

So why?

He had asked himself as he trailed after you, did you really think you could get away from him? Or were you just stupid? He could see your footprints in the show, trailing out into the forest. His head was bleeding, making his shirt become dark coloured, and he felt a bit dizzy. You had a strong hit, that was for sure, left a painful ache in his head. He couldn’t let you get away with that, no, not after everything he has done for you.

It was easy to find you, well you gave him a bit of trouble, you had gotten pretty far in the amount of time you left, farther then he thought you would make it. But he knew the forest well, knew where everything was, knew where to look, so it didn’t take him long.

You had run though the cold forest, the snow slowing you down a bit, luckily it wasn’t that thick, because holy fuck it was hard to run in it. You were panting, lips turning blue and face stinging, it was freezing and the wind didn’t help. You didn’t even know where you were running, but you didn’t care, as long as it got you away from that lunatics place.

Did he really think you were going to stay there? Think you were going to fold and bend over for him since he gave you food and clothes? By the Gods no, absolutely not. You couldn’t even understand him! Only the simple words he knew how to say so you would understand, ‘eat’ ‘sleep’ ‘stay’ and a couple others.

You hated it there, he was creepy and old, a stinky old man! That is what he was, forcing you to lay in the same bed as him, wrapping his arms around you so you are immobilised and unable to move. Having to feel his strong chest up against your back, breathe against your shoulder as it passed through the mask he wore. Hands occasionally moving to touch your thighs or to straight up grope your tits

Not to mention when he baths you, he was kind enough to warm the water by boiling it but that wasn’t the point! You had tried to argue with him, tried to tell him to get out of the room or to turn around so he wouldn’t see you. Which he definitely understood what you meant but didn’t care, forcing you into the wooden tub, naked and exposed. Luckily you had managed to convince him to let you clean yourself instead of him doing it.

Like hell you were going to stay in that place, he even had this weird dog looking thing— definitely wasn’t a dog. But you didn’t know what it was, but it was just as creepy and scary as him. And it stunk! Talk about being related to a mutt, no wonder they got along. But this wasn’t the time to think of that, you had to run, get away remember?

Yes, that is what you were supposed to do, run, escape and never return to that maniacs hut. You weren’t supposed to feel a hand grab the back of your neck, nor being thrown into the snowy ground as a tall figure stands over you. This wasn’t how it’s supposed to go! Why can’t the Gods give you at least some luck? Did you upset them with something? Because you would beg and plead for how ever many years it’ll take if it meant they’ll spare you from the absolute, horrifying glare this man is sending you.

He was pissed, no, more than that, the man looked like he was about to rip you apart limb to limb. You wanted to take back what you did— say that you’ll be good and please him if it meant he wouldn’t drag you back by your hair and chain you up outside his place like you were a dog, out in the freezing snow with noting back a thin, stinky, dress. You really do wish you hadn’t done that, should have waited longer maybe, when he wasn’t in the house.

But no, now you were suffering the consequences. At least he didn’t beat you to death like you half expected he would have done when he had dragged you back, tho you half wish he would if it meant he wouldn’t leave you outside for hours in the snow until it felt like your limbs were about to fall off.

You were so, so cold, lips bluish purple, hands numb and you could barley feel your feet! His house was mere feet away, but you couldn’t get to it, the chain around your neck keeping you tired down to a wooden stake outside. Your eyes half lidded and you felt as if this was your end, you time had finally come. At least you would get to see your family again, because you doubt they managed to escape the Vikings.

But just as you felt like you were going to pass out, your light in shining armour came out, your kidnapper. You don’t know if you should feel thankful or wish you were left out there for longer. But he had brought you inside, put you into the tub of heated water and made sure you didn’t drown in it as he surprisingly gently bathed you and got you warm. The room was warm, the fire which had warmed up the pots of water keeping the hut lighted and warm.

You didn’t fight him, you couldn’t even, you were too cold, but slowly the warmth was coming back into your body. He had taken you out, dried you, and Brought you to the bed he shared with you. You still felt cold tho, the warm bath didn’t warm deep inside you unfortunately. But don’t worry, he’ll help with that, he’ll make sure you are very, very warm.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t THAT rough, he didn’t tear at your skin and eat you alive like you imagined him too. His hands running along your body, groping at your breasts even as you whimpered and protested, but still too weak to push him away. He looked like a feral beast right now, or just a horny old man. Shoulders rising and falling fast, heavy breathing, eyes wide and pupils dilated, bare hands gripping your thighs as he shuffled between them.

He had such rough hands, and the top part of his pinkie finger missing on his right hand along with dints and burn marks along his large hands. He looked like he didn’t know what to do for a second— had it really been that long since the man got some pussy? Yes, seven years since the the man only used his hand.

He was even shaking! A bulge in his pants, fuck, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was drooling underneath that mask of his. He didn’t take it off, and part of you is glad, you didn’t particularly want to see the face of the man who had literally kidnapped you and forced you to live in his home, and now was about to fuck you to help you get warm, after he had locked you outside.

You were scared, terrified honestly, afraid of what this man was going to do to your poor pussy, what this VIKING was going to do to your poor pussy. You had had sex before, with a few village boys back In your home but they were all your age, immature boys who didn’t really know what to do. You didn’t know if he was going to be brutal with it or not, if he would leave your pussy ruined and aching in pain. He was a Viking after all, and from what you read, all of them are rough, cruel, and nasty.

But you didn’t have much time to think about it, because his hand was already down there, spreading your lips to him with his index and middle finger, his other hand holding your waist to keep you put as you tried to squirm away. A cry of— pain? Pleasure? Leaving your lips as a finger thrusted onto you, stretching your walls which left you gripping the fur of the bed. It hurt slightly, the stretch, but at the same time felt slightly good. But then he added two more, which stretched you wider and made you cry out as they thrusted in and out of you. Preparing you, not forcing himself inside like a desperate mutt.

But it wasn’t long until you got the full thing, you hated to admit it, but he was fucking good. Tears rolling down your cheeks as your legs wrapped tighter around his thick hips, his fat cock plunging deep inside your sopping pussy. He was big, a thick and decently long cock, and it was.. how do you say it in the most pleasant way— it was half burnt. Simple as that, a scratchy feeling to it as it slid along your walls, it wasn’t unpleasant, it heightened the experience for you actually! It felt good, and he was hitting all the right places.

You doubt he could feel that side of it tho, but he still felt the feeling of your cunt clenching around him, that was obvious by the way he was panting and groaning into your neck like a dog on heat. Rutting up into your cunt over and over and OVER again. You were so tight, warm, fuck you were perfect for him, you felt so good. A pretty little thing you were, even tho you were a fucking brat and had basically tried to kill him earlier. He would forgive you for that, as this was the perfect apology you could give him, even tho he had taken it forcefully from you.

But you were enjoying it, you were moaning loudly and had tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks. Your hands clawing at his back, leaving scratch marks down his already heavily scarred back. But he would be lying if he didn’t enjoy it, because he did, it felt absolutely fucking delicious to him.

He wish he wasn’t in wearing his mask right now, so he could take one of your bouncing breasts into his mouth, or even to kiss you to shut your moans up. But that will have to be for another time, he wasn’t ready just yet, he wasn’t sure if he would ever be. But he isn’t going to dwell on it that much, not when he had a pretty feisty little lady to fuck his kids into.

By the end of the night, you were definitely warmed up, wrapped in the arms of a large, sweaty man who practically clings to your body. Hands groping your tits as his masked face lays against the back of your neck, the feeling of his semen still leaking out of your swollen, aching cunt. He did leave it aching in the end, but at least it wasn’t in pain.

Ok, I might have gone overboard with it. It honestly wasn’t supposed to be this long, lmao.

Sorry if this was shit, I tried, and took fucking forever to make, I’ll take all the blame for that😔

Please tell me if it’s shit or not and if there is another warning I should put in because I missed something. Thank you for reading of you got this far🙏

#call of duty #call of duty hc #cod nikto #nikto #call of duty nikto #nikto x reader #x reader #Viking!nikto #Vikings #Viking nikto #Viking!nikto x reader #sorry if this is shit #hc #headcanons #I think it’s headcanons #non-con #kidnapping #unwanted touching

180 notes · View notes