#past rape/non con | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangdokja · 24 days ago

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"Go on, use my face, pretty girl. Ride me like you mean it."

❤︎ Synopsis. They swore they’d take their time, stay in control—but the moment their lips met your cunt, something snapped. Now, they’re ravenous, insatiable, worshiping you with a hunger that borders on madness, desperate to drown in the very thing that’s ruining them.

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Soft! Modern AU! Various x Fem. Reader (separate)

♡ Characters Include. Nerd! Gojo, Biker! Soft! Sukuna, Professor! Half-Dragon! Rex Lapis, Academic Rival! Alhaitham, Older Brother! Sunday, Father! Human! Boothill, Step Brother! Caleb, Bully! Soft! Bakugo, Fuckboy! Atsumu, Virgin! Barou

♡ Kidnapper x Captor Series. The Thirsting - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 10,703 (about 1K each character)

♡ TW. dom + top + older + soft sadist yanderes, non-con + rape, BDSM + DDLG, incest, unhealthy oral sex, mature language, forced orgasms, overstimulation, food play, inappropriate use of kinks, degradation + humiliation, implied blackmail, public sex, physical assault, slapping + spanking + biting + slight choking, fingering, unwilling arousal, date drugging, general manipulation + gaslighting + abuse + trauma, abuse of authority, slight brat taming

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

He’s already grinning by the time you open your eyes.

"Ah, finally awake? Took you long enough, sweetheart."

Your body doesn't respond immediately—slow, sluggish, barely able to process the strange scent lingering in the air. Something sweet, sticky, saccharine. It makes your stomach turn.

The room is dimly lit, shadows flickering across the walls from a single desk lamp. Your wrists ache. A dull, throbbing pain blooms from where they’re restrained above your head, tied to the headboard with something that’s not quite rope. Something silkier, softer—but unyielding all the same.

Gojo’s sitting at the edge of the bed, his glasses gone, those pale blue eyes sharper in the dark. His mouth is already curved into something smug, something too pleased. The expression makes your skin prickle, like you've just stepped into a trap you hadn't noticed until now.

"You’ve been sleeping like a baby. Thought about waking you up, but you looked so cute all helpless like that." His voice drips honey, laced with something more dangerous. "Not to mention—you were drooling a little. Kind of adorable, really."

You twist, testing your restraints, but the silk doesn't budge. His smirk widens, pleased by the feeble struggle.

"Now, now. No need for that. You’ll only make it worse for yourself."

The sickly sweet scent in the air intensifies, and it’s then you notice the bowl sitting beside him. A small, glass dish filled with something glossy and thick. Melted chocolate. A silver spoon rests against the edge, coated in the dark substance.

Your stomach churns. Your mouth feels too dry.

"Ah, you noticed?" His grin stretches, impossibly wide. "You know, I was thinking. You're always so cold to me, so resistant. And that's fine, really. I like a little chase." His fingers dip into the bowl, swirling lazily before lifting, glossy with chocolate. He holds it up, inspecting the way it drips. "But I'm such a generous guy, you know? I believe in positive reinforcement. A little bit of sugar, and suddenly everything is easier to swallow."

His fingers are at your lips before you can twist away, smearing the thick chocolate against them. The scent is overwhelming, rich and decadent.

"C'mon, open up for me."

You don’t.

His smirk doesn’t waver. "Always so difficult."

And then his fingers are pressing in, forcing past your lips, past your teeth, pressing against your tongue. The taste floods your mouth—bittersweet, heavy. You gag, but he doesn’t let up, pushing deeper, his knuckles brushing against your chin.

"Good girl. See? It’s not so bad."

Your breath stutters when he finally withdraws his fingers, a wet pop accompanying the movement. He watches the way your tongue flicks against the roof of your mouth, the way your throat works to swallow it down. He looks... delighted.

"You should really learn to appreciate the finer things in life, sweetheart. I mean, c’mon." His fingers trail down, dragging chocolate along your collarbone, sticky lines painting your skin. "Doesn't it feel good to be pampered a little?"

You flinch when he moves lower, when his hands slip beneath the sheets, shoving them down in one smooth motion. The cool air prickles against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his touch. His fingers skate over your stomach, slow and teasing, trailing towards your thighs.

"Mmm, I've been waiting for this." His voice dips, almost affectionate. "You're always running that pretty mouth, but I know your body’s honest." His thumb strokes slow circles along your inner thigh, watching the way your breath stutters, watching the way your body flinches against itself. "You know, I read somewhere that taste can be directly linked to pleasure. Makes sense, right?"

The realization sinks in too late.

The spoon clinks against the bowl again, and you barely manage to squirm before something warm, wet, and sticky drips between your legs.

Your body jolts.

The chocolate slides over your skin, down your folds, thick and cloying. It pools at the cleft of your thighs, the sensation foreign, humiliating.

Gojo hums appreciatively. "Pretty. You wear it well."

His hands are spreading your thighs wider, holding you open as he surveys his work. The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable.

"I wonder…" He dips a finger into the mess, swirling idly before dragging it up, pressing it against your clit. The sensation is immediate—warm and slick, a contrast that sends heat sparking up your spine. "Ah, look at you. You always act so cold, but here you are, melting already."

You jolt when his head dips low, the realization making you jolt hard against the restraints.

"W- wait, Gojo—"

"Shhh."

And then his tongue is there, hot and wet and insistent.

The breath is knocked from your lungs. The contrast is jarring—the cool air against the warmth of his mouth, the stickiness of the chocolate, the wet drag of his tongue. He moans against you, loud and unashamed, sucking, licking, devouring.

He’s messy.

Too messy.

His mouth works greedily, tongue flicking against your clit before dipping down, swirling against your entrance. The obscene sounds fill the room—his wet slurping, his breathy groans, the squelch of chocolate and spit mixing between your legs.

"F-fuck," he pants between licks, voice thick with lust. "You taste fucking good."

Your stomach twists, mortified. Your wrists strain against the silk bindings, but his grip on your thighs is vice-like, his fingers digging bruises into your skin as he holds you still.

"S-stop—" Your voice is weak, broken, barely above a whisper.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making your body jerk involuntarily. "Why? You don’t like sweets?" His tongue presses flat against you, licking another slow, deliberate stripe. "Or do you just not like me eating you up like one?"

His fingers join the assault, slick with chocolate and spit, pressing inside without preamble. Your walls clench around him, an involuntary reaction that earns a groan from deep in his chest.

"Shit," he breathes, curling his fingers, stretching you open. "You feel so fucking good." His tongue flicks against your clit, quick and relentless, sending sharp jolts of unwanted pleasure up your spine.

You hate it.

You hate how your body reacts.

Hate how his voice turns breathy and wrecked, how he sounds almost delirious. Pussy drunk. Obsessed. Like he can’t get enough, like he’s been starving for this.

His hips rut against the mattress, desperate for friction. He moans into your cunt, tongue pushing deeper, fingers pressing harder. He sounds ruined.

And the worst part?

You think he likes this more than he ever should.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧

He doesn’t fucking eat pussy.

Never has. Never needed to.

Women begged to suck his dick. Lined up for it. Bent over for it. Any time, any place, like obedient little pets, desperate to be used. It was supposed to be the natural order—he takes, they give. That’s how it worked. That’s how he made it work.

But you? You don’t fucking break right. And that pisses him off.

You’re nothing special, not in the way women usually are. Not a bombshell, not dolled up, not preening for male attention like the sluts he’s used to. Quiet. Smart. Always in your own head, barely sparing him a glance. Some stuck-up little freak who thinks she’s better than him just because she doesn’t drop her panties the second he whistles.

He should’ve hated you.

And he does. But not enough to keep himself from wanting to tear you apart.

Not enough to stop himself from pressing your shaking legs apart, sliding his hands beneath your thighs, and spreading you wide open like he owns you. Because he does. He’s going to make sure of it.

But this.

This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen.

His mouth is on you. And he can’t fucking stop.

His tongue works against your slit, lapping up the slick that coats your soft folds. At first, it was just to see you break—to hear you sob, to make you feel the humiliation of being forced open and devoured by the man you loathe. He wanted you to cry harder, beg, push against his head while he grinned into your cunt.

He didn’t expect to like it.

Didn’t expect it to make his head spin, to make his cock ache so fucking bad his vision goes hazy. Didn’t expect your taste to drag him under like a riptide, his fingers gripping your hips too hard, nails sinking in to hold you still so he can—

What the fuck is wrong with him? He doesn’t do this.

Doesn’t fucking need to.

And yet here he is, burying his tongue into your pussy like a fucking starved man, like an animal, like something feral and unchained. It pisses him off, makes his blood boil, but that only fuels him to go harder, to press his tongue deeper, to flick and suck and force himself to drink you down like some kind of fucking addict.

Your sobs turn into ragged, broken sounds. Gasping. Whimpering. Your thighs twitch, trying to press closed, but he pries them apart again, furious. No fucking way. He’s not letting you hide from him. Not after this. Not after you made him feel this way.

Your body betrays you before you can protest.

A shudder rips through you as his tongue curls around your clit, and your stomach tenses, your hands flying to push at his shoulders—

“Fucking don’t.” His voice is dark, raw, spoken against the mess between your legs. You freeze. He barely recognizes his own voice. He barely recognizes himself.

He’s panting. His breath is ragged, his mouth soaked in you, his grip white-knuckled and bruising where he holds you down. His cock is rock-hard, throbbing against the rough denim of his jeans, and all he can think about is shoving it inside you, fucking you so deep you never recover from it.

But instead, he’s still here. Still eating you out. Still losing his fucking mind over it.

His tongue flicks over your clit again, then again, then again, punishing, relentless, until your back arches and you keeeen—

And fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your cunt clenches in response, a weak little tremor that has his own body reacting like he’s just been shot. He grips your thighs so hard they’ll bruise, presses his tongue in so deep he might suffocate himself. His mind is white-hot static. The taste of you is the only thing that exists, and he hates you for it. Hates you because he likes this, because he’s never let himself like anything this much.

Your body writhes beneath him, hips jerking, as if you could escape. He growls against your clit, sucking hard, punishing, wrecking, until—

A scream rips from your throat.

You shatter against him, thighs trembling violently, your cunt pulsing with the force of your orgasm, and he doesn’t let up.

He won’t let up.

His jaw aches. His lips are swollen, tongue raw, fingers buried into your flesh so hard he might leave scars. He doesn’t fucking care. He’s starving. He needs more. More of you, more of this, more of the thing he never should have allowed himself to touch in the first place.

And when he finally pulls back, his face is drenched. His pupils are blown, his breath harsh, his cock aching so bad he might pass out from it.

You’re shaking, a sobbing mess, your body limp from the aftershocks. And when you open your mouth—maybe to beg, maybe to curse, maybe to sob his name—he cuts you off with a sharp, guttural snarl:

“Shut the fuck up.”

You don’t listen, voice cracking around a sob. His expression twists.

He stands. Grabs you.

Flips you onto your stomach.

Yanks your ass up, shoves your face down.

He can’t think anymore. Can’t breathe anymore. And it’s your fucking fault.

So now? Now you’re going to pay for it.

His belt hits the floor.

His jeans follow.

His cock presses against the slick mess he made between your thighs, head throbbing, burning, soaked in his own precum and your own unwilling release.

He fists your hair, yanks your head back to hiss in your ear—

“I don’t eat pussy.”

And then he shoves inside.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫! 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧! 𝐑𝐞𝐱 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬 ✦✧✦✧

He watches you struggle in your seat, back pressed against the polished wood of his office chair, the cold leather beneath you a contrast to the fire burning in his golden eyes. Rex Lapis—your professor, your sponsor, your guardian—leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, as though contemplating a matter of academic gravity rather than the trembling girl before him.

“You disappoint me.”

Three words. Measured. Heavy. They slide down your spine like a branding iron, burning you in a way far worse than any physical punishment he’s given before. The weight of his disappointment is worse than the sharpest reprimand. Worse than the lash of his tongue in class, where he berates you for careless mistakes, where he calls you an ‘insipid little girl who refuses to learn.’

But here? In his private office? The words take on a different meaning. One that makes your stomach coil tight, a snake of dread slithering into your gut.

“I have given you everything,” he muses, tilting his head ever so slightly, golden eyes sharpening. “This school. This future. My sponsorship. And yet… you squander it.”

He stands. The slow, deliberate movement makes your breath hitch. He is all sharp angles and coiled strength, honed through centuries of war, battle-hardened from an age where men ripped each other apart for the right to breathe.

“I expect more from you.” He takes a step forward, and your legs press tighter together instinctively. His lips curl.

“Ah. There it is,” he murmurs, almost amused. “That resistance. That little streak of defiance.”

A calloused hand finds your chin, gripping, tilting your face up to meet his stare. Your breath catches in your throat. His fingers tighten. Just enough to remind you of your place.

“You are too easily distracted. Too easily led astray.” His thumb brushes your lower lip. His eyes darken. “I must break that.”

Your pulse spikes. “Professor—”

The slap comes swift, a sharp crack echoing through the silence. Your head snaps to the side, cheek burning. A whimper stumbles from your lips before you can swallow it down.

“Ah. There’s the voice I prefer.”

He grips your thighs next, wrenches them apart. You yelp, fingers clawing at his arms, his wrists—anywhere you can reach—but he is immovable. Unshakable.

“Still fighting? Still so stubborn?” His chuckle is dark, condescending. “You never learn.”

The next moment, his mouth is on you.

A cry rips from your throat. His teeth sink into the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a cruel nip before his tongue laves over the spot, soothing, claiming. He drags his mouth higher, lips ghosting over your untouched heat.

You thrash.

“No, no, no—”

Your pleas are swallowed by the sharp crack of another slap, this one landing against the softness of your thigh. Heat blossoms in its wake, burning, humiliating. He does it again. And again. Until the pain blurs into something else. Until your legs tremble and your body betrays you.

“You are mine to correct.”

His voice is muffled, spoken against your most intimate place. Then his tongue—oh, his forked tongue. It flicks, teases, before delving deep, as if seeking to taste the very essence of your disobedience. He groans, the vibrations sending a jolt through your spine. His clawed fingers dig into your hips, holding you down, forcing you to take every flick, every roll, every punishing suckle.

Your nails dig into the arms of the chair, but the leather offers no mercy. No salvation.

His pace is brutal. Unrelenting.

He devours you like a starving beast, tongue pushing into you, twisting, drinking in every reaction, every flinch, every shudder. Your thighs try to snap shut around his head, but he growls, a warning, a threat, and forces them wider, fingers bruising your flesh.

“You taste…” A sharp nip. A long, slow lap. “Sweet, despite your sins.”

You whimper, body taut with shame, with fear, with the overwhelming sensation of being utterly at his mercy.

His fingers ghost over your entrance before shoving inside, two at once. You choke on a sob, body arching off the chair, but his other hand presses down on your stomach, keeping you trapped beneath his touch.

“Already squeezing me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Your body knows its master well.”

His fingers curl, dragging against that devastatingly sensitive spot inside you. Your legs jerk. He smirks against you, tongue never stopping, lapping, sucking, owning.

Pussy-drunk.

That’s what he is.

Lost in you. Lost in the taste, in the heat, in the way you tremble under him, helpless and ruined.

Your body shakes. Your nails scrape against his scalp, pushing, pulling, desperate to get him away, desperate for him to stop.

He only laughs.

Cruel.

Sadistic.

Then he bites down on your clit.

A sharp, brutal jolt of pain sends your mind spiraling, white-hot and blinding. Your scream is muffled by his large palm suddenly clamping over your mouth.

“Hush,” he warns, breath fanning against your soaked skin. “We wouldn’t want anyone to hear how depraved you are.”

He slaps your thigh again. Sharp. Stinging.

“Ungrateful little thing.”

Another slap.

You sob, muffled against his palm, tears spilling from your eyes.

“Perhaps I should keep you here all night,” he muses, licking up the evidence of his torment. “Until you finally understand who you belong to.”

Your body betrays you again. Your stomach coils, tension tightening to an unbearable point. He feels it.

He grins.

Then he buries his face between your thighs once more, drinking in your ruin.

“You will not fail me again,” he murmured, his fingers trailing up your trembling body. “You will be better. You will be mine.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧

He never considered himself an impulsive man. Logic dictated every action, every carefully weighed decision. But tonight, your laughter, your distracted eyes lingering on another man's lips, your voice—so sweet, so ignorant—became the fault line that split apart the foundation of his restraint.

Alhaitham’s fingers brush against the rim of his glass, his gaze shadowed beneath the dim dormitory light. The scent of ink and parchment lingers, mingling with the faint trace of something sweeter—something chemical, dissolving into the depths of your drink as you chatter away, oblivious.

The aphrodisiac is slow-acting, calibrated precisely. He'd tested it, measured its potency down to the molecule. No room for error. No risk of overdose. Just enough to make you pliant, fevered—enough to make you need him.

“Do you always stare this much when we’re studying?”

Your voice is teasing, but there’s wariness beneath it. You’ve always been sharp, frustratingly so. A perfect rival, an infuriating thorn. A woman so brilliant yet so blind. Alhaitham schools his expression, feigning nonchalance as he flips a page in his research journal.

“Your arguments are flawed,” he mutters, eyes dragging across the words rather than meeting your gaze. “I assumed prolonged exposure to my intellect would have improved your reasoning skills, but apparently, I overestimated you.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t notice the slight tremor in your hands as you grip your pen. Not yet. The change is gradual—first, the warmth spreading through your skin, then the subtle, disorienting haze slipping over your mind.

Minutes pass. Then more. Your breath hitches. You shift uncomfortably, legs pressing together beneath the table. A sheen of sweat glistens at your temple, and when you blink up at him, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in your expression.

“…I think I need some air.”

He smiles. It’s almost genuine. “Do you?”

You move to stand, but your knees buckle. His chair scrapes against the floor as he rises—too quick, too measured. You don’t even have time to recoil before his arms are around you, steadying you with an ease that feels rehearsed.

His hand splays over the small of your back. His breath ghosts against your ear. You’re trembling now, caught in the precise balance between confusion and need, between fear and the slow, traitorous hunger unfurling in your stomach.

“I can help you,” he murmurs, voice smooth, unshaken. “Let me.”

Panic flickers in your gaze. “Alhaitham…? What did you…?”

Your lips part, perhaps to accuse him, perhaps to beg. It doesn’t matter. He’s already moving, already pulling you into the abyss he’s so meticulously crafted.

✦✧✦✧

The mattress dips beneath you as he settles between your legs. You’re too weak to push him away now, too lost in the fever. He watches, mesmerized, as your body writhes, helpless against the storm of sensations overtaking you.

His hands part your thighs, and the sight of you—panting, squirming, slick with an unwilling desire that only he can soothe—renders him breathless.

Alhaitham is a scholar. A man of reason. But nothing in his studies, nothing in his countless observations of you, could have prepared him for this.

You whimper, trying to twist away, but he grips your thighs, holding you open with a strength that leaves bruises. “Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, voice heavy with something dark, something possessive. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Tears well in your eyes, a denial forming on your lips, but then he leans down, pressing his mouth against the burning heat of your core.

You choke on a gasp, your body jolting as if struck by lightning.

He groans against you, tongue dragging slow, deliberate paths through your wetness. The taste of you is intoxicating—salty, sweet, unwilling. He drinks it in, lost, consumed, enslaved to the very thing he’s taken.

Your thighs try to snap shut, but his grip is unrelenting. Every inch of your skin beneath his fingers is branded, owned. His tongue flicks against your clit, and your sobbing moan is the most exquisite sound he’s ever heard.

He’s never done this before, never touched another body like this, but it doesn’t matter. He’s studied anatomy, observed every nuance of your reactions. He knows what makes you shudder, what makes your breath hitch, what forces pleasure through your resistance like an invasive sickness.

His fingers slip inside you without preamble, and your back arches, a sob breaking past your lips. He curls them, stroking deep, ruthless in his precision, in the way he tears you apart.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your cunt, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed, tear-streaked face. “You taste…” He licks into you again, groaning. “Better than I expected.”

Your walls clench around him, betraying you, and his eyes darken.

You can’t stop this. Can’t stop him. The aphrodisiac won’t let you. Your own body won’t let you.

The thought terrifies you.

But it excites him.

He’s hard, aching, unbearably so. His free hand moves to unfasten his belt, but he doesn’t stop devouring you, doesn’t stop sucking at the swollen bud of your clit until your cries turn breathless, high-pitched.

Your pleasure isn’t supposed to matter. And yet, the idea of pulling it from you—ripping it from your unwilling body, forcing you to fall apart beneath him—is the most arousing thing he’s ever imagined.

He needs more. More of your taste, more of your sounds, more of the helpless tremble in your limbs as he ruins you.

His name leaves your lips—a broken sob, a plea—but he doesn’t stop.

He wouldn’t dream of stopping.

Because you are his.

You just don’t realize it yet.

Your orgasm slams into you without warning. Your body jerks, a cry ripped from your throat as you shatter, pleasure crashing over you in unbearable waves. Alhaitham groans against you, lapping up every drop, refusing to let you go even as you twitch, oversensitive and gasping.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal. “But we’re not done.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his face drenched in your slick, his gaze dark, unreadable.

He licks his lips.

“I need more data.”

You’re boneless beneath him now, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp. Your eyes, half-lidded, glisten with tears. He watches the rise and fall of your breath, the tremor in your fingers as you try—weakly, pathetically—to push him away.

He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your pulse. Feels it hammer beneath his lips.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, voice a hushed vow, a cruel promise. “Aren’t you?”

Your lips tremble. You shake your head.

He smiles.

Then he undoes his belt.

And logic no longer holds any meaning.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧

The marble floors are cold beneath his bare feet. He’s already stripped off his tie and jacket, the once-pristine image of class and composure unraveling thread by thread. His fingers brush his lips absently, tongue darting out to chase the phantom taste of you. He had barely begun, and yet his body thrums with insatiable hunger.

He is supposed to be above this.

But you make him lose himself.

His breath comes slow and measured, yet his eyes gleam with something sharp, something ruthless. You tremble against the silken sheets beneath you, the remnants of your protests still lingering in the air, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. Not when your scent is still thick on his tongue. Not when his fingers are pressing against your trembling thighs, parting them as if they belong to him.

Because they do.

“You’re shaking,” he muses, voice velvet smooth, a gentle mockery that makes your stomach twist. “I haven’t even started yet.”

He relishes in the fear flashing across your gaze, the way your lips part—not in invitation, but in refusal. It’s cute. Almost sweet. The way you still think you have a say in this.

Sunday sighs, long and drawn out, as if disappointed.

“Why do you fight me on this?” His fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight yet firm. You flinch, and his smile widens, something serene—angelic, almost.

“It’s as if you don’t understand.” He leans in, slow, inexorable. The warmth of his breath fans over your throat. “This was inevitable.”

You jerk when his lips brush your collarbone. A soft laugh vibrates against your skin, his fingers pressing deeper into your flesh. He could hold you down if he wanted to—force you apart, break you in half. But there’s no need for that. He’s far more patient than you deserve.

And besides, you’ll learn soon enough.

Your lips part to speak, but he shushes you, his thumb pressing against your lower lip, dragging it down ever so slightly. His pupils are blown wide, drunk off your scent, your taste.

“I should punish you,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, as if lost in prayer. “For making me wait. For making me suffer.”

He doesn’t, though. Not yet. He wants to savor this.

His mouth trails lower, pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, his hands mapping out every trembling inch of you. When he parts your legs wider, you squeeze your eyes shut, breath hitching as cool air kisses your damp skin.

“Look at you,” he breathes, reverence laced with something dark, something dangerous. “You say no, but your body…” He exhales softly, almost dazed. “Your body is so, so honest.”

Your nails dig into the sheets, and he laughs again, breath ghosting over your thighs. He lets you feel the weight of his stare, the heat of his breath, the unbearable anticipation that coils tight in your stomach.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You make a sound—a whimper, a plea, it hardly matters. Because the moment you do, he descends.

His tongue presses against you, slow, deliberate, savoring. A broken moan slips from his lips, muffled against your folds. He hums, pleased, eyes fluttering shut as he drowns himself in the taste of you.

“So sweet,” he groans, his grip tightening around your thighs, forcing them open. “So perfect.”

Your breath stutters, a choked whimper escaping as his tongue moves with sinful precision, flicking against your clit, then dragging down to lap at your entrance.

He’s ravenous. Starved. Every stroke of his tongue is indulgent, worshipful, yet possessive in a way that makes your stomach churn.

You try to push him away—your fingers tangling in his hair, weakly attempting to shove him back. But the moment you do, his grip turns bruising, a warning growl vibrating against your core.

“Ungrateful,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His lips are glistening, his breath heavy, pupils blown wide with something terrifying. “You fight me even now?”

Your fingers tremble against his scalp, and he smiles—slow, cruel.

“I’ll have to fix that.”

Before you can react, his mouth is on you again, his tongue delving deep, curling inside you. He groans as your walls flutter around him, as your thighs twitch against his hold. His nose brushes against your clit, his grip keeping you still as he devours you whole.

His world narrows to this—to you. The taste, the heat, the way your body clenches and trembles under his touch. He’s dizzy with it, drunk off it, his thoughts clouded with nothing but the primal need to consume.

You sob when he sucks your clit between his lips, the pleasure sharp, unbearable. His fingers join the assault, pressing inside you, stretching you open as if molding you to fit him.

His free hand drags up your stomach, pressing against the soft flesh, feeling the way you spasm under his touch. His lips part, a broken moan spilling out as he flicks his tongue against your swollen nub, never once relenting.

“Give it to me,” he murmurs, half-dazed, half-commanding. “I want it. I want all of it.”

Your body betrays you, pleasure ripping through your spine, leaving you breathless, trembling, undone. You sob as your climax crashes over you, your body writhing against the sheets, against him.

But he doesn’t stop.

Not when you whimper, not when you try to push him away, not when tears slip down your cheeks, and certainly not when you beg.

Because it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

His lips move against your oversensitive flesh, relentless, insatiable. His fingers curl inside you, coaxing more, demanding more. Your thighs twitch, your back arching against the overwhelming sensation, but he doesn’t stop.

He won’t stop.

Not until you’ve broken completely.

“I told you, little sister.” His voice is a breathy whisper, almost regretful. “You only need me.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧

The room stinks of old wood and cigarette smoke, a haze of whiskey and sweat clinging to the air. The walls creak, ancient with dust and decay, pressing in like a silent audience. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. The only sound is the soft hum of the ceiling fan, slow, deliberate rotations slicing through the quiet.

Then, his voice. Low. Drawling. Dripping with amusement.

"Darlin’, reckon you know why yer sittin’ there all stiff-like."

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your body is frozen in place, perched on the edge of a bed that feels too large, too suffocating. The door is locked. You heard the click behind you when he walked in, boots heavy against the floorboards, the distinct jingle of his belt unbuckling echoing in the suffocating air.

Boothill tilts his head, pushing the brim of his cowboy hat up with a lazy finger. Those sharp grey eyes glint under the dim light, dragging over you like a slow, cruel brand. He looks at you the way a starving animal sizes up fresh meat.

"Aw, darlin’… ain’t no need to look so damn scared. Ain’t like I’m gonna bite." His grin is a razor-thin slash across his face. "Unless y’want me to."

You swallow, pressing your thighs together, fingers knotting in the fabric of your dress. But it doesn’t matter. He notices everything. The way your breath catches. The slight shiver running through you. The way your knees twitch inward, like you think that’ll stop him.

He steps forward. Closer.

"Go on now," he murmurs, voice syrup-thick and full of wicked intent. "Spread ‘em."

You shake your head. A mistake. The rejection makes his expression shift, the casual amusement twisting into something darker, hungrier.

His knee presses between your thighs, forcing them apart, and you gasp. He leans in, breath hot against your cheek, the scent of tobacco and whiskey filling your lungs.

"Ain’t like you got much say in it, sugar," he whispers. "We both know that."

His hands are rough, calloused from years of hard work, gripping your thighs and dragging them further apart. The sound of your heartbeat pounds in your ears, drowning out everything but him—his breath, his heat, the weight of his stare as he drinks in the sight of you.

"Ain’t this a damn shame," Boothill tuts, sliding his fingers up, slow, teasing, barely grazing where you don’t want him. "Gotta teach ya how to be obedient."

Your breath stutters as he hooks his fingers around the edge of your panties and yanks them down. The cool air hits your bare skin, sending a violent shudder through you. He groans at the sight, his pupils blowing wide.

"Fuckin’ hell, darlin’… look atcha. Y’look real pretty when yer scared."

You whimper, a fresh wave of humiliation and horror surging through you. He doesn’t care. If anything, it fuels him.

His mouth finds your inner thigh, teeth scraping against soft flesh. The wet heat of his tongue follows, slow and indulgent, dragging up the sensitive skin. The sharp stubble on his jaw scratches as he moves, teasing, tormenting, making you squirm.

"Shhh, sweetheart. Don’t fight it. Let daddy take care of ya."

The words make you choke.

His tongue flicks out, dragging a wet stripe right over your slit, and you jolt violently, a strangled gasp ripping from your throat.

"Oh-ho," Boothill chuckles darkly, voice muffled against your skin. "Sensitive lil’ thing, huh?"

His grip tightens on your thighs, locking you in place as he presses his mouth against you, slow, savoring the way you twitch and struggle.

"Fuckin’ divine…" he groans, rolling his tongue over you, licking you open like a man who hasn’t eaten in days. "Holy shit, darlin’—ya taste so sweet, might get drunk off ya."

You let out a broken sound, hands flying to his hair to push him away—but that only makes him groan deeper, rumbling against your core.

"Nah, sugar. That’s real fuckin’ cute, but ya ain’t goin’ nowhere."

He sucks hard, the obscene sound of his mouth working against you filling the room. It’s too much. Too wet, too hot, too depraved. His tongue pushes inside, curling, tasting, licking, and he moans like he’s the one being pleasured.

"S’like honey," he slurs, his voice pussy-drunk, heavy with lust. "Fuck, darlin’… need more."

You shake your head wildly, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, hands spreading you wider as he devours you, the slick noises mixing with his groans. He grinds his hips into the mattress, rutting against it like a desperate man, like just tasting you is enough to get him off.

"Mmm, yeah, sugar," he grunts, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it again and again until your legs shake violently. "Give it up for me."

You sob. Your body betrays you, trembling under his ruthless tongue, the unwanted pleasure blurring into something unbearable. He knows. He can feel it. The way your thighs quiver. The way your breathing turns ragged. The way your body—traitorous, weak—reacts to him.

"Atta girl," he growls. "Fuckin’ knew ya’d be sweet on my tongue."

Your vision blurs, the pressure building unbearable, twisting into something shameful, something you don’t want but can’t fight. Boothill doesn’t let up. He’s relentless, dragging you right to the edge, his hands gripping you so tight you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

"C’mon now, sugar," he coaxes. "Be a good girl an’ cum all over daddy’s tongue."

Tears streak down your cheeks. You shake your head, a final desperate denial—but then he moans, vibrating against your clit, and your body locks up with a strangled cry.

Pleasure crashes over you like a violent tide, dragging you under, drowning you. You convulse against him, and he groans like he’s the one coming, drinking you in, licking up every last drop as you shatter beneath him.

"Fuuuck, that’s it, sweetheart. Shit! Damn." He pulls back, licking his lips, his chin glistening with you. "Knew ya’d be the best fuckin’ thing I ever tasted."

You barely register the rustling of fabric, the clinking of his belt.

"Now," Boothill drawls, voice thick with arousal, "reckon it’s ‘bout time we get to the real fun."

Your stomach drops.

He grins down at you, his cock hard, leaking against his stomach, the tip flushed an angry red.

"Don’t worry, sugar," he purrs, gripping your hips, lining himself up. "I’ll make sure ya feel every damn inch."

And then—

Pain.

Pleasure.

Terror.

The bed creaks. The ceiling fan spins. The world outside is silent.

And Boothill fucks you like you’re his.

He ain’t never been good at sharin’. Ain’t never been good at lettin’ go of somethin’ that’s his.

And, sugar—you’ve been his since the day you were born.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ✦✧✦✧

He isn’t your brother. Not really.

That’s what you tell yourself, have always told yourself, a little mantra inside your head every time you catch him watching you. A comforting phrase, a dividing wall. Older step-brother. Not blood. Not real. Just family on paper, through marriage and circumstance. That distinction should mean nothing.

But it means everything to him.

The first time he met you, he knew. He always knew, from the second you walked into his life with those sharp, tired eyes and that constant aura of detached calculation, of dismissive apathy. You were different. You weren’t swayed by his easy charm, his golden-boy image, his "gentle giant" reputation. You tolerated him, at best. Mocked him, at worst. He hated it.

He loved it.

It made him want to ruin you.

And he would.

Tonight.

✦✧✦✧

Your apartment is quiet.

It’s late. Too late for visitors. And yet, when you unlock your front door, the first thing you hear is the heavy scrape of a chair against the floor.

He’s already inside.

Sitting at your table like he owns the place, long legs sprawled, fingers drumming against the wood. He looks up when you enter, expression neutral, but there’s something in his eyes.

You stop. The keys in your hand tighten. A slow, creeping unease spreads down your spine.

“Caleb.”

His name feels foreign on your tongue. You’ve said it a million times before, but tonight, it’s different. There’s something off about him. The way he watches you, completely still, something restrained simmering just beneath the surface.

He smiles. A slow, lazy thing. “Hey, kid.”

You bristle. “Don’t call me that.”

He laughs. “Still so prickly.” He stands, stretching, broad shoulders rolling beneath his hoodie. He’s always been big—tall, muscular, thick in a way that most men can’t compare—but tonight, it feels different. He feels different.

A predator in your home.

Your heartbeat picks up. You shift on your feet, fingers twitching toward the pepper spray in your pocket. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing the waters. “Haven’t spent much time together lately. Thought we should change that.”

“You could’ve called.”

“I did.” His smile widens. “You ignored me.”

The air in the room turns suffocating. He’s close now. Too close. His presence looms, and you realize, with a sick twist of dread, that he’s cornering you without even touching you.

You swallow. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

“Work. Friends. My own fucking life.” You glare up at him, refusing to show fear, even as your stomach twists itself into knots. “You don’t own my time.”

Something flickers in his eyes.

Then he moves.

Fast. So fast that you barely register it before he has you against the wall, your wrist pinned above your head, his other hand gripping your waist. The pepper spray is ripped from your pocket and clatters to the floor. Your breath stutters.

His grip is firm. Unbreakable. His body is hot against yours, his size overwhelming, the scent of his cologne and something deeper—something uniquely him—filling your lungs.

He leans in. His nose brushes against your temple. “Busy, huh?” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Too busy for me?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Let me go.”

“No.”

You struggle, but it’s useless. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he could. That he will. His breath ghosts over your cheek, slow, measured, savoring. “I’ve been patient,” he murmurs. “So fucking patient.”

You thrash. His hold doesn’t budge.

“You don’t look at me,” he says, voice rough. “Not the way you look at other men. Like I’m some harmless fucking puppy, like I’m just there. Like I’m nothing to you.”

His grip on your waist drags lower, fingers teasing over the curve of your hip. A shudder rips through you, disgust and fear colliding, twisting into something sick and vile.

“You’re sick,” you hiss. “You—”

A gasp tears from your throat as he presses his mouth to your neck. Wet heat. Teeth scraping. A pleased sound rumbles in his chest when you squirm, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, ghosting over your stomach.

“No more ignoring me,” he whispers against your skin. “No more pretending I’m just your fucking brother.”

Your world tilts. The next thing you know, you’re on the floor, the cool wood against your back, his weight pressing you down.

Panic flares. You kick out, thrash, fight with everything you have, but it’s useless. He’s too strong. Too big. His hands pin you, restrain you, force you open beneath him.

Then his mouth is on you.

Your shirt is yanked up, his tongue dragging over your stomach, trailing lower, lower—

“No—!”

His teeth sink into your hip. Sharp. Possessive. A warning. You gasp, hips jerking, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. His hands part your thighs, grip unyielding, bruising, spreading you wide open for him.

Then his mouth meets your core.

It’s obscene. The way he groans, the way his tongue moves, slow and thorough, as if he’s savoring every fucking inch of you. His grip tightens when you try to twist away, holding you still, forcing you to take it. His tongue dips, presses, curls, and your body betrays you, a traitorous jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine.

You bite your lip, refusing to make a sound.

But he notices.

He always notices.

“Still so stubborn.” His voice is husky, thick with hunger, muffled against your slick. “I can feel you shaking.” A wet, lewd sound follows as he suckles at your clit, groaning into your skin. “God, you taste so fucking good.”

Shame coils in your gut. Your hands fist in his hair, meaning to shove him away, to stop this—but when your fingers tighten, all it does is make him groan.

“Yeah?” he breathes, looking up at you, his lips glistening. “You finally touching me?” He grins. “Bet you don’t even realize what you’re doing.”

Tears burn your eyes. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he murmurs. Then he dives back in.

His tongue fucks into you, slow and purposeful, one thick finger pressing in, then two, stretching you open, fucking you open, ruining you for anyone else.

You gasp. Your back arches, your thighs tremble, but there’s no escaping him. No escaping this.

“Gonna make you cum on my tongue.” His voice is a dark promise. “Then I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll never think of another man again.”

Your breath stutters, and you realize—with horror, with devastation—that he’s telling the truth.

You will never be the same after this.

And he knows it.

Because he’s already won.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲! 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

There’s blood in your mouth.

Maybe it’s his, maybe it’s yours. The copper sting burns through the alcohol on your tongue, mixing with the bile climbing up your throat.

The air is thick with sweat and spilled liquor, bass thumping through your ribs, but none of it drowns out the sharp slap of his palm against your cheek.

“Bitch, you listenin’ to me?”

Your head snaps sideways, vision momentarily whiting out from the impact, but it barely fazes him. Bakugo's grin splits wide, sharp canines glinting in the dim light, eyes feral as he watches the slow tremble of your lips.

The party roars on behind him. You can feel the weight of bodies pressed into each other, the drunken cheers, the careless indulgence of college students too fucked up to care about anything but the heat of their own bodies.

He doesn’t give a fuck about them.

He only gives a fuck about you.

Bakugo jerks your head back by the roots of your hair, dragging your gaze up to meet his, the burn of his fingers against your scalp anchoring you in place. The red flush across his face isn’t just from the alcohol, not when his pupils are blown wide and his breathing comes in uneven pants. He’s high on this. High on you.

“You really think you’re better than me?” His breath fans across your lips, soaked in whiskey and spite. “Fuckin' stuck-up little bitch—actin' like you don't see me. Actin' like you ain't got my fuckin' eyes on you every shitty day.”

Your stomach lurches as he yanks you forward, the crowd parting around you both like a goddamn spectacle. You try to brace against him, hands weakly shoving at his chest, but he’s immovable. Bakugo only snarls, spinning you around and shoving you against the sticky countertop, pressing the heavy weight of his body against your back.

“Nah,” he breathes, hot and vicious against the shell of your ear. “Not runnin'. Not tonight.”

You barely get the chance to suck in a breath before he kicks your legs apart. One of his arms loops around your middle, dragging you back against his chest while his free hand snakes up your thigh. A violent tremor wracks through you when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down in one swift motion.

“Katsuki—”

He laughs.

“Oh, now you wanna say my name?” His fingers ghost over your exposed slit, barely there, but enough to make you jolt. “Now you wanna fuckin' act like you got somethin' to say?”

He doesn't wait for a response.

Two fingers push inside you without preamble, knuckles deep, dragging out a choked, unwilling sob from your throat. Your hips twitch, trying to pull away, but he presses you down harder against the counter, keeping you trapped between his body and the wood. His fingers curl inside you, rubbing against your walls in deep, slow strokes, his cock twitching against your ass at the way you pulse around him.

“So fuckin' tight,” he growls. “Ain't nobody ever touched this pussy before? Hah?”

You want to scream. You want to thrash and claw and bite.

But the laughter behind you tells you that no one would care.

Bakugo spreads you open with both hands, prying apart your folds to get a better look at the slick beginning to smear between your thighs. He groans, low and hungry, shoving his face against you. The first hot drag of his tongue across your cunt makes your stomach turn, makes your nails scrape against the counter in desperation.

But he doesn’t stop.

He moans like he’s fucking drunk on the taste of you. His tongue laps through your slit, slow at first, savoring it. Then, like a man starved, he shoves his face deeper between your legs, his nose pressed against your clit while his tongue flicks and sucks. You jerk, a stifled cry ripping from your throat when he buries himself into you like a ravenous animal.

Your hands fly back to shove him away, but he only growls against your cunt, nipping at your inner thigh in warning.

“Don’t fuckin' run from me,” he pants, voice ragged. “Ain't gonna let you.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, and your knees nearly buckle. His fingers dig bruises into your thighs, forcing them open wider as he eats you out like a man possessed, like he’s never had anything so fucking good in his mouth before.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

Your body shouldn’t be responding to him, shouldn’t be trembling under his grip, shouldn’t be letting his tongue push so deep inside you it makes your spine arch.

Bakugo laughs when he feels the way you clench, the way you twitch and shake against him, the way your hips push back just a little against his face.

“Yeah,” he breathes, mouth slick with your juices, eyes burning with something wild and unhinged. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch. Fuckin' knew you’d melt for me.”

Your cheeks burn with humiliation.

Because you can feel it too—the slow, creeping pressure building inside you, the traitorous heat pooling between your thighs despite every single cell in your body screaming at you to fight.

His fingers dig into your ass, bruising and possessive, spreading you open for him even wider as he groans against your cunt, the vibrations making your knees give out. He grins against you, eating you out with wet, obscene sounds, completely unbothered by the way your thighs tremble, by the way your hands desperately grip the edge of the counter as he shoves his tongue inside you as deep as it can go.

“Taste so fuckin' sweet,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “This pussy was made for me, hah? Fuckin' perfect little hole…"

Your vision is swimming, the air in your lungs thinning as his tongue drags over your clit, relentless, ruthless, until you can't take it anymore, until your body betrays you completely and your orgasm crashes down without warning.

Your back arches, a strangled sob ripping from your lips as you tremble against him, the shame and pleasure a sickening mix that makes your head spin. Bakugo groans, slurping up every drop of your release, licking and sucking even as your body convulses in his hold, completely and utterly spent.

He doesn't stop.

Even as your thighs twitch, even as your nails carve into the wood, even as tears spill down your cheeks from the overstimulation, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps devouring you like he can’t get enough.

“Fuckin' pussy-drunk off you, baby,” he breathes, voice ruined, eyes dark and desperate as he stares at the mess he's made of you. “Ain't never lettin' this go.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

You shouldn't have smiled at him.

Atsumu has never been the jealous type—at least, that’s what he’s always told himself. Possessiveness? Disgusting. Clinginess? Even worse. He’s a fuckboy, not a damn sap, and yet here he is, hands clamped so tightly around your wrists that your bones groan in protest, dragging you through the dimly lit hallway of the party like you’re nothing more than a ragdoll.

It’s funny, really.

All it took was a lingering glance at your so-called best friend, and he fucking snapped.

The closet door slams behind you, plunging you into suffocating darkness. The sharp scent of cedar and mothballs invades your nose, but all you can focus on is him—his panting breath, the brutal way he shoves you against the wall, his fingers bruising the delicate skin of your throat.

"Think yer funny, huh?" he hisses, voice thick with something dark, something dangerous. "Batting yer eyes at that piece of shit? Laughin’ at his dumbass jokes? Y’like him or somethin’?"

Your lips part, but the words die before they can escape.

Because Atsumu is angry.

Not the playful irritation you’re used to—the kind that ends with a scoff and an eye-roll. No, this is something else entirely. Something lethal. His fingers tighten around your throat just enough to make your head spin, your pulse hammering like a caged animal against his grip.

"Atsumu," you whisper, voice barely above a breath. "I didn’t—"

"Shut the fuck up."

His knee shoves between your thighs, spreading them wide, pinning you in place. Your heart slams against your ribs as his free hand slips under your skirt, rough fingers skating up the inside of your thigh.

"Y’wanna act like a slut? Then I’ll treat ya like one."

Your stomach twists violently. Panic claws up your throat, but he doesn't give you the chance to fight back. His mouth crashes against yours—hot, desperate, punishing. Teeth sink into your lower lip, tearing at the delicate flesh, the taste of iron blooming across your tongue.

The room is too small, too hot. His scent surrounds you, drowning you in sweat, cologne, and something unmistakably Atsumu. You thrash, nails raking against his biceps, his neck—anywhere you can reach—but he only groans, grinding his thigh against your core like he’s getting off on your struggle.

"That’s it," he rasps, his breath scalding against your cheek. "Fight me. Gimme a reason to break ya."

Your breath stutters when he yanks your panties down, leaving them bunched around your knees. His fingers are on you before you can process what’s happening, rough pads sliding through your folds, spreading you open.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice wrecked. "Always so damn warm. So fuckin’ wet. This for me? Or were ya hopin’ that little shit out there would be the one touchin’ ya?"

Shame burns beneath your skin, hot and humiliating. "Please—"

"Please what?" He sneers. "Y’want me to stop? Then why’s yer pussy beggin’ for me, huh? Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ fingers."

Two fingers sink into you without warning, stretching you wide. A strangled gasp rips from your throat, your body arching instinctively, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Atsumu is everywhere—all-consuming, relentless, insatiable.

"Fuck, fuck—look at this pretty little hole, takin’ me so easy," he murmurs, mesmerized. "Like ya were made for me."

His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing tight, punishing circles that send electricity crackling up your spine. The pleasure is too much, too fast, coiling low in your stomach, threatening to snap.

And he knows it.

"Yeah? Y’gonna come already? So damn easy, holy fuck." He laughs, mean and breathless, curling his fingers just right. "C’mon, slut. Make a mess for me. Show me who ya belong to."

Your body betrays you, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves. A choked sob wrenches past your lips, and Atsumu watches, eyes dark with hunger, as you shatter against his hand.

"Holy shit," he whispers, withdrawing his fingers, watching the slick strings between them. "Yer so fuckin’ perfect. Y’don’t even know."

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s sinking to his knees, shoving your skirt up around your waist. His grip is bruising as he hooks your thighs over his shoulders, pressing you back against the wall.

"Atsumu—"

The first lick steals the air from your lungs.

Hot, wet, obscene—his tongue drags through your folds, collecting every drop of slick you’ve spilled for him. A ragged moan vibrates against your clit as he buries his face in you, licking, sucking, devouring like a man starved.

"Taste so fuckin’ sweet," he slurs against you, drunk on the heat of your cunt. "So fuckin’ perfect, baby. Could eat ya for hours."

You try to squirm, try to shove him away, but he only growls, pressing his tongue flat against you before flicking it over your clit, slow and deliberate.

"Stay fuckin’ still," he snaps. "Let me fuckin’ enjoy this."

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, nails digging into his scalp as his tongue fucks into you, messy and desperate. Slurping, sucking, swallowing—he doesn’t care how filthy it is, how humiliatingly loud. He wants you to drown in it, wants you to hear how much he fucking needs this.

You feel him rutting against your calf, grinding his cock against your skin like he’s getting off just from tasting you.

"M’so fuckin’ hard," he groans. "Fuck, baby—gonna come just from this. Just from this pretty pussy."

Your head spins. The pleasure is too much, too overwhelming, your body strung so tight it hurts.

"Atsumu, I—"

He hums against your clit, sucking the swollen nub between his lips, and you break.

White-hot pleasure crashes through you, tearing a scream from your throat. Your body locks up, every muscle seizing as you come, and Atsumu moans, drinking it down like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice wrecked. "Fuckin’ knew ya could gimme one more."

Your legs nearly give out as he pulls back, chin glistening, pupils blown wide. He looks utterly debauched—cheeks flushed, hair a mess, lips wet and swollen.

"Y’ain’t done yet, sweetheart," he murmurs, standing to his full height. His fingers work at his belt, the soft clink of metal making your stomach plummet. "M’not nearly fuckin’ finished with ya."

The sharp sound of a zipper fills the tiny space.

And then he’s pulling his cock free, thick and flushed, dripping with need. He strokes himself once, twice, watching the way your eyes widen, the way your thighs tremble, the way you shrink against the wall as if that’ll save you.

It won’t.

Atsumu smirks, stepping closer, pressing the leaking tip against your slick folds.

"Gonna fuckin’ ruin ya."

The closet door muffles your scream.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

You were always a quiet little brat.

Not the loud, obnoxious type. Not the kind that pouted and whined. No, you had your own way of getting under his skin—an infuriating, unreadable defiance that mocked him in silence. It was in the way you held your ground, unwavering, giving him that blank, unimpressed stare no matter how much he towered over you.

And he tolerated it.

Because you were his.

Shouei Barou, king of the field, ruled with dominance. His presence alone forced submission. Opponents cowered, teammates fell in line, and yet, you? You never crumbled.

You, with that little smirk.

That disrespectful little smirk that told him you didn’t take him as seriously as you should.

It drove him insane.

Tonight, you finally pushed too far.

He wasn’t even trying to be threatening. For once, he had been patient, letting you sit on his lap after a match, letting you play with his damp hair. He had let you touch him however you pleased, because for all his pride, for all his control, Barou was addicted to you. Your hands, your warmth, the scent of you—you had ruined him in a way he didn’t understand. So he let you get away with things no one else could.

Then you said it.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

He had stilled, jaw locking. You leaned closer, chin on his shoulder, whispering low. “I mean, it makes sense, right? You’re too much of a self-righteous control freak to let anyone touch you.” Fingers trailed down his nape. “Bet you’re scared. All that talk, all that attitude, and you’ve never even had a girl squeeze your cock?” You sighed, deliberately unimpressed. “Tch. Figures.”

You hadn’t expected much of a reaction.

After all, Barou was always restrained with you. A little rough when you got on his nerves, but never violent, never crossing any real lines. He was harsh, cruel at times, but still kind in a way that made you stupid enough to feel safe.

But then, the air shifted.

You felt it before you saw it—that break in patience. A crack splitting the careful lines of his control. His fingers flexed against your thighs.

And then he was moving.

Fast. Too fast for you to process what was happening before he had you pinned to the floor, legs spread wide, breath hot as he loomed over you.

"You think this is a game?"

His voice was so fucking low. That controlled, authoritative tone that made men freeze on the field now sent pure fear rolling down your spine.

“W-Wait—”

Too late. His grip was bruising, hands ripping your clothes aside. A loud tear, fabric shredding under his brute force. Your stomach dropped, realization slamming into you. He’s serious.

Your mind screamed at you to fight, but your body betrayed you, frozen under the sheer weight of him.

“Gotta put you in your place.” His breath came hot against your thigh. “Since you like running that fucking mouth.”

His head dipped, and you barely had time to gasp before his mouth latched onto you.

Oh, fuck—

It was instant, the shock of it, the raw, desperate heat of his tongue. He didn’t even hesitate. No build-up, no hesitation—he dove in, licking into your cunt like a man possessed. Like he had something to prove.

And fuck, he did.

The first swipe sent you reeling, pleasure and horror crashing into each other as his tongue flattened against your slit, dragging upward in one long, hungry stroke.

You yelped, legs kicking, trying to squirm away, but his grip was unrelenting.

"Stay. Fucking. Still."

A sharp slap landed on your thigh, the sting making you jolt. And then he sucked on your clit, a filthy, wet sound filling the room as his mouth devoured you.

It was obscene.

Raw, messy, sloppy.

You had never seen him like this. Never. Barou was always calculated, always composed—but now? Now he was drunk off of you, groaning like he was the one being pleasured, rutting against the floor as he licked and sucked like a starved fucking animal.

"Fuck." His voice was hoarse, barely a rasp. "You're gonna eat those words, brat."

You whimpered, trying to push at his head, but he was fucking relentless, tongue rolling against you with terrifying precision. Your body was betraying you, heat coiling, legs trembling. No. You bit your lip hard, trying to suppress it, trying to deny the wetness pooling between your thighs.

Barou noticed.

"Hah. Look at you. So fucking wet for me already?" He chuckled, dark, pleased. "And you had the fucking nerve to mock me?"

His teeth grazed your inner thigh, making you gasp.

“Please, d-don’t—”

A growl, and then he was shoving his tongue inside you.

Your breath hitched, back arching as his tongue fucked into you, slow at first, then fast, messy, each stroke making a wet, lewd sound. His grip tightened, nails digging into your hips as he held you still, kept you at his mercy.

Pussy-drunk. That was the only way to describe him.

Completely lost in it, drowning in the taste of you. His groans vibrated against your cunt, deep and guttural, like he was losing his fucking mind.

"Mine." The word was muffled against your heat, growled into you like a vow. "You fucking hear me?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, choking back a sob. The way he was touching you, devouring you, it was too much. It felt too good, and that made it all the more terrifying.

Barou didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

He kept going, eating you out like it was his last meal, like his life depended on it. Like he was punishing you with pleasure.

His fingers slid between your slick folds, pressing in, stretching you open. The intrusion made you gasp, but your body was so fucked out, so overstimulated, that it barely registered before another wave of pleasure crashed over you.

And Barou felt it.

He knew you were close.

His movements grew rougher, more intense, his lips sealing around your clit, sucking just right—

You shattered.

Your body convulsed, pleasure ripping through you so violently it left you gasping, trembling. Your legs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop, kept licking and sucking, milking every last aftershock until you were sobbing.

Only then did he pull back, panting, lips shining with your slick.

His gaze burned.

Dark. Hungry. A man completely, utterly ruined.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was shoving his sweats down, revealing his cock—thick, hard, twitching with need.

"Hope you’re ready for the real thing, brat."

Your stomach dropped.

You weren’t ready.

But Barou?

Barou was done playing games.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.

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❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6 [you are here]. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

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curiositysavesthecat · 13 days ago

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*This poll was submitted to us and we simply posted it so people could vote and discuss their opinions on the matter. If you’d like for us to ask the internet a question for you, feel free to drop the poll of your choice in our inbox and we’ll post them anonymously (for more info, please check our pinned post).

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slut4thebroken · 4 months ago

Text

Reminisce

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jackson Rippner x reader

Summary | Your boyfriend of almost nine months finally reveals something to you.

Warnings | Consensual to NON CON, smut, forced breeding, baby trapping, scars, praise, forced orgasm, crying, blackmail?, past rape, lots of talk about rape, like a lot.

Words | 1.4 k

Notes | Pretend I posted this a week before Halloween like it says in the fic lol.

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 19: forced orgasm

Also idk this gif just reminded me of this part “he stared down at you with half lidded eyes, just barely smirking at the state he had you in.”

“Good girl… Take my fucking cock.” He gruffed, wrapping a hand around your neck, fucking you even harder. You cried out and clung to his shoulders, trying to ground yourself. He was leaning over your body with your legs on his shoulders basically pushed flat against your chest, unable to do anything other than take it.

“Jackson..” You whined. Each hard thrust was punching little breaths and grunts out of you and he stared down at you with half lidded eyes, just barely smirking at the state he had you in.

“God— This reminds me so much of our first date.” He groaned, confusing you. Your first date was at a restaurant and he only kissed you after walking you to your door… You didn’t know what he was talking about and his cock ramming into you was making it really hard to think about it. He chuckled quietly when he saw your furrowed brows.

“You don’t remember? It was right here in this bed, you were dressed up as a cute little fairy for Halloween and I was wearing a mask…” He trailed off, waiting for you to finally figure it out. Your stomach dropped as you recalled what was probably the worst night of your entire life. “You looked so pretty crying and begging for me like that, I knew I had to make you mine.” He said with a small smile, sounding almost endeared.

You stared up at him in shock and horror as the small scar below your collarbone started aching at the memory. There’s no way that your boyfriend of almost nine months was the one who broke into your apartment and raped you last Halloween.

“W-what?” You said through a breath, voice barely audible. His smirk widened as he took in the terror on your face.

“I was thinking of waiting until Halloween, but I just couldn’t help myself.” He chuckled. “Plus it’s only a week away, and I figured you might shut down on the actual day.”

All you could do was stare at him, a huge wave of emotions crashing down on you. When the angle of his thrusts shifted a little and he hit that one spot inside of you, you suddenly remembered that he was still fucking you and you started pushing him away.

“Get the fuck off of me.” Any malice in your tone was completely overshadowed by fear. In response, he just grinned and squeezed your neck even harder until you gasped for air.

“You were so tight that day… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for almost a year.” He groaned, then his eyes flitted down to your chest. “And that scar… Every time I see it I remember how pretty you looked, crying and begging under me as you took my cock like a good little girl— just like you’re doing now.”

“Get off!” You yelled, the tears in your eyes beginning to fall as you thrashed under him. He shushed you and just grabbed your wrists to pin them above your head with one hand while the other moved to trace over the scar.

“You know… The first time you got all choked up when I asked about it, I had to go to the bathroom and jerk off.” He chuckled quietly, looking between your face and the scar with an almost fond expression.

“Stop!” You screamed, becoming hysterical. “Jackson, please.” When you broke out into a sob, he cursed under his breath and moaned loudly, his thrusts becoming more frantic.

“God- you were crying just like this…” He groaned, dragging his gaze all over your tear streaked face. “Only last time you weren’t about to come on my cock.” He said smugly.

You shook your head almost violently, but you could feel your orgasm still approaching, despite what you just learned.

“And, between you and me… based on how hysterical you were last year, I was worried you wouldn’t be interested in a relationship at all— let alone sex…” He said teasingly, but his voice was becoming breathless as he neared his own release. “But you surprised me.” He chuckled quietly. You could barely focus on his words with how hard you were crying, feeling completely frozen underneath him. “You were so desperate for it too. I guess that’s normal though… Something about reclaiming control over your body and what not.”

“Jackson, please stop.” You sobbed brokenly, but he wasn’t deterred at all.

“Stop? But you were just moaning like a little whore for me two minutes ago.” He said coyly.

“I hate you!” You suddenly screamed, making him laugh again.

“No. You hate yourself because you’re about to cream all over your rapist’s cock.” The hand not holding your wrists down moved to rub your clit and your crying intensified.

“Stop!” You shrieked, thrashing under him uselessly.

“Beg harder, baby… I’m close.” He moaned as his thrusts sped up. The smirk on his face that used to make you blush, made you sick to your stomach this time.

You were mumbling incoherent protests and pleas and he let his head drop down as he moaned loudly. His fingers never faltered on your clit and you could feel your unwanted orgasm rapidly approaching.

“No… No— please.” You sobbed weakly, making him look at you again.

“Do it, slut. Come on my fucking cock while I rape you again.”

You were crying almost violently now, tears streaming down your cheeks as you practically started hyperventilating. “Please..” You whimpered, squirming under him weakly. The coil of arousal in your belly wound tighter and tighter until it finally snapped, sending you over the edge. “No,” you sobbed and Jackson groaned as your pussy fluttered around his cock.

“Oh, good girl…” He cooed, making you cry harder. “That's it… Cream all over my dick, baby.” His usually smug tone that used to fill your stomach with butterflies, now just made you nauseous.

“Stop! Please stop, Jackson…” You sobbed brokenly, unable to hold back your moans and whimpers as his fingers continued rubbing firm circles on your clit.

His lips parted in a silent moan and his eyes closed as his head fell forward, landing on your chest. With one final grunt, he bottomed out, his cockhead pressing against your cervix uncomfortably. You whined through quiet sobs, all while Jackson moaned… savoring every last bit of your suffering.

“Fuck..” He said through a breathy laugh once his orgasm finally faded. He leaned up, taking in the sight of your glossy eyes and quivering lip, then grabbed your cheeks to hold you still, letting him kiss you. No matter how hard you tried to turn away, he was stronger. He only released you once he was completely satisfied. “Mm… good girl.” He murmured, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. You were completely frozen under him, only able to let out hiccuping sobs.

“Oh, I know, baby… I know.” He cooed, his voice overly sweet. “But you’re not gonna leave me.” You stared at him, trying to keep a brave face, but you knew he could see your fear. “Raped twice? You’re damaged goods, sweetheart. No respectable man is gonna want you now.” You let out a choked sob and closed your eyes, hearing him coo again.

“Plus…” when his voice turned a little serious, your blood ran cold in anticipation, “you’re gonna need me to stick around for our kid.”

Your lips parted and you stared at him with both confusion and fear as you trembled. “What?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Lucky me, finding a girl who’s selfish enough to make sex feel less good— all because of the ‘hormones’ and side effects of birth control.” He sneered, his voice cold but with a cruel, almost playful lilt. Then he casually added, “You should be pregnant by now. I’ve been poking holes in all the condoms for almost two weeks.”

“Jackson…” You sobbed brokenly, not even knowing how to react.

“I know, honey, but I’ll take good care of you.” He pet your hair gently, then wiped away the tears on your face. “Your boss should be getting something in the mail soon. After he fires you, you’ll finally be able to live up to your full potential. You can move in with me and only have to worry about taking care of the house and our kids, and servicing my cock. Doesn’t that sound nice?” All you could do was cry and shake your head.

“You’re gonna love it.” He smiled, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your forehead. “I promise.”

#jackson rippner x reader smut #jackson rippner smut #jackson rippner x reader #jackson rippner #cillian murphy #kinktober 2024 #kinktober

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venusbyline · 2 months ago

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Jacaerys Velaryon — Nine Moons.

chapter four (previous chapter)

— summary: After Lucerys' death and the arrival of the dragonseeds, Jacaerys no longer wants to be betrothed with Baela. He wants to marry his twin sister, even if it means going against Rhaenyra's decisions and sealing suffering in your life and his.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x twin sister!reader

— type: dark, angst, sequel to Sleep (but can also be read as a standalone series)

— word count: 2.6k

— chapter's warnings: female!reader, dark!Jacaerys, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), forced pregnancy, past rape/non-con, dubcon somnophilia mentioned, abusive and toxic relationship, manipulation, possessive behaviour, obsessive behaviour, gaslighting, blood and injuries, argument, crying, curse words, implied underage sex, referenced Jacaerys Velaryon/Baela Targaryen, forced marriage mentioned, dark content, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: Nine Moons is a shortfic, sequel to the one shot Sleep, written for Kinktober. Both Nine Moons and Sleep can be read as standalone.

— author's notes²: Each chapter will have its own trigger warnings.

— author's notes³: It took a while longer than usual! I'm having a hard writer's block because of some personal things, and now I'm full of WIPs 🤣🤣 Anyway, please tell me your opinions and theories. Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

— tagging list: @neobangverse @hufflepuffxsworld @cwallace02sblog (Anyone who also wants to be tagged in the next chapters, tell me! ❤️❤️)

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Nine Moons masterlist • Jacaerys masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

You had been inside the Small Council room during all that time, your hands shaking due to the tension and tears streaming down your face while you waited for the hours to pass, your gaze focused on the windows as if you expected to see some dragon flying over the surroundings at any moment.

The servants had already come to try to calm you down and bring you something to eat, their efforts failing brutally every time your crying fit got worse or when you pushed the dishes away, not caring about the noise of the wares hitting the floor or the women's frightened expressions.

When you threw down the fourth glass of water in the last four hours, Baela burst through the doors. "You need to loose that temper."

"Shut up..." You whined, turning to the opposite side and facing the windows again, wanting to get rid of any lecture your cousin and sister-in-law could give you.

"You are acting like a crazy little girl." She growled, approaching you without worrying about your form huddled in the chair. Her gaze dropped to the broken kitchen utensils on the floor, looking at the servants in the corners before staring back at you. "And you are scaring the maids."

"I do not care." It was a lie, you did not usually treat any servants that badly and you knew you would regret it later.

Baela sighed with frustration, sitting down in the chair next to you. The fingers of her right hand tapped the marble table as she rested her chin on the other palm. Even though you were not talking, there was heavy air between the two of you, your sobs irritating her and her calm behavior making you more frustrated.

You would have preferred that it had been your own mother who had come to try to lecture you, but she was too busy panicking in her chambers after the Maester checked that everything was physically fine with your little brother Aegon III. The boy had arrived in Dragonstone very terrified, having flown on his little dragon for the first time, his clothes damp with his own piss due to his panic.

"We still do not have any news about any of them, including Jace."

More tears appeared in your eyes after Baela's words. You wanted to scream, to knock down everything you saw in front of you. Jacaerys should not have gone looking for Prince Viserys II. Everyone was almost certain that your youngest brother might already be dead, but Jace was stubborn and gone to the battle anyway, instead of letting that mission only for the Rhaenyra's soldiers.

"He cannot die, Baela." You whispered, hands shaking and stroking your own round belly to ease the painful twinges that were bothering you during the past minutes. "I cannot lose another brother."

Baela remained silent for a while, taking deep breaths to control what she would say next, not wanting to get into trouble with anyone during such a catastrophic situation. Her head ached slightly, thinking about the order Jacaerys made before leaving with Corlys. "Jace asked me to give you that."

You frowned when Baela handed you a necklace with two pure gold pendants, one of them was a waning crescent moon and the other was a sun, this last one decorated with a small red diamond in its center. It was very delicate and matched perfectly with the velvet dark red dress you had been wearing since Jacaerys left.

"I presume these symbols have a special meaning to both of you." Baela's tense tone returned your attention to her, nodding silently and wiping away the falling tears with your free hand. "He asked me to give it to you over if he did not come back."

"Then you should not have shown me it yet." Your voice sounded rude and you continued to hold the gift with a firm grip. "He will come back. Everyone will come back, including Viserys."

Baela sighed, massaging her temples. The atmosphere became even more tense, you keeping admiring the necklace and the other princess keeping sitting next to you, thinking about something to say that would not worsen the terrible relation between the two of you since Jacaerys got you pregnant.

She understood very well about the orders Jace gave to her when he was leaving the castle, her wrists were still bruised from the way he held them and threatened her life. Even though she wanted to just ignore her sister-in-law and hole up in her own chambers to deal with envy and worry that consumed her feelings, Baela knew she should not go against what her betrothed had told her to do.

She needed to help you stay sane and ignore the hatred she felt about you carrying Jacaerys' bastard children. She needed to obey him not just because he told her to. Baela needed to help you because if something happened to Jacaerys' life, you were the next heir to succeed your mother to the Iron Throne.

It was already night when Baela managed to convince you to go to bed. Your eyes were reddish from crying and your belly continued to pain, as if the babies were sharing your fears and moving inside your womb more roughly than usual.

The necklace that was once held by you was now decorating your neck, fingers caressing the pendants and a few sniffles echoing in the private room.

You did not pay much attention to what Baela mumbled when she was helping you change the clothes. All you knew was that her gaze lingered a little longer on your big swollen stomach, frowning with the same doubt that Jace had been thinking just minutes before the argument and sexual moments in your chambers during that morning.

The princess' confused face turned pretty obvious that Rhaenyra was not sharing the secret details of your pregnancy with her too.

"Jace believes… He believes the babies are twins."

The white-haired girl widened her eyes, clearing her throat and looking away, concentrating on placing the white linen chemise on you, the larger size fitting perfectly on your current form. "Twin pregnancy, such a surprise." Baela feigned enthusiasm, tying your clothes carefully, noticing how your fingers kept caressing the sun and moon symbols decorated on your throat. "He really corrupted you, did not he?"

The rhetorical question raced your heart, your head aching as did your stomach. A part of you was grateful that she was behind you, taking charge of dressing you. You would not know what to say if you were face to face.

When you did not respond anything, Baela continued. "I mean... He raped you. Forced you to get pregnant by him. He is still betrothed to me... And yet you are more worried about his life than the safe of your little brother who was probably kidnapped or even killed when the Pentoshi cog carrying him and Aegon III was captured."

"Viserys is not dead." Your argument did not seem convincing even to your own ears. "And Jace is only engaged to you because our mother is making him to, and also—"

"He corrupted you." The repeated words were stark and raw, your eyes filling with tears as you walked away from the hands helping you dress, a mix of anger and sadness filling your brain. "Do not you realize how Jace is manipulating you? Making you think you need him, making you want him." Baela growled, rubbing the palm over her face, the last of her patience now disappearing. "He forced you into this situation, took advantage of you when you were sleepy and vulnerable. And now you are crying because you are afraid he is going to die!"

"Jace is my twin... How do you expect me to turn against him? To not forgive him? To not fear about his life?”

"Yeah, I know he is your twin. But he is also the one who forced you to carry these things." She pointed to your belly, which was already about six moons.

A bitter and vulnerable chuckle escaped your throat, crossing arms and turning to face Baela. The girl's full lips were pressed into a thin line, both of you controlling the anger they felt at going through all that.

If only Jacaerys had not gotten you pregnant, or if only Baela had given up on keeping the betrothal...

"You are jealous..." The spiteful and sudden demeanor was not well received by your cousin, who rolled the eyes and scoffed, waiting for the next hypocrisies said. "You are jealous because Jace loves me, because he will love my children and—"

"Did you see that?" Baela pointed at you without even letting your rant end, heartbeat quickening in anticipation of the bitter words. "He already got into your mind enough. Now you think I am the villain and not him. That is what he wanted. He wanted you to resent me for envying you, to forgive him for raping you."

"STOP SAYING THAT!" You yelled with salty tears streaming down your cheeks, flushed and warm from panic, sitting up in the bed and sobbing like a child. "Stop! Just stop saying that word... Please."

Baela hummed another scoff and was about to open her mouth to retort your request, being brutally interrupted by the sound of some guard knocking on the door to your chambers with frightening force. The two princesses were silent until the man's voice came out. "Your Graces, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon has returned."

The cuticles of your nails were ripped off by your own teeth every second that passed without further news. You refused the Maester's order to remain resting in bed, being banned to enter the room until the Maester and the other servants took care of whatever happened to Jacaerys during the battle.

Your hands were trembling, nervous for the moment when someone would open the doors and allow your visit.

Most of the things said there were not understandable behind the big doors. All you could hear were the movements of the servants, your twin brother's screams of pain and some comforting words that Rhaenyra gave him.

No one had let you see his injuries. In fact, no one had explained almost anything to you about what had happened. All you knew was that Jacaerys had been very attacked by the enemies and your youngest brother Viserys had not returned along with Rhaenyra's allies.

"You should be sleeping, it is late." Daemon's lecture increased the discomfort inside your stomach and you crossed arms to hug your own shoulders, wanting to continue focusing on the confusing sounds behind the doors instead of what your uncle and stepfather had to say. "The Maester has already said that your presence inside is prohibited."

You remained still where you were, however, this time you allowed yourself to growl in disbelief. "How can I go to sleep when I do not know what my brother's condition is like?"

Daemon crossed his arms almost as if he was imitating you, his big and strong body leaning against the doorframe. "Your twin was hooked like a fish in the shoulders. He was arrowed several times in the right part of his body. His dragon is also injured and I doubt the creature will survive for more than a month after all of this."

"Do not... Do not talk that way. Vermax will be fine." Daemon did not retort against your overdone optimism at first, limiting himself to just sighing.

The more Jacaerys' screams echoed during the procedure, the more desperate you became, moving from side to side, leaving the pain in your womb aside so you could focus on the well-being of the child's father. You could hear Jace's screams of pain and pleas for the Maester to let you in there, all requests being ignored by everybody there.

Your fingertips tightened around the necklace he had given you, and Daemon broke the silence once again. "It is inappropriate for a pregnant woman to witness a somewhat bloody scene like that. You know..." Your uncle told you the obvious and you clenched the jaw, not wanting to keep hearing anything about it.

Obviously you knew too well the reasons why you were not there to help your twin brother's suffering. And that did not make that any easier. At that moment, you did not worry about the baby — or babies — you were carrying, your attention was on ensuring that Jacaerys would stay alive until the end of the night.

He had promised he would not let you die in childbirth. So he could not die now either, right? He said during the morning that you were born together and would die together... And that was a promise the Gods could not ignore.

"Your mother would hate to hear this, but I am glad Jacaerys is suffering at least a little." Daemon mumbled nonchalantly and you almost threw up in front of him, now staring at him with your face paler than before. How could he say something so cruel? "Oh, are you really surprised that I think that? Or that I am owning up to my cruelty?"

Your throat burned with bile that threatened to come out, not answering until you were sure you would not vomit the food you had managed to ingest. "B-Both."

The whisper was weak, tremble... Almost humiliating. And Daemon found it funny. "Both..." He repeated with a mocking tone, thin lips pulling into a smirk. "What did you expect, dear niece? Your twin brother has been making my daughter's life a hell since his obsession with you became more unhealthy than it already was."

You shook head, letting go of the jewelry to take three steps back when Daemon dared to take three steps towards you. "You are wrong. These are the effects of the war. Jace was not like this before Lucerys' death."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps this obsession was already the start of a fire from the moment your lives were conceived together, and your younger brother's murder was just what Jacaerys needed to allow himself to show the true insane dragon that always existed inside him. Perhaps inside you too." He continued with those long intimidating steps, no more space for your legs to move back. "Jacaerys' soul was probably already sick since the moment you left him alone and waiting inside your mother's womb for a little while during the childbed and—"

"What?"

Your question uttered in a loud voice echoed off the large walls. Daemon, who was already close enough with his shadows almost covering yours, suddenly stopped. The man narrowed the eyes, staring at you with a look that could either indicate genuine perplexity about your reaction, or could indicate that he was just trying to escape the spark of curiosity and rage that he lit in your heart.

Daemon did not move himself, not even when the doors of the chambers where Jacaerys was being treated opened, revealing Rhaenyra and Baela's with with bloodstained clothes and tense facial expressions, now worsening even more after realizing something was happening between you and the older Targaryen.

Rhaenyra called your name loudly, but you ignored her, keeping looking at Daemon. "What is wrong, Daemon?" Your mother asked and walked towards the two of you to pull her daughter away, being stopped by her husband's hand.

"He said Jace was waiting for me inside your womb during the childbirth." Rhaenyra swallowed hard as she listened to your voice sounding as shaky as it did when you were just a little girl getting lectured for some poorly executed innocent prank. "Why the hells would Daemon say that, if you always told to all of us that Jacaerys is your firstborn and he was born before me?"

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thatnonameuser · 6 months ago

Text

A Wonderland Of Yanderes

Intro, Part 1,Part 3 here Tagging for the first time @blue-rae18 Minors DNI Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Rape and Non-con but it's a subtle.

You'd bitten your tongue bloody all the way through Crewel's opening lecture. There were so many questions. So many sick and twisted answers.

One class filled you with so much dread

A class about kidnapping, murder and brainwashing some poor innocent soul into Stockholm Syndrome. All shoved underneath the the guise of true love.

A 'darling', the name for someone who was the object of a yandere's unwanted affection. An innocent who spend the rest of their lives living in fear, while someone smothers and controls them with their obsessive love against their will.

And this is all being taught and treated as a normal.

As if it's fine to take someone hostage because you love them.

As if it's fine to kill someone they love if you love them more.

As if it's fine to do unspeakable acts to them and their bodies against their will.

With how much nausea and bile coursing through your stomach and throat it was a miracle you didn't throw in the middle of the lecture.

But that's not what scared you.

What scared you was how bored Ace was as Crewel spoke, how enraptured Deuce looked as he heard about this. How curious some of the other students were about the methods they could use to steal innocent people from their homes, families and lives. How excited some were hearing about some of the ways they would learn about the ways they would use to break the desire for freedom in their future 'partners'.

It was terrifying.

That your friends would kill for someone they love.

Would they kill you?

You don't want to think about that right now. Right now, you needed answers. Fast.

"Crowley! Crowley I need to talk to you!" You shout as you storm in Crowley's office. As soon as the lecture ended you got the hell out of dodge and headed straight to Crowley's office, ready to demand answers.

The door opens to reveal a smiling Crowley, but that doesn't soothe your nerves. "Ah! My dear, what has your feathers ruffled?"

You swallow roughly, "Crowley.......Why didn't you tell me about the fact that I could be........legally murdered here?!"

He tilts his head, "Oh. That must've slipped my mind." You look at him, bewildered.

"I could-" Crowley interrupts you.

"Fear not though. As I am gracious, I already have ensured that will not happen!"

You want to feel relief but you can't, instead suspicion fills you.

"H-How?" According to Crewel's lecture only one crime wasn't pardoned. Darling Murder, and you weren't a darling. You got here on accident and you're not apart of this world so there's no way-

"Crewel was kind enough to inform me of your reaction to his lecture, and I've seen you this past week, how you've tamed your fiery little familiar so quickly." The smile he makes while he speaks fills you with fear, "Only darlings act the way you do~"

"What?"

"As a result, I've had you registered as Darling on and off this island. No one will raise a hand against you." He pauses, "At least not enough to kill you," he laughs at that.

"B-but I'm not from here! What if someone tries to kidnap me, or drug me, or....anything else!? I have a family, friends, and a life back in my home world!" You reason, but Crowley just laughs.

"Ah, the usual darling spiel~ Fear not, I will continue to find a way for you to return home." You feel a sigh of relief bubble into your throat, but before you can release it, what Crowley says next makes your blood freeze.

"But if someone takes you as their own, I cannot and will not try to intervene."

"What!? B-but-"

"I'm afraid after someone stakes their claim, a duel must be done to relinquish that claim to another. You must understand, it would be such a hassle to do every time someone stakes their claim."

"W-wait a second-"

"Of course, I'll leave a way for you to return to your world, but whether you're allowed to leave is another story. You must understand."

"I-I didn't ask to be here, Crowley, you c-can't just-"

"My dear, perhaps the reason the carriage came for you in the first place was for you to belong to another here. Regardless of how you feel about it, my and your hands are tied."

"B-But-"

"Oh, and I should give you fair warning. Many of our students are well aware on the traits a darling like you tend to have. Some may already have their eye on you. Your little friends Ace and Deuce seem to."

You're stunned silent. Ace and Deuce might be, what?

"Y-You're lying...." you whisper.

"I'm afraid not, but as I am gracious I'll inform the ghosts in Ramshackle to keep an eye out for you. They seem to have taken a shine onto you." Why because, you lived with them or because they're obsessed with you too?

What's wrong with this world?

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere #yandere twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader

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whitefeathers · 3 months ago

Note

do you have any noncon namgyu thoughts....

so many. maybe even too many. heres one tho. pure smut

tags: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. dark content, dead dove do not eat, use of the word r*pe, non con, humiliation, degradation, reader isn't from korea and doesn't know korean but no mention of the reader's race (only that she's 'foreign' and speaks english), fem!reader, nam-gyu fucks you in a club bathroom

Nam-gyu's cock slips out of you, only for it to ram back inside harder than before.

"Don't push me out, slut," his hand flexes tighter around your throat, and you choke, trying to breathe but failing. He smirks in your face, toothy and devastatingly handsome if not for him literally raping you. "Only gonna make it worse for yourself."

His other arm is hooked under your knee, keeping it in the air as he fucks you. He has you hoisted up against the grimy wall of the men's toilets in Club Pentagon, your bandage dress ripped to expose your tits and pushed up past your hips to give him access. You thought you looked cute in the dress, and now it's ruined. Nam-gyu thought you looked cute in the dress, too, but god, do you look better without it.

"Please, Nam-gyuuu, stoooop!" you wail, crying messily and struggling to breathe, glittery makeup running down your cheeks. Your voice is shaky from moans you can't keep in, his cock pounding them out with every rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his hips against yours. Nam-gyu is fully clothed other than his jeans and boxers pulled down to his mid-thigh. You're practically naked, tits bouncing with each thrust and panties danging from your ankle, and it makes your cheeks burn with humiliation.

He's fucking you so hard and so deep that it's impossible for it not to feel good, even if you're trying your best to get him off you, squirming in his hold and weakly trying to push him off. He's stronger than you and taller than you, insistent on having a pretty girl's cunt to wet his cock.

"Not gettin' out of it, sugar tits,"

Ew.

You can't fathom how you were attracted to this man just twenty minutes earlier, dancing with him under the strobe lights of the dance floor, letting him buy you drinks and sleazily grind against your ass. He'd whispered his name in your ear and you'd whispered yours, letting him charm you. On the dance floor, he'd said things to you in Korean that you couldn't understand, complimenting you in English while calling you a pretty little whore in Korean. You could only catch the word for pretty, recognising it from your traveller's handbook, so you melted into his arms, letting him press sloppy kisses to your throat and grab your hips.

By the time you'd realised that you were too drunk to be doing this with a stranger in a country where you barely knew the language (or anyone, for that matter), he'd dragged you off to the toilets and insisted on you paying him back for those free drinks. He didn't take no for an answer. Not the excuse that you needed to get back to your friends, the excuse that you were too drunk, the excuse that you didn't want this, not here.

Scumbag.

His hair falls down in front of his face as he looks down at where his cock disappears inside you, and he laughs, panting.

"Fuckin' tiny cunt," he slows down just to watch your hole stretch to take him, dripping wet and puffy. "Warm, tight, wet." He emphasises the last word with a harsh thrust, stuffing himself as deep as he'll go inside you before humping back into you with more vigor than before. You are wet, so, so wet. You can feel it in the way he glides in and out of you, effortless and slick, working your poor guts into mush with each pound.

His hand loosens around your throat, letting you gasp in air. You squeeze your eyes shut, bottom lip trembling. You want this all to be over, guilt twitching in your stomach and sticky warmth twitching in your neglected clit. He's making you feel things no boy has before, and you know something is seriously wrong with you as you clench around him. Your pussy wouldn't be this wet if you didn't want it.

Nam-gyu's thrusts get sloppy and he pulls out, shoving you to the floor and furiously jerking his cock in his fist over you. His jaw is clenched and you look up at him through wet lashes with broken, wide eyes, and that's what makes him cum, shooting hot ropes of silky cum over your tits and your dress.

He groans, running his hand through his hair as his chest heaves, coming down from his orgasm.

"C-can I go?" you whisper as he tucks his softening cock back into his pants, still glistening with your slick. The sight makes another pang of guilt worm its way into your tummy. Part of you enjoyed this.

"Not yet. Lemme keep you for a little while. Pretty to look at."

You think he means for a few more minutes.

He doesn't.

#cherry does… squid game #cherry does... nam-gyu #nam-gyu smut #nam-gyu x reader smut #squid game smut #dark nam-gyu #namgyu smut #player 124 x reader

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latenightdaydreams · 11 months ago

Note

I have an idea that Konig is Ghostface and he's been stalking reader for a while. He found out reader is a bookworm outside but literally a cunt inside. Like she never comes to parties, spend hours with her vibration instead. One night, Konig sneaks in her house and rape her fat unused pussy 😩😩😩

🤭🤭🤭YES😮‍💨

Ghostface!König x Nerd!Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List

🚫TRIGGERS🚫

>cw: fem/afab, non-con, bondage, voyeurism, stalking

3.1k word count

👻

The first time König saw you was at the campus Valentine's Day party. You showed up dressed in a festive pink sweater, but then sat in the corner with a stank look on your face. His eyes followed you as you seemingly complained to the girl you came with, a friend? Either way, your breasts and sensual body shape caught his attention.

König walks up to a guy that’s talking to your friend, “Wer ist das?” He asks, pointing to you.

“She’s a bitch,” the girl's friend hits his chest as if to tell him to shut up.

“She’s just shy. She hates parties.” Christa, your friend, defends you.

They all stand there and watch you gather your things and walk out the door without saying bye to anyone, not even your friend. Interesting. What type of woman are you? He was intrigued and wanted to see more of you. See what those bouncy breasts look like outside of that pink sweater.

After this first encounter, he dedicated his time to following you around campus. First, only to figure out what your schedule was. What classes do you take, what teacher do you have, what building the classes are in, etc. Just the basics.

He stalks behind you, far enough behind that you’d never notice; but close enough to listen in on any conversations you had. Which was basically zero. You kept to yourself no matter what you were doing. If someone interacted with you, you’d have such a poor attitude about it. Snappy, short, lots of eye rolling. This went on for two months.

One day, König set up a forced interaction. Dressed casually and slicked his blonde hair back. He looks handsome, standing at 6 '10 and being pure muscle. He knows he is attractive; his personality just sucks, much like yours seems to.

He lingers outside your second class of the day and looks around as if he were a lost student. Once he sees you, he walks over.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Your eyes dart to him as you take out an air pod. “What?” Your tone is unkind.

“I’m lost and I don’t know which room-”

“I’m late for class.” You cut him off and walk past him.

König just watches as you walk away with a smirk on his face. He knows once he has you in his hands, he’d have fun breaking you. After that, he waits for you to leave class and follow you home. Since you would not get to know him the typical way, he would continue getting to know you in the shadows.

You walk fast, but he has no issues keeping up. Your hips sway hypnotically, keeping his attention. Finally, you stop at a cute one-story home. He watches as you take your keys out and enter your home. Waiting a few minutes before he walks up to peek into your windows. He looks around to make sure no neighbors are watching as he walks up to your house, crouching.

Eyes peering through the first window, he sees your living room. Your shoes kicked off by the door, TV turned on already, and backpack thrown on the couch. His eyes scan the room, trying to take in every detail.

Continuing on he comes to the next window. He sees you and ducks back, worried you might have seen him. After a few seconds of no screams, he creeps back to the window. There you are. Taking off your shirt and jeans, just standing there in your beige bra and blue cotton panties. Totally unaware you’re being watched as you check yourself out in your dresser's mirror.

Watching like a hawk as you open the top draw and pull out a pink little vibrator. König could already feel his pants begin to tighten. You walk to your bed, grabbing a towel that’s folded underneath the bed. Laying the towel out, getting your pillows situated, and moving the blanket. It’s almost like a ritual and König’s interest is definitely piqued.

He watches as you lie down on the bed. Your pretty pussy covered with a little bit of hair, as you spread your legs he can see the pink within your folds. Fuck this is gold…

König quickly undoes his pants as he watches you pick a setting before moving it to your little clit. Through the window he can hear how loud you’re being, your legs twitch from the stimulation. All the while König stands there feverishly stroking his leaky cock. Imagining him running up to you and shoving his cock in that tight little pussy…

Your hips begin to grind into the vibrator as your head drops back on to your pillows. Your left leg is starting to tremble… König watches without blinking as your innocent pussy begins to squirt. Fingers replacing the vibrator, you start rubbing your clit quickly. Your sweet juices are spraying everywhere. He bites his lip as he begins to cum, accidently cumming on the siding of your house. It felt as if he were a wild animal and just marked you, leaving his scent behind to deter other predators.

This became a ritual for König as the school year went on. He would follow you around campus, watch who you talk to, see how you interact with the world. Occasionally he would try to go up to you and just talk nicely, but every time you shot him down. As if you’re better than him. Then he would follow you home and masturbate outside your window as you play with your tiny cunt.

That was until summer break happened. You went away to work as a camp counselor for the summer, leaving König behind. With you gone, König felt lost. He spent most of the summer inside watching porn. Looking for actresses that resemble you, but none could match your perfect breasts or pretty pink cunt.

August rolls around and classes start back up. König walks into his social science class and sees you… perfect. You sit in the front, middle. Teacher’s pet know-it-all, of course you’d pick there to sit.

König sits in the very back, where he has a clear line of view in your direction. He watches as you rest your head in the palm of your hand. How you cross your legs and squeeze, as if you’re trying to stimulate some sort of pleasure. Little slut, you can’t even control yourself in class. All the obsession comes rushing back to him. He needs you.

Halloween rolls around. König is handed a flier for a costume party that will be happening at one of the sororities here on campus. His new friend Carl, your friend’s boyfriend, goes out with him to buy costumes.

They both walk through the Halloween store and talk casually. He tries to think of ways to ask about you without being so direct.

“Is Christas bitch friend coming?” König chuckles to make it seem less important to him.

“Y/n? Probably not. She never shows to support anything Christa does. When she does, she’s in a foul mood and just leaves. It breaks Christas heart.” He sounded genuinely upset with you and your behavior.

“What’s her deal anyway?”

“I don’t know. Little stuck up virgin bitch thinks she’s better than Christa because she’s waiting until marriage.”

Virgin. That’s why you only touch your clit; you don’t want to “pop” your cherry.

“Is she religious?”

“Probably. I never cared to ask. Let’s just hope she doesn’t show up and ruin it.”

“Yeah.” König didn’t want you to show up, but for a very different reason. He had something special in the works.

Reaching up, König grabs a Ghostface mask and holds it up to his face. “Hey, what about this?”

Halloween night, König puts on the black robe over a pair of blue jeans, a white shirt, and a small satchel bag that has duct tape and rope. A real knife in his hand. He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, looking at himself. Blonde hair longer and pushed back, dark circles under her icy blue eyes, and a twisted look on his face.

“You got this. You can do it.” He whispers as he slips the mask over his face.

König leaves his shared apartment on campus and walks down the street while the sun is just beginning to set. Other students rush past him, all heading to their own Halloween parties. Towering over everyone dressed as Ghostface, he had a few people jump out of fear. From behind the mask, he apologizes while laughing. As if he is a normal guy.

Finally, he approaches the steps on the sorority. Walking inside he sees that there are a few other Ghostface at the party already. König rolls his eyes under the masks. His attention turns to the staircase as he hears Christa and Carl arguing. Without being seen, he walks closer to listen in. It’s clear that she’s talking about y/n.

You bailed. Probably home studying or making yourself squirt. The thought gives König a chub. You’re exactly where he hoped you would be. At first, he was nervous this wouldn’t work out for him. No, you never change. Easy to track. Before he is seen, he slips out of the doors.

He blends in easily for once in his life. Everyone dressed up like freaks or sluts. The giant isn’t the main focal point today. Once he enters your neighborhood, he notices the empty streets, but very loud house music. All of your neighbors seem to gather, yet your home's lights are on.

Cautiously, he approaches your living room window. Boom, there you are, asleep on the couch. The TV on TLC, some random trash television show. He attempts to lift the window in front of him, but it’s locked. Moving down a window to your bedroom, also locked. König walks around the back and tries the back door, locked. The kitchen window is a little smaller, but he still tries it. Open.

Carefully, König climbs through the window. His massive body just barely begins to fit, but he manages. Slowly he climbs off of the counter that was right under the window, being sure to not kick anything off the counter and possibly wake you up.

Once stable on the floor he stood there for a while and looked around your kitchen. Your style was quirky, which was odd because you act as if you have no personality. Before waking you up, he goes into the bedroom and gets that towel you keep under your bed. He lays it out on the bed the same way you do. Even arranging the pillows and blanket for you.

Reaching into his bag under his black robes, he takes out the rope and tape. The rope he leaves on the bed as he walks out of the bedroom with the tape. He pulls some and he can be quick to shut you up.

With soft steps he makes his way to the living room. He can see your hands are in your hands as if you fell asleep masturbating. A virgin whore. He’s ready to just make you into his whore. Standing over you as you sleep; eyes drifting over your breast and the tiny bit of midriff that is showing.

Slowly lowering his face closer to you until he sees your eyes open. At first it’s as if you didn’t register what you saw. König tilts his head. Then you open your eyes again and begin to scream. Quickly he covers your mouth with the tape.

“Shhh,” his eyes go wild behind the mask.

You try to stand and get away but his massive body easily overpowers yours and slams you back down into the couch.

“Don’t fucking move.” He hisses as he cuts the tape with the knife. Pulling more, he adds an extra layer.

With ease he lifts your body from the couch, pinning your arms to your side so you can’t hit him. Your legs kicking as he brings you into your room; eyes going wide as you see that he set the bed up the same way you set up when you masturbate.

König giggles looking at your face, “I did good, ja?”

He grabs the rope and tosses you on the bed. As you try to stand up, he pushes you back hard, “Give up Maus, you’re mine tonight.”

Using his massive body to pin you down, he climbs on top of you. Your face down into the mattress as he grabs one of your arms and pins it behind your back before grabbing the other. He uses the rope to tie your hands together, tight enough to dig into your flesh.

“I’ll show you how to have a really good time.”

König stands and grabs your body, turning you to rest on your back, nuzzled in the pillows like when you masturbate. He walks to your dresser and takes out the small pink vibrator. You look up at him with wide eyes, it’s clear that he’s been watching you.

“Now, don’t move, or I might cut you.” He says leaning back over your body as he begins to cut your shirt from your body. Your full breasts come into view and he can’t help the temptation of reaching up and pinching your nipple. You try to scream through the tape, but the sound is muffled.

His attention drops down to the waistband of your pajama pants. Slowly he pulls them down. Seeing your cunt face to face instead of at a distance was breathtaking. Speechless, he moves his fingers through the soft hair that covers your pussy. Finally, he can feel you, smell you, taste you.

“If you move, I’ll gut you.” He threatens as he begins to settle himself between your legs.

He lifts his mask slightly and takes in a deep breath of what your pussy smells like. It’s almost sinful. He has to taste it. Slowly he slips his tongue out and swipes it through your folds. You squirm slightly but stop, remembering the knife. He swipes his tongue up again. If he knew you were this sweet, he would have broken in sooner.

Shoving his face into your pussy he takes a deep breath before sucking on your clit. He bites it lightly, causing you pain as your body jerks away. Not letting you move; he wraps his arms around your legs tightly to hold you still. Spit running down his chin as he aggressively laps at your cunt. He slurps your pussy juice before biting your labia. Again, you jerk in pain and König just laughs as he pulls his mask back down.

Once he stands from the bed he just looks down at your naked body. He begins to pull off the black robe, tossing aside the satchel. Stripping down to his birthday suit, but the mask stays on. His body is massive with a cock so heavy it hangs.

He grabs your pink vibrator and turns it on, gently holding it to your clit. His eyes light up as your legs begin to tremble. Muffled little moans escaping your lips. You can’t help but to feel pleasure, even though you’re in this situation.

“Good…kleine Hure.” He turns off the vibrator and sets it aside. Inching closer to you, he slaps his cock on your pussy a few times.

“Ready?”

You shake your head no and try to scoot away from him, but he grabs your legs and drags you back to him. “No, no, no, you’re not getting away that easy.”

Looking down at your cunt he rubs the head of his cock back and forth over your clit. Slowly he slips down. With one hard thrust of his hips, he bullies his monster cock deep inside of your unused pussy. The tightness of your cunt was something only his hand had ever given him.

“Mien Gott, you really were a virgin.” He chuckled.

König grabs your legs and lets them fall over his arms as he holds your ass up off the bed slightly. His hips rolling rapidly into you, looking down he can see blood on his cock. A soft growl leaves his lips.

He lets your legs drop as he leans over you, one of his hands wrapping around your throat lightly. “My fat unprotected cock just ruined your pretty virgin cunt.”

You try to turn your head away from him as tears begin to roll down your eyes, but he doesn’t let you. He turns your head back to face him.

“Eyes open. I want to see the shame when I make you cum.”

You open your eyes as you have no choice but to listen. His free hand reaches down between your legs and begins to rub your clit. Trying to resist the pleasure was impossible, your legs tremble as your pussy feels as if it were torn in two.

He watches as you shake your head no. Your pussy getting tighter on his cock, he knew. He pulls out quickly, shoving his middle and ring finger into you. He presses down on the lower part of your stomach as his fingers curl, hitting your g-spot repeatedly.

You drop your head back and he slaps your pussy, “Eyes on me!” His voice a low growl.

Lifting you head back up to look at him, your eyes cross from the explosion of pleasure you’re feeling. You squirt, hitting the Ghostface mask slightly, getting it all over König’s hands and arms.

“That’s what I want to see!” He excitedly slips his cock back into your pussy. His eyes watch as you wince in pain.

His hips move mercilessly into you. “I’m going to cum deep inside of this pussy. You’re going to get pregnant with my babies. You like staying home anyway, right?”

The look on your face as he talks down to you is full of fear and it’s just enough to get him off. He presses his cock fully into you, your cries of pain muffled buts still so beautiful. König cums deep inside of you. His seamen painting every inch of your velvety walls. A loud groan leaves his mouth as he tries to press in even further.

The look on your face is almost relieved as he cums, that means this is over with. So, you thought. He pulls his cock out, covered in blood and cum. In one quick motion he flips you on to your stomach, pulling you down the bed a little. He sits on the bed now, one leg on either side of you. König leans forward to pull the tape off of your mouth and drags you closer to him by your shoulders.

“You’re going to clean this.” He says slapping his cock on your face a few times. “Open.”

You don’t struggle, opening your mouth wide. The taste of salty cum and blood assaults your taste buds. His hand grasping a fist full of hair and shoving his cock down your throat. Your body thrashes, legs kicking as you gag.

“Get used to it, Maus. My cock isn’t leaving your throat any time soon.”

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moon7jay · 1 year ago

Note

i would KILL for a hearing non-con but like in public, at a restaurant or something so public kink x somnophilia kink (?) pretty please

Don't let them hear you (p.sh)

Warnings : non consensual, stalking, public sex, chikan, exhibitionism, voyeurism, dub con(?), just pure filth

THIS WORK CONTAINS NON CONSENSUAL THEMES SUCH AS RAPE

if u still proceed to read I take 0 responsibility

"He's still looking" You whispered in to your phone, trying not to make it obvious to the man sitting 3 tables across from you that you had caught him staring at you like a creep.

"Babes maybe he just finds you attractive" your best friend answered and that option would have been viable if it wasn't for the eerie feeling you got from the said man.

"No you don't understand syd, I'm pretty sure I saw him earlier in the cafe today"

"at your part time?"

"Yes! and I've seen him there a couple more times before and he's always maintaining this weird eye contact with me it's so creepy" You said urgently, trying not to raise your voice more than an octave while simultaneously trying not to look in his direction. He was still staring at you, you could feel his dark eyes on your face.

"You do know that it's the most famous cafe around town right? Besides its so close to the university maybe he's just a random college student?" she tried to reason.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were reading too much into the situation and maybe he really was a random stranger who happened to be around you most of the time by a stroke of coincidence. You looked up momentarily and met his eyes, a jarring shiver running down your spine when he stared back blankly, sipping on his coffee, his headphones hanging around his neck, gaze focused intensely on you. You tried to shake off the unsettling feeling creeping up in your chest and managed a small, polite smile in his direction. Maybe he was just someone who had a crush on you and needed some encouragement to talk? And if you were being honest..he was insanely gorgeous, that was the main reason you had noticed him at the cafe before.

What you weren't expecting was for him to go stiff in his seat and break eye contact. You watched in confusion and worry as he slammed his coffee down on the table and stood up, eyes downcast, hurrying towards the other side of the restaurant. You felt disrespected and confused while you watched his retreating figure. What the fuck was his problem??

"You still there? Y/n? What's happening?" syd's voice brought you back to the conversation at hand.

"Idk I smiled at him and he just...left, so weird" you whispered to her and she cackled

"Men" she snickered and you chuckled, finally breathing in relief now that he wasn't around and breathing down your neck

"Men" You laughed back, stirring the conversation onto the other topics while you finished your meal.

your phone dinged while you were waiting for your bus to arrive, the phone number was unknown, weird, you thought.

Your blood ran cold when you read the first sentence, a couple more messages flooding in one after another.

[Unknown]

[9:34] : your smile is so pretty, had to rub one out in the restaurant's washroom baby

[9:34] : can't wait anymore

[9:35] : you're mine you know, I just need to show it to you

[9:36] : fuck i know you're reading my msgs, r they turning u on?

What the actual fuck?

You cupped your mouth with your palm and turned off your phone, looking around frantically, the panic rising in your chest, but you saw no one around and it creeped you out more.

A relieved sigh left your mouth when you saw your bus pulling over, hurriedly getting inside and squeezing through the crowd, moving past pressing bodies to reach the end of the bus, leaning against the glass window and panting with the exertion and relief of finally being in a safe space, scanning the crowd to see if he was there.

The bus doors closed and you finally stood up properly, your shoulders relaxing, turning around to look out the window while u held onto the strap handles on the ceiling.

What a fucking weirdo, you thought. How did he even get your number? had he been stalking you all this time? How had you been so slow in noticing him?

you felt him before you saw him, his large hand coming up to engulf yours on the strap handle you were holding, pressing his body closer to your behind. Your chest constricted in acute fear, the position was so uncomfortable that you tried moving forward to create some space between you two, leaving the strap handle and pressing yourself closer to the glass windows, holding on to one of the seat handles instead. This can't be happening, how did you not see him get on the bus, your hands started sweating.

You knew you were in trouble when he shamelessly invaded your space again, both hands looping through your waist to rest against your stomach while he buried his nose in your hairs , inhaling deeply.

Your breathing became heavy, your nerves making you freeze. You looked around and realized that the bus was too crowded for anyone to notice anything inappropriate, with the way he was holding you, you almost looked like a couple. Almost.

Your eyes met an elderly man's and you were about to open your mouth to scream for help when you yelped from feeling a sharp object dig into your side. Your blood ran cold.

"Don't even think about it" he whispered. His voice was deep and husky, sending a shiver down your spine. You stilled, facing forward to not provoke him. He was so much bigger than you, his body practically covering yours. You did not want to die here tonight. He wasn't going to kill you was he? Would anyone ever find out what happened to you if he did? Tears started to gather in your eyes when you felt his hands squeezing around your body, touching and groping u like u were meat.

"U think anyone would care? look around you, these are all men sweetheart, they would probably jerk off while you cry for me" He chuckled condescendingly in your ear, his one hand moving up towards your chest, groping your boobs harshly, a gasp leaving your trembling lips at his actions. A satisfied groan left his chest at feeling you, his fingers digging into your mounds.

"so fucking big, ever fucked a cock between them baby?" He asked and a sob left your lips at his words. No one had ever talked to you this way before. It was making you feel so dirty, a weird feeling rising inside your chest.

He chuckled at sensing your discomfort, running his hands down your body, leaving your boobs and groping your ass through your skirt, lifting it above your rear cheeks, basically exposing your bottom half to the entire bus if someone were to look over.

"ever taken a dick in this gorgeous ass? fucked back on a dick while it pounded your tight hole?" He groaned, groping your hips and connecting his lower region to your ass, his actions pushing you forward to press against the glass. You pressed your hands against the window to gain some balance, the position giving him leverage to rut into your behind.

"mhmmfuck do u feel how excited you make me? " He asked groaning in your ear, running his tongue against it while his hard cock poked your ass repeatedly as he grinded against you. You could feel that he was big, a disgusted shiver ran down your body when you realised how violating this all was. But at the same time, a sick tingling feeling was beginning to throb between your legs.

"Take your panties off" He whispered and you thought you heard him wrong.

"w-what" You sobbed quietly, dreading what this was leading to, his fingers flexed impatiently at your sides, his hips moving against youu in a subtle grind.

"I said fucking take them panties off, you won't need them soon anyways" your hands shook as you slowly reached under your skirt to slide your panties off your legs, the implication of his words wasn't lost on you.

"fuck yeah" He groaned, snatching the lace fabric from your hands. You shivered feeling the cold air run between your legs, cursing yourself mentally for opting out of wearing pants today, more tears ran down your cold cheeks.

Slurping sounds reached your ears and you closed your eyes, trying to drown out the sounds of him licking into your panties. The sounds were so lewd, you wanted to puke. This can't be happening to you. The movements of his hips became fast, muffled moans coming out of his mouth while he rotated his hips to search more friction for his throbbing cock against your bare ass.

"You smell like sex you know? Taste like fucking peaches, so fucking perfect" He panted, burying his face in your underwear.

you could hear his excitement in your ear and it was starting to affect your body in a way that disgusted you. The moisture was beginning to gather in your pussy, body heating up from the assault.

"fuck this shit" You heard him curse and he pulled away from you, dangling sound of a belt being undone and pants being unzipped made your body shake in anticipation of the oncoming violation of your body. It was going to happen. You were going to be raped. More hot tears spilled over your cheeks, a sob building up in your throat.

"Name's sunghoon, remember that while I tear your pussy apart" he whispered.

"P-Please" You sobbed quietly even though you had no hope left when he was pressing his body into you again, a hot and heavy organ digging between your thighs.

"p-please no, please stop, I'll do anything" you sobbed again, a sharp gasp leaving your throat when he rubbed his cockhead against your entrance, gathering your slick.

"you're wet as fuck for me baby-shit-u like getting raped on subways yeah?" he chuckled, hissing through his teeth when he finally breached your opening, tearing through your cunt, impaling you on his monster cock roughly. A sharp pain tore through you, your pussy unable to adjust to the harsh entry, he was too big for you. You scratched against the glass window, resting your forehead against it to find some support as you sobbed in pain.

His mouth found your ear again and he started to thrust in you, groans of satisfaction leaving his lips upon feeling the tight clench of your warm pussy.

"dreamed of raping your cunt since the first time i saw you in that cafe baby" he panted, his words confirming your suspicions about him, but what use was that suspicion when you couldn't even protect yourself? His dick lodged itself into your womb again and again, a reminder of your foolishness.

"always so pretty, wanted to open your legs and fuck into you while everyone watched, that guy that works with you? He wants your pussy too, that fucker" He groaned and snapped his hips into you harder, a pained sob ripped through you again. Jake? No.. Jake was a sweetheart, he would never think about you like that.. . He would never -

"You're so unaware of the effect you have on men's dicks aren't you baby? - jesus fuck- if given the chance, everyone here would bury their dicks in this slutty pussy, raping it till they're satisfied" He groaned, chuckling condescendingly, as if mocking your naive nature with the constant pistoning of his hips into your cunt.

"pussy so good, so fucking tight and creamy mhmmn" he moaned into your ear in pleasure, more slick ran down your legs, your lower body burning up in arousal now, a sick pleasure running through your body as his dick kept bumping your cervix. His hands travelled inside your shirt and groped your breasts roughly and painfully, holding onto them for leverage while he thrusted into you like a madman.

"Oh fuck yeah, jerked off to this image so many times baby, fucked into my fucking fist imagining it was your cunt"

Your eyes closed, unable to stop yourself from moving your hips back on him, it was instinct, or maybe some sick part of you was enjoying this. Tears ran down your eyes again, but for an entirely different reason now.

"fuck yeah baby - he laughed in disbelief, his thrusts getting deeper now that you were meeting his hips halfway - fuck back on me like a fucking slut"

Your bodies found a rhythm and a lewd moan left your lips as the pleasure started clouding your brain.

"Yeah? Raping this pussy so good huh?" he panted, hot heavy breaths falling against the side of your face, his eyes rolling back in pleasure due to the insane friction of your lower bodies.

The sound of slick squelching and skin slapping was reaching your ears and you looked around to see if anyone could see you both. Your eyes met the elderly man's from before but this time his stare was different. A jolt of pleasure ran through you when you saw him squeezing his cock through his pants while he watched you getting violated.

You slammed yourself back on the dick that was moving in and out of you faster while you watched the lewd sight. Your hand moved down to lift your shirt up and bite its hem into your mouth so that your entire body was exposed. Your boobs already spilling out of your bra cups, being held onto by sunghoon who was fucking into your greedy cunt.

A sick satisfaction washed over you when you watched the elderly man haphazardly unzip his pants and slip his hand inside, his eyes watching your body get used and violated, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

"Yeah that's right baby, show him what he's missing out on, show him how u like to get raped by random men's cocks like a real slut" sunghoon groaned , his eyes catching onto the scene your gaze was pivoted to.

A gasp left your lips when you felt sunghoon shift your body to the side so that it was facing halfway towards the man while still being hidden from the rest of the passengers. He lifted your right leg and held it up, holding it from under your knee, spreading you out, giving the pervert man a fucking show.

"Now he can see how my dick moves in and out of your creamy cunt, raping it so good that you're making a mess-shit baby just like that" He panted in your ear, his hips snapping harshly into yours. Your eyes met the old man's again and you moaned upon seeing his hand moving faster and faster inside his pants, drool falling from his lips.

fuck why was this so hot, what was fucking wrong with you??

Your hips moved back into sunghoon's, cunt slamming down on his dick, grinding and fucking back cuz your brain was broken, the thought of cumming overwhelmed your senses, your pussy leaking gallons of slick, making the act of penetration more pleasurable for the both of you. Sex getting messier and nastier.

"keep fucking it baby-holy shit- you need to keep fucking that dick, just like that oh yeah" His breathing was becoming heavy, your mouth was panting, working your body faster and faster to chase that friction on his dick.

His one hand left your chest and travelled down your body to rub your engorged clit, a sharp moan leaving your lips, making him slap you on the clit harshly.

"Don't let them hear u, or do u wanna get gang raped- he groaned, feeling your pussy clench at the thought- is that what u want? what a greedy little cunt" He chuckled hotly, licking into your ear cavity.

His thumb rubbed your swollen clit, making the knot in your stomach tighten, you were so fucking close. Your eyes met the old man's while sunghoon's thrusts became sloppy, his groans getting whinier , the pleasure getting too much for your tangled sweaty bodies. His pelvis met your ass in a few more harsh thrusts, his balls slapping the underside of your thighs

"You're gonna make me fucking cum, yeah fuck yeah make me fucking cum baby" He groaned, his high so close you could feel yours approaching too.

"cum cum cum, gonna cum in you, gonna take you raw, fuck my babies in that cunt, fuck jesus-ughmhmmm- his words cut off as his hips stilled , his dick spurting cum inside of you, your own eyes rolled back upon seeing the old man cum in his pants like a freak, your pussy clenched harshly around sunghoon's dick, milking him for all that he was worth as you came all around him, making him ride his orgasm.

"Shit yeah, feels so motherfucking good" He moaned, pushing his hips deeper into you, fucking his cum back into your cunt, breeding into you. His hold on your body loosened and his dick slid out of you with a pop when you heard your stop approaching. He shoved the panties in your hands and you instantly wore them back, adjusting your shirt and skirt while he watched, his zip still open and cock still hanging out, his hand fisting it to overstimulation, a pained hiss leaving his lips at how good it felt.

You turned around to meet his eyes and watch him jerk off his cock harshly, biting on his lower lip, pressing against your body again, his brows furrowed in pleasure, hot breaths falling on your face.

Your pussy was starting to heat up again, seeing pure carnal pleasure on his face was driving you insane, god what had he done to you?

He slammed his lips into yours and licked into your hot mouth while his hand continued to fist his dick, trying to make himself cum again. He groaned at your taste, his movements becoming faster. He pulled back from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours and stuck his tongue out, just a millimetre away from your lips. As if on instinct, you stuck your own tongue out to meet the tip of his, moaning at the feeling, rubbing your tongues against each other while he jerked off, saliva dripping down your chins.

When you sucked his tongue into your mouth, you felt his body jerk rapidly, pleasure overtaking his senses as he groaned into your mouth and came all over his hands, finally pulling away from you, sighing in relief and satisfaction.

The bus had reached your stop, coming slowly to a halt but before you could move to leave, he was bringing his cum covered hand to your lips "lick it clean" he whispered and you met his dark eyes, maintaining eye contact while your tongue snuck out to eat his cum out of his hands, moaning at the taste.

"Fuck" he cursed at the sight, watching as you licked his hand clean and finally walked away from him, licking your mouth clean with your fingers.

You were his perfect match.

#enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen #enha #park sunghoon #sunghoon smut #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunghoon #Park sunghoon

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rememberwren · 9 months ago

Text

A Dichotomy of Thought || 8

Previous/Next Chapters Here

Poker Night

CW: non-consensual drugging, date rape drugs, non-con, dub-con, domestic abuse, sexual abuse, homophobia, slut-shaming, food control, fat-shaming, vomit.

He pops the tab on the soda can, the sound of aluminum grating against your frayed nerves. You sit at the table, hands tucked under your thighs because all you want to do is wrap them around yourself, hold yourself, feel a comforting touch, even if it’s only your own. He brings the soda over and sets it gently on the table in front of you.

It is Saturday morning.

“I know last week wasn’t fair to you,” your boyfriend says, planting both hands on the table, the picture of rationality. “I don’t like keeping secrets from you. I’d like to think we’re past that point in our relationship. Don’t you?”

You nod, teeth clenched tight around a scream.

“So from now on—” he holds up a pill for you to see, then slips it through the open soda tab into the drink. He slides the drink forward toward you at the table. “No more slipping things in your drink without you knowing. From now on, you get to make the choice. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s going to happen either way. The sooner you get used to that, the better. What you get to control is whether you have a good time…or a bad time. So what’s it going to be honey? Good or bad?”

You hesitate for a long moment. Your fingers are numb when you untuck them from beneath your thighs, trembling as you reach out for the soda—

—and tip it over onto its side, a sign of defiance.

His placid mouth stretches into a wide grin. Soda drips off the edge of the table and onto the floor. Drip, drip drip.

“Now,” he says cheerfully. “Why was I hoping you’d choose that?”

It is Saturday morning.

He pops the tab open on a can of your favorite soda, pulled chilled from the refrigerator. Warm is best; it helps the pill dissolve faster, more thoroughly. But when the drink is icy cold, you are less likely to taste the bitterness on your tongue. If you try hard, you can pretend that it is your very first Saturday, that you have just been handed a drink by your boyfriend, that you have no idea what is in it.

“We’ve got extra guests tonight,” he says, sliding the soda can to you. “I want you on your best behavior.”

“I always am,” you mutter.

“That’s just not true. Don’t bullshit me, baby. When you bullshit me, you bullshit the best.” He slides the drink toward you a little more, eyes dark and curious, wondering if you will drink this concoction that makes you relaxed and pliable, this drink that makes you enjoy the terrible things that are done to you.

But Simon and Johnny will be there tonight. You glare up at your boyfriend and slide the soda back across the table. “You wouldn’t. Not in front of the new guys. I’m not stupid.”

“Baby. You’re dumber than you look if you think I won’t do whatever I want in front of whomever I want,” he says with a laugh. He slides the drink back. “Next time you push that away, I’m dumping it down the sink. Make good choices.”

You almost do it for him. You really do. A part of you is sure that he’s bluffing; it just makes no sense. Why would he put himself at risk this way? But there’s a small frightened part of you that is always ready to be surprised, always ready to be taken to a new low, dragged to a fresher hell by these hands which were meant to love you. Maybe he would do it.

And is it worth it to defy him? You remember that one miserable Saturday after you had dumped the drink over. It had been one of the most painful, humiliating experiences of your life. Your Fridays afterward were often spent agonizing over the decision to come: was it worse to give in and drink? Did it make you wrong to not fight back, to even sometimes find moments of begrudging pleasure in your own rape? Did it make you weak?

The thought of being like that in front of Johnny and Simon—soft and slurred and slutty—makes you feel…strange. You don’t want to think about it. The other side of the sword is just as sharp: if you don’t drink, you will be painfully aware of everything that happens to you, aware of Johnny and Simon’s participation—or their impending disgust.

What is worse?

Reaching out, you take the can with a shaking hand and go to tip it over—then change your mind at the last moment. You drink it down in its entirety, letting it fill your hollow, aching belly, even if the sugar makes you nauseous.

Your boyfriend pulls a face, like you have pleasantly surprised him. He reaches out and takes the empty can from you and says, “Good girl.”

You want to be sick.

“You’re in a good mood,” Simon says while making breakfast. He was up early this morning, well before Johnny awoke. Usually when Simon wakes first, he’ll take care of whatever business woke him and then lay in bed with Johnny until the other man wakes, but this morning when Johnny’s eyes blearily opened against the sunlight streaming in through the balcony doors, the bed was empty. Trust, he thinks. Simon’s beginning to trust him to be on his own more often

“Could say the same fer you,” says Johnny with a grin, tapping the fingers of his hand against the table as he waits for his plate. His voice pitches lower when he asks: “Did yeh wake up on the right side of the bed, or are yeh just excited about what day it is?”

Simon scowls. “Nothing to be excited about, Johnny. It’s not a recreational event.”

“I don’t know,” Johnny says, leaning back in his chair. “I’m looking forward to it.

“You can’t kill him.”

“Heard that line before. Rehearse a few new ones.”

“I mean it,” says Simon, bringing Johnny’s plate to the table and setting it in front of him. Classic English breakfast. Fuck, Johnny’s stomach does a flip, he’s so goddamn hungry. It’s cut into bite sized pieces, but Johnny can overlook that. It’s a necessary evil for now, until his coordination is a little better—which it is, every day. Next comes Johnny’s orange juice, but just as Johnny reaches for the glass, Simon holds it up out of his reach, a frown in place. “Promise me that this is just reconnaissance. You won’t try to kill him—no matter what may happen.”

It’s Johnny’s turn to scowl. He lets out an irritated breath through his nose.

“Gonna starve me if I refuse?”

“Yes.”

“Bastard.”

“I don’t hear any promises.”

“I promise, I promise. Gimme that.” Johnny takes the orange juice. Simon lets it go, sighing. Though Johnny has told him what he wants to hear, he doesn’t seem comforted by it, Johnny thinks as he tucks in to his breakfast.

Maybe he can tell that Johnny’s lying.

“How do I look?” Johnny asks. He has buttoned his shirt on his own—a feat which only took him five minutes of careful coordination and deep breathing. Give me a fucking medal, he thinks to himself as Simon comes over to help him button his jeans (which are still too difficult to manage, depending on the pair he pulls on). Simon’s hands so close to his cock have Johnny humming, close to a purr in the back of his throat.

They still have not fucked since the accident, but Johnny thinks soon.

“You look like you need a haircut,” Simon says, voice rumbling against Johnny’s back where they are pressed together. One of Simon’s hands brushes through the lengthening fringe of Johnny’s mohawk, and Johnny lets himself shut his eyes at the touch, feeling a satisfied, sleepy urge come over him. Simon presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, and warmth blooms in the pit of Johnny’s stomach. Simon’s been like this all day: affectionate, borderline clingy. Doting.

It’s a far cry from the way they had treated each other all week prior, and Johnny finds himself grateful for the change of pace.

But he can’t let himself be distracted now. Not when so much is on the line. Poker begins in less than an hour, and Johnny has promised Simon that he will be on his best behavior. It’s not a promise he looks forward to breaking—but what promise ever is? Johnny plans to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open, taking in intelligence and making plans.

But if an opportunity presents itself—if Johnny can find a single moment alone with your boyfriend—Johnny won’t hesitate. What a terrible accident it will be, he thinks gleefully.

He turns in Simon’s arms and must turn too quickly. He stumbles, nearly falling. Simon braces him, helping to hold him upright. He sees the strange look in Simon’s eyes and frowns.

“What is it?”

“I need to ask you something.”

“Alright.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Aye,” says Johnny promptly, grateful for an easy question. “With my life. Yeh know I do.”

“Do you trust me with her life?” Simon asks.

Johnny sighs a little. Simon has been so obliging today, Johnny should have suspected that he was waiting until the last minute to try to talk him out of any hairbrained schemes. Still, he says: “Yes. Not much I wouldn’t trust yeh with, Si.”

Simon hesitates.

“What is it?” Johnny prompts, reaching up with his hand to cup Simon’s cheek. He isn’t used to cupping this cheek, and it feels odd under his palm, almost like touching a stranger. “Go on, get it out.”

“Will you forgive me?” Simon asks.

“For our fight? Aye. Water under the bridge.” Johnny leans forward and places a kiss on Simon’s mouth. Now that is familiar: the curve of his lips, the way their noses brush, the scent of him.

Johnny is nearly out of the room, heading for his shoes (and his crutch, considering how unsteady he is on his feet) when Simon speaks again: “Not for that.”

Johnny stops and turns. The room turns with him. Simon stands with his back to Johnny, his huge shoulders hunched, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Johnny wishes that he would turn around and look at him, let him see the look on his face—except when he does, there is something oddly recognizable there, an eerie familiarity that he can’t put his finger on but which makes Johnny’s heart pound.

“For what, then?” Johnny wonders.

“For putting that Oxy in your orange juice.”

Goosebumps prickle all along Johnny’s arms and thighs. He stumbles again, and Simon is right there to catch him. Johnny is always unsteady on his feet when he’s been taking his pain meds. He stares at his lover blankly, struggling to piece together the what, the how, the why.

“Need you to be safe,” Simon whispers. “I can’t have you there Johnny. I need you to be safe.”

“Y’ drugged me?”

“Just need you to get some sleep. I’ll be back by the time you wake up, and when you do, I’ll tell you everything,” he says, helping Johnny towards the bed. Johnny collapses back against the pillows, weak not from the Oxy but from his own horror and shock. Simon says: “I promise.”

“Fuck yer promises,” Johnny slurs, eyes misty. Simon sits by him on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair until he begins to snore.

It’s all compartmentalized, his feelings packaged into neat boxes and put away in the safest recesses of his mind. It’s remarkably like being on an op, when he would have to triage his own emotions: cannot face that one yet—push it back and come back to it later (or never, if more convenient). He practically feels the mask slipping into place, down over his eyes and nose and mouth. No more Simon, just Ghost. Ghost on a mission. Ghost preparing himself to do and witness terrible things.

He’s numb to it all. His hand doesn’t even shake when he knocks on the door to 7C. Your boyfriend answers, brows raised with mild, surprised politeness, as if he didn’t truly expect that Simon would show (and Simon didn’t show, Ghost thinks darkly, but this idiot has no idea of that). Ghost holds up the case of beer he bought from the 7/11 down the street and the other man’s mouth stretches into a grin.

“I’ll take that from you—come on in. Make yourself at home,” he says, slipping the beer from Ghost’s hand. “Where’s your other half?”

“Sick.”

“Shame.”

“He’s no good at poker anyway. Doesn’t have the face for it,” Ghost says. He doesn’t even consider asking about you, isn’t willing to compromise his own position by revealing any favoritism toward you. Moving inward, he comes to stand in the living room. It’s eerie being here, this strange reflection of his own apartment. There are differences: the kitchen and dining room are separate, only one bedroom here as opposed to the two at 5C. It is very clean, rather impersonal, without any pictures on the walls or framed photos on the end tables.

There are hints of you: your shoes in the rack by the door, your name badge resting by your keys on the table in the foyer. But you are nowhere in sight.

Two other men are already in the apartment, seated around a square dining room table, dividing out poker chips. Ghost runs an analytical eye over them even as he nods his head coolly in a greeting. They are relatively fit, though neither particularly tall. Likely low risk, though he would be a fool to underestimate them when they have the numbers in their favor.

Before Ghost can even take a seat, there is another knock on the door and a third one enters.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Leah wanted my help putting the girls down for their naps.”

“I hear a little whiskey goes a long way,” your boyfriend suggests, shutting the door behind the final straggler. Everyone laughs except for Ghost who merely raises his eyebrows in amusement.

“You know Leah. She thinks there’s an essential oil for everything; alcohol ain’t it,” the man says. He points to Ghost. “Who’s this?”

Your boyfriend comes to rest a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost takes notice of the height difference between them with distant, dim pleasure. “Fellas, this is Simon. He’s in the apartment next door. Let’s all pretend we’re gentlemen so as to not scare him off.”

More laughs. Everyone takes a seat around the table. Beers are cracked open, and Simon feigns sipping at his as cards are dealt. He is pinned between your boyfriend and the straggler, but his back is to the wall which gives him a sense of security. His knife sits heavy where it is holstered against his lower back, keeping him from fully resting against the chair.

He wishes that he’d brought a fucking gun.

“So, Simon,” someone asks. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Simon’s gay,” your boyfriend tells the room, though where he has gotten this idea from, Simon couldn’t say. Is that what you believed? Did you tell him as such?

The straggler beside him visibly shifts away after this news. One of the other ones pulls a face like he has sucked on a lemon.

Simon has never put labels on himself—finds them constricting as opposed to comforting—but he’s been attracted to people of all genders at one point or another. It’s good though, for him to be misunderstood. Let their misconceptions about gay men color their representation of him, let them think him weak or soft or whatever the fuck their homophobia believes. It rolls off of Simon like water off a duck.

“Problem with that?” Simon asks the straggler, picking up his cards.

“No,” the man lies. Coward.

“Maybe your wife has an essential oil that will cure me,” Simon suggests. The table laughs at their friend’s expense, even the one who had pulled a face.

A round passes; Simon lets himself lose. He listens to the conversations with one ear and to the rest of the apartment with another, straining for any sign of life from you. He hears nothing.

Until: “So where’s the fiancé?”

When all eyes turn to your boyfriend, Simon realizes that you must be engaged. You don’t wear a ring, and you’ve only ever referred to him as your ‘boyfriend’. Maybe it is a new development—or a development that you don’t agree with. He feels a dim stirring of satisfaction at the thought, dampened beneath his persona.

Your boyfriend gives a coy smile. “She’s around. You know how she gets around strangers. Shy.”

“Does that mean no…?” They all share pointed glances. It’s clear that there is something they don’t wish to say around Simon. Ghost leans forward, elbows on the table, waiting for one of them to break and give him a hint. Beneath the table, someone kicks the shin of the one speaking.

“Think I could use another beer,” one of them says, standing. The others agree hastily. “Simon? You good?”

“I’m good.”

The man disappears into the kitchen, but is only gone for a moment before returning. “There’s a goddamn lock on your refrigerator.”

Your boyfriend laughs. He reaches into his pocket and works free a small silver key, handing it over. “Yeah—keeps the cows out of the pasture, if you know what I mean.”

The table laughs—Ghost does not.

“I don’t get it,” he says, sliding his cards toward himself across the oak table and examining them with mild interest. The others fall silent as Ghost makes this moment purposefully awkward.

“Don’t worry about it,” your boyfriend says with a laugh in his voice. “Just a little inside joke we have around here.”

Ghost hums.

Another round passes. The guys share stories about their work, their wives or girlfriends. Some of them have children. Do they know what their friend does to you? Ghost wonders. Could they possibly not know? They occasionally make an effort to bring him into the conversation, but his answers are terse at best, and eventually they stop trying.

More rounds, chips changing hands. The empty beer bottles begin to stand like silent sentinels around the tabletop. Ghost puts little effort into winning, preferring to perform average at best so as to not attract attention. He keeps a close eye on the clock, a fraction of his energy always thinking of Johnny at home. Johnny who is hopefully sleeping peacefully.

The next hand has just started when the door to the bedroom bursts open so abruptly that the handle knocks against the outer wall. You stand in the doorway, your face twisted in some expression too complex for Ghost to begin to unravel.

The table loses it. Shouts of your name, whistles, joyful perverse greetings—a half dozen hands reaching out toward you, like you are the final member of this party and they have only been waiting for you to arrive. Your shoulders are nearly by your ears, you're so tense, eyes flickering around the room from face to face, sticking on Ghost for a fraction longer than the others.

One of the men manages to brush against your wrist with his fingers and you wrench your hand away as if burned. The knife at Simon’s back itches; he wants it in his hand.

Your boyfriend sighs, laying his cards down on the table. “What is it?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“It can wait.”

“It can’t.”

The two of you communicate silently for a moment: sheer stubbornness on your end with mounting frustration on his.

At last, he stands with a roll of his eyes. “Excuse me guys. You all know how she gets.”

The two of them disappear into the kitchen. Sensing his chance, Ghost pushes away from the table. “Think I need that beer after all.”

The others pay him no attention, ducking their heads together and talking under their breath to each other like a group of teenagers. It lets him slip away from the table and linger outside the kitchen doorway, silent as his namesake. He holds his breath, listening, knowing that this is the moment he and Johnny have been waiting for: concrete proof that your boyfriend is mistreating you.

“—isn’t working. I didn’t cheek it, I swear. Give me another, please,” you’re saying quietly, voice thick with tears.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Please! I don’t wanna—”

“Not gonna happen because there wasn’t anything in that soda, you stupid slut,” your boyfriend whispers softly. The words echo around in Ghost's brain, bouncing off the walls of his skull. Mission successful. “I just wanted to see if you’d drink it. Now go back to the bedroom and stay there until everyone has left. Understood?”

There is no response. Footsteps are heard—

Ghost has enough time to duck into the bathroom and avoid him—but he doesn’t. He lets himself get caught by your boyfriend, both of them staring at each other, eyes hard and knowing. There’s no reason to keep up the charade anymore, not after what he just heard.

“Need something, Simon?”

“That’s no way to talk to a woman,” Ghost says, soft and dangerous.

Your boyfriend rubs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “If I were you, I’d mind the business that pays me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Are you—threatening me?” he asks, head tilting in a manner of mild surprise. There’s something in his eyes that Ghost can’t identify, something that looks a lot less like the fear he would hope to see and looks instead like delight.

“I don’t like that word,” he says. “Leaves behind a certain degree of uncertainty. If I ever hear you say something like that to her again—”

His words are cut off as from the kitchen comes a scream, a wordless shriek of rage followed by the ear-splitting shatter of a ceramic plate. Even Ghost jerks, eyes flickering to the kitchen doorway, but there is no sight of you. A plate careens into his line of sight in the doorway, shattering to bits on the floor where you have thrown it.

“What the fuck,” your boyfriend mutters. Another dish shatters. He raises his voice, calm but booming: “Alright: everyone out. Poker night’s over.”

Simon returns to his apartment with heavy steps, feet nearly leaden with dread at what he is going home to, at what he has done. He opens the door to quiet darkness, steps inside, and lingers there just inside the door, listening for Johnny’s quiet snores.

He hears quiet sniffles instead. Stomach clenching painfully, he follows the sound to the bedroom and finds Soap on the floor. He has rolled himself off the bed, likely awoken out of sheer willpower and tried to follow after Simon. Johnny looks up at him, pupils blown wide, eyes red and swollen from crying.

“I’m sorry,” Simon whispers fiercely, kneeling down beside him. “I’m so sorry Johnny. I had to do it. You know I did.”

“I hate you,” Johnny whispers back, tongue thick. All of the sudden, his face pales and he leans forward, vomiting on the floor between them.

It is the least that Simon deserves.

#ghoap x reader #dichotomy of thought

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