#power imbalances cw

[deluxewhump]

The Scry

Chapter 10: Good Intentions, Tied Hands

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CW: whumpee with powers, exploitation of powers, forced labor, power imbalance with caretaker, sleep deprivation, withholding of food, mention of suicide and self harm as an escape from torture

Carlo had been gone a week. 

Max found it difficult to focus on his work. In fact, it annoyed him greatly that he was supposed to drop their planned projects and work on his own again for an undetermined amount of time, because for an unspecified reason they’d decided to kidnap his precognitive.

Not his precognitive. The precognitive. Carlo. 

He got one contract rolling, a small one out of a Tuscaloosa based paper plant that he wouldn���t have wasted Carlo’s talents on. But it was something to have on the books for the week, anyway. 

He told Eddie and Simon what was happening, but they didn’t quite appreciate the gravity of the situation. How could they? They hadn’t been given a scared and abused precog to work with out of the blue one day, gotten attached, and then had him mysteriously “borrowed” for an undetermined amount of time.

God knows what they wanted from the poor kid now, where he was. He could be in the building still, or in California being subjected to more unethical experimentation. He thought of the surgery scar Carlo showed him often, whenever his mind wandered. He hadn’t told Ingrid about that. He didn’t know why, he just couldn’t. 

He did tell Alex Clair, though. 

Alex was the only one at Spartan who seemed to be on the same page with him about the precogs. He was the only one who was as dismayed and alarmed by Carlo’s sudden absence as he was, and he came by often now for updates or to share information.

“Zee said he knows about those research facilities,” he said one afternoon in Max’s office. Max exited his browser and laid his temples in his hands. He was exhausted.  

“I didn’t tell him about Carlo’s… personal experience,” Alex added quickly. “Just asked if he knew about things like that going on. He did.”

“I’m worried about him,” Max muttered. “I don't trust them not to hurt him."

“You two did the best of all of us in the first week. They’re  using him for some shady nefarious precog shit, either to make a bunch of money or rig an election somewhere, I promise.”

“That’s reassuring, thank you.” 

Alex’s cheek dimpled in an apologetic half-grimace. “I just mean he’s useful to them. They won’t hurt him too bad.” He was still wearing a Spartan hoodie over more formal slacks, his half-uniform of protest. “I was thinking of trying to get Blake real drunk Friday night and seeing what he spills,” he offered. 

Max was wearily amused. “You think Martin really tells him anything? Or he just walks around like he does?”

Alex sighed. He ran his hand through his hair so it stayed lifted in a slowly falling blond poof, like a muscle memory. “Yeah, I dunno. He’s a tryhard.”

“I think our hands are tied.”

Alex let his head fall back, tossing a ping pong ball he must’ve lifted from the break room at the ceiling and catching it when it bounced back at him. “I’m so sick of it. For real.”

“I talked to a lawyer,” Max confided. 

Alex sat back up. “Who? What’d they say?”

“A family friend. It was just as a favor. My mother’s an attorney, so I know a few. It’s not good. Basically we don’t have any leverage whatsoever. This is all currently legal with the precogs.”

Alex made a face. “That’s it?”

“She said to document everything. Maybe in a year, once this all runs amok and they’re looking for someone to blame…”

“Martin’s such a fucking snake.” Alex tossed the ping-pong ball again. “And I know he’s not the top of the food chain. It’s just, I see his sorry ass every day.”

Max was about to say something about documenting everything together, collaborating on a record of sorts, when a knock came at his office door. 

Alex widened his eyes questioningly. Expecting anyone?

Max stood from his desk, crossed the short expanse of the office to answer the knock. The door swung open to a hollow-eyed precog swaying on his feet, pale and glassy-eyed.  

“Carlo,” he said, and immediately took him from his escort, a guy in a suit he’d never seen before. The escort made no effort to stop him, not did he comment. He left him there,with Max and Alex, and was gone.

-

Carlo could barely stand. 

It had been bad before, but never quite this bad outside of the research hospital where they’d cut into him. He tried to say something, but a wave of nausea closed his mouth again before he got a word out. Max picked him up without a word. He wrapped his arms around his neck, trying to make himself easy to carry. Max carried him to his little cot in the corner of the office. It was still here. He hadn’t gotten rid of it.

He’d missed this cot so bitterly. He hadn’t slept in nearly 36 hours, and hadn’t eaten in longer. Martin found out that food and rest and water only dulled his precognitive powers, slowled them. Discomfort created an edge. Once he knew that, the niceties stopped, and the most grueling scrying of his life began. Max set him on the bed and laid him down. The bed was soft. So soft. Max was speaking, but not to him. To whom?

He saw Alex Clair come closer, looking as concerned as Max. “What did they do?”

“Who knows,” Max said, and gently slipped the CVS thermometer between Carlo’s lips. It beeped and Max shook his head at the number, showed it to Alex. Carlo knew it wasn’t his fault it was not a pleasing number, but he preferred it when he made his users happy. 

“You’re alright,” Max was saying, brushing his hair back from his hot, dry forehead. “You’re safe now, Carlo. You’re okay.”

He remembered Alex sitting on the side of the cot to hold his head up while Max got him to drink from a water bottle. He swallowed some the wrong way and choked, and Alex helped him up a few more inches to cough.

-

Max’s House. Saturday. He’d never been so grateful to wake up and realize it was Saturday in his life. The thought of getting dressed and going into Baltimore, riding the elevator up to Max’s office made him want to cry.

Max had been patient with him, feeding him broth and juice and medicine, letting him sleep for hours, wake up, and sleep more. His fever broke, and then steadily declined until his body temperature was normal again. He wondered how many times he’d recover. How sick could he get and still get better, every time, like the guy who got his liver eaten over and over by birds?

Max looked surprised when he came downstairs of his own volition at eleven, dressed and coherent. 

“How are you feeling?”

“So much better,” he said, though he still felt bruised under every inch of his skin, and his eyes ached in their sockets. He was grateful for the steady drizzle and heavy cloud cover outside. 

“I have news that may be a small comfort to you. It is to me.”

Carlo pulled himself onto one of the chairs that sat tucked under the kitchen island, which seemed to be the house’s gathering place even when Max and Ingrid weren’t using it to cook a meal. He raised his eyebrows in question.

“It’s a long weekend. No work Monday. No office, no nothin’.”

Carlo laughed. “That really is the best thing you could’ve said right now. Except maybe that Spartan sold me to you.”

Max’s smile faltered, then recovered. It didn’t escape Carlo’s notice. He made a note to be careful saying things like that. Did Max not like the idea of him, or was it an extension of the discomfort he felt at the whole situation? He shouldn’t be so needy. Max had done so much for him already, in their present situation. 

“Carlo,” he said with an air of his telephone-serious voice, and Carlo’s heart dropped. I’m sorry, he almost blurted. That was inappropriate. You don’t have to say it. I know. I know. 

“I think we should talk about what happened.”

No, he thought. We shouldn’t. He wrapped his arms tightly around his ribs and thought of Martin's steady voice in his ear as he sobbed, the sound of that terrible and pitiless patience.

“I know it might be uncomfortable ," Max said. "It’s why I waited until we were home, away from anywhere someone might be able to listen in. But it’s just you and me here, and… I think you need to tell me where you were.”

“I was with Martin Olsen,” he answered quickly. “He tricked me after you left for coffee that day. Tuesday. He said he needed me to work on a project with him. For him. If I didn’t, he said I’d be sent away to a research hospital again.”

Max nodded along. His usually clean face was in need of a shave. His hair was looking a little longer too, dark as the stubble that dotted his chin. “What was that project? Can you tell me about it?”

Carlo shook his head firmly. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Max took on a look of measured disappointment that felt to Carlo like a knife in his ribs. “Listen, I really think it’s best if you do. I’m keeping a record of events in case I ever get the opportunity to do something about all this. Legally.”

Carlo had to look away. He stared at a knot in the wood of the island. “I understand, and I still can’t help you.”

Max put a warm hand on his knee and he flinched without meaning to. He hadn’t expected it, was all. Max withdrew the hand and Carlo wished he’d put it back. This isn’t how he thought today would go.

“No one will know what you’ve told me for now, Carlo,” he said seriously. “It will stay between you and me until a time when it’s absolutely safe to use and I have the leverage to keep you safe from any consequences. I’m not going to do anything to get you hurt, sweetheart.”

Carlo closed his eyes. “Don’t call me that when you’re trying to manipulate me,” he whispered. He meant it as a plea, but it came out like an accusation.

“Manipulate you…” Max repeated sadly. “I’m trying my best to help you. I’m feeling very frustrated and helpless here. I can only imagine how you must feel.”

“But you can’t,” he said, and made himself look in Max’s eyes. “Mr Olsen made me sign things. Confidentiality things. Non disclosure.”

“Probably all illegal, in context.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But… it doesn’t matter what I signed because even if I didn’t, if he ever found out I told you or anyone what he made me work on, he’d make sure I got sent to the worst research project he could find, and I’d never leave again.” He lifted his shirt to remind Max of the scar, of their conversation. “Do you know what that would mean for me? A place like that? Do you know what they do to us?”

“I can guess.”

“I’ll die first. It would be so much better. There’s a million ways to do it. I’m not afraid to do it. Once they’ve got you in a place like that, you can’t. They make sure. You can’t find a syringe, a piece of glass. A good wire. Not even a thumbtack. And you can’t starve yourself to death, they’ll just stick a tube and an IV in you.”

He expected Max to chastise him for this kind of talk, or tell him to stop. He didn’t. “And you know Martin would do this if you told me what you worked on?”

“Yes. He told me.”

Max’s mouth tightened. “Of course he did.”

“Please don’t make me,” Carlo whispered. “Don’t make me tell you. It doesn’t matter. It’s all the same.” 

“I'm not going to make you do anything. Can you tell me if it was relating to Spartan or not?” Max asked gently. “If it was to do with money, or politics, or something else? Was it business, or personal?”

Carlo felt tears prick the back of his sore eyes and let them come. He knew from experience that any charged display of emotion from him either made a user colder, almost angry, or they softened. Max softened. 

“Don’t cry,” he said tenderly. Carlo could tell he wanted to touch him again but was discouraged by the earlier reaction to the hand on his knee. 

“Don’t make me say,” Carlo whispered around the lump in his throat. He was going to have to beg. “Please, Sir.”

Max took a deep breath and was quiet for a few seconds. “Okay,” he surrendered.

Carlo knew he’d played his best hand with the Sir, reminding Max of his inherent authority over him. If he’d pushed any more, Carlo would’ve answered that last question. He felt a surge of relief that he hadn’t. He didn’t doubt Martin Olson’s threats for a single second. And he was glad Max relented. He didn't think he could take it if he pushed him, too, like everyone else.

“Okay,” Max said again, and put a tentative hand on Carlo’s shoulder. Carlo turned toward him and leaned as far as he could. Max caught him in an embrace, rubbing his shoulder blades with his broad hands. “It’s okay, Carlo. I’m sorry. I want to protect you, but I don’t know how.”

Carlo got the sense Max was not used to being powerless. He’d overheard him talking with his fiancée, running up against every wall in the corporate and legal structure and becoming frustrated there seemed to be nowhere he could apply pressure where anyone would care.

Carlo said nothing. He enjoyed the feeling of Max’s arms around him, the weight of them tethering him soundly to his chest.

“Do you want to tell me what happened? Without telling me anything about what you were working on?” Max asked.

“...Why?” He didn’t see what Max would want from that.

Max pulled back to hold the sides of Carlo’s head in his hands, looking at him with raised eyebrows like he might be a bit of an idiot. “Because I care about what happened to you. I thought you might want to talk about it with someone. With me.”

Oh.

Carlo thought about it. He could tell him of the way Martin watched him carefully, finding out what worked and what didn’t. He could tell him about the sleep deprivation, the cold basement office, the lack of food and water and constant bright lighting. The blackouts, the blinding migraines, the sickness, the mounting cost of pushing his scrying powers far past their limits.

What good would it do? If it was sympathy he wanted from Max, he already had it. He wished he could crawl in this man’s lap and make himself very small somehow. He wished he could be unimportant and left alone.

“Later, maybe? I just want to enjoy the day off.”

Max let him go, and his skin missed the places he was no longer being touched. “Okay. Yeah. Of course.”

[sleep-0-deprived]

Feels like sugar in me~ (Dom Yandere manager x model male reader) ૮꒰っ˕‹̥̥̥ ꒱ა

WC:. 2.5k

Tags: power abuse, ass eating, voyuer, humiliation, gaslighting/ manipulation, older man-younger man (character is referenced in his mid forties and reader in his twenties) dark content, slight dub con, dacryphilia <33

A/N: my posting schedule has been all wonky the past month! But I hope you guys enjoy and as promised @blond3ang3l ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა

Everybody knew that modeling was a cruel line of work, your father told you so ever since you were just a little boy prancing around your bedroom.

Most male models didn’t last more than a month in the industry, you understood exactly why once you started putting yourself out there. Applying to all the big name brand you could never dream to be taken in by but you wanted to atleast try!

Here you were, halfway across the U.S trying to pursue your own little American dream and how else would you do that if not by working in some rundown diner by your apartment. Well that was until you met Him, tall and undoubtedly handsome with black hair having grey streaks through the sides with a small little beard of mostly white hairs, his name hung infamous to anybody who ever wanted to be a somebody, Dean Carter was his name.

You didn’t know him too well, just a local man who liked the diner you worked at for some reason you always thought. But he’d smile at you a little too long or tip you a little too much with his age showing at every glance he handed you. Creases in the corners of his eyes and lips crinkling up in delight when he watched how your hips swayed in your apron working the floor having him in awe. He had to have you—he absolutely needed you.

He’d simply slip you his business card just trying to swoon you under his wing like any big dreaming boy, whispering honeyed promises of fame and being a star on the runway to you anytime you would doubt him. Your fate was sealed the moment he wanted you, he was a man of greed and power and he wanted you in his pocket like a caged bird.

Here you were, eight months later from meeting dean, a photo shoot just being finished by you but you were far from happy. How could you possibly be happy when all you were seen as was the pretty boy who slept his way to fame, and the worst part of it all was the fact they weren’t wrong and all you could do is sit in your designated seat in your dressing room feeling the cold hand clasping your cheek “don’t listen to them baby, you’re just so much more than a pretty face and you know it”

Dean leans down kneeling on his knees with his chin resting on your shoulder blade holding your chin making you look at the mirror straight ahead of you. “Sh-sh doll don’t pout, you’ll ruin your makeup” his lips press to the back of your ear as his hands grip the sides of your seat turning you facing him.

“Not right now dean..” you whimper out silently feeling the hotness in your eyes bubbling up with tears that threaten to peak. “Don’t be that way baby doll, let me make it all better, you know I just wanna help” his voice softens so much your heart wants to believe it’s all real but atlas, you knew so better and yet you still fell.

“Not tonight dean, I don’t feel like it” you sniffle put rubbing your face feeling your warm cheeks under your palms while his hands slip down massaging your thighs in the slacks you were modeling. His thumbs tracing up slowly to your zipper giving it a little tug, you already knew what he was getting at and you couldn’t bring yourself to stop him.

“Hush darlin, it’ll all feel alright so soon” a elicit purr fell from his thin lips when he stops after opening up the top of your pants leaving them hanging up on your hips, his hands slipping up to your hip bone and grabbing it gently lifting you up out of the chair and getting you on the counter of your dressing room while his hands guide your thighs apart.

“People will hear us dean” you hush out and tilt your head back looking upwards at him trying your hardest to not let your emotions win tonight. “Well then they’d be lucky, you’re my little show-boy aren’t you [name]? Always strutting down that runway”

Dean’s hands slide up your sides gripping your boxers and the waistband of your bottoms and slid them off down your thighs with ease leaving you in your white socks and the designer shirt, having not made it to putting on the shoes yet.

“O-h shit—“ you go slack in the face with your jaw hanging pinching your brows together when his face shoves between your thighs and nuzzles his way between your cheeks having you spread wide arching your back and holding the marble counter top.

“Taste’s so sweet doll, like sugar on mh tongue” his voice deepens rolling his own eyes back into his skull leaving red irritation marks on your ass cheeks from his stubble while he groans against your hole before lapping his tongue out from his mouth giving a long lick going down your crack leaving your balls neglected while your cock stands half hard.

“Dean, they’re gonna hear us~” you can’t help anymore, you slowly crumble on the counter, reaching your hands back and placing them over your mouth trying to hide how you were crying like a little boy and leaning back against the dressing room mirror internally praying that none of the brand executives made it to your room to see you in all your glory hitching your leg up on the older males shoulder and letting him devour you like a helpless lamb.

Deans tongue presses flat to your rim and keeps rubbing against it before his lips press against your hole sucking at it and gripping your thighs tighter looking up at you the whole time wanting to kiss away your tears.

“My baby boy is such a pretty cryer” he hums in a sickeningly sweet tone coating your rim in a glossy layer of his spit making heat build inside your stomach leaving your cock now fully erect pressing it’s way to your belly button.

“I’m not gonna- I can’t handle it!” A sharp gasp falls from your lips feeling like you’re being torn apart by the man between your thighs. His fingers moving off your thighs only leaving his right hand on your knee trying to keep your thighs from fully closing around his hand while he takes his fingers and snakes his way between your cheeks, letting us index finger prod open the walls whilst he keeps flicking his tongue in sync to his fingers.

“You wanna be a star right doll? Let me make you the brightest one” the movement doesn’t slow or waver leaving your lips trembling against your palm understanding his inward promise, the one he’s told you a thousand times over.

“Close dean” you sloppily slur and cry out feeling your hand slipping from hour mouth when his finger works its way against your prostate having the world around you turn white in a buzz and your cock glaze over with a pearl of semen leaking down the sides of your base making your body clamp up ready for the wave of release to wash over you only to have him pull away from your ass leaving your leg sliding off his shoulder when he stands back up.

“I want you to reach your orgasm from my cock, not my mouth baby doll” his words wash over you when he wipes his hands off and starts undoing his belt leaving his slacks undone while he opens up his fly, the grey waistband reading ‘Calvin Klein’ exposes itself to you before he pulls out his cock showing him already stiff from eating you out.

“Look at the mess you made baby, you’ve got my face utterly filthy” stepping between your thighs keeping them spread open while he presses his face into the side of your neck with your legs slowly lifting up to his hips, “the staff will hear us, I don’t want them to know dean” your hand finds its way into his hair and pulls at it, not even bothering to hide the hot tears streaming down your face.

He reaches his hand off your hip, still holding it tight with his other hand while he holds your chin firm and lifts his head from the crook of your neck pressing hot kisses to your damp cheeks. Dean’s cock presses its way between your slick cheeks letting his cock-head rub and make contact with your rim almost daring to push inside you but not doing so yet.

“Don’t worry baby, I’ve got’cha” his words linger muffled and half audible between his lust filled haze and the wet kisses he left across your skin. Your thighs stay parted up on his hips with your eyes looking up at him feeling humiliated in ways beyond words, unable to stare in the mirror behind you, unable to face what you’ve let him break you into.

“Just push in dean” your sniffles fall on deaf ears but he just smiles down at you and takes his lips off your cheeks placing them on your neck while letting your chin out of his clasp making your ruined face fall forwards on his shoulder when he slips his hands back to your hips guiding you down on his cock. “That’s a good boy, my sweet little angel” he talks you through it making your rim ease up when he sinks into you leaving you feeling every vein of his shaft when it pierces you.

“Sh-sh-sh don’t cry, baby. If you stay nice and quiet I’m sure they won’t hear” his words do very little in terms of easing you. Your neck tilts back looking up at the ceiling and staring through blurred leans as you reach your hands off the counter edges and dig your nails into the back of his tailored suit, leaving lighter colored marks on the fabric while the sound of hushed moans and skin filled up the dressing room.

Dean continued to roll his hips and make out with your neck, butting and sucking on every inch moaning into the skin, not bothering to stop your tears “you’re so pretty when you cry like that Y’know angel”

his voice was far to sweet for the ways he was ravaging your body. His cock pressed up against your prostate with every deep stroke he gave, your cock weeped against your stomach the whole time he held your hips flush against him while working between your legs, making sure his cock rubbed and violated every inch of your cavern.

Dean held your hips tight, softly massaging them and rutting his hips fucking you up against the counter with his canines dragging alongside of your neck so soft you felt like you were on cloud nine and yet you wanted to puke. You’ve never felt so beautiful yet so dirty until you were with him.

You finally look down from the ceiling with a sharp gasp “o-oh Dean-“ your eyes zoom out until they see the dressing room door peaking open, then it’s like bells and gears in your head start churning with your toes curled close to cumming. “Don’t even pay attention to it doll” Dean smooths you or at least he try’s to sooth you but fails, you just shove your face into his shoulder moaning and wailing to yourself when you realize there’s someone entering the room.

“Are you almost ready [nam—“ low and behold the door opened wide standing in the doorway was one of the stage managers for your upcoming shoot today, he stood jaw slacked the clipboard nearly falling from his hand staring at you watching how Dean didn’t bother stopping making the tears flow faster when you look up from dean’s shoulder having your eyes meet.

“Scram, boy. [name] is busy right now” Dean’s voice hardens tilting his head back out of your neck with drool smeared on his chin from a the kissing he was doing to your neck. He doesn’t bother to stop your coupling session but instead shoo’s off the other man. Oliver the stage manager scrambles to leave quickly, not wanting to be in the middle of the situation any longer but you knew him.

You knew within ten minutes the whole brand- better yet label. Would know your secret and that alone made your face go red with shame. “I’m close~ let-me come please?” You plead with Dean knowing that you needed your high, you needed the adrenaline that brought you to heaven before throwing yourself back down to sadness like always.

“Come for me darlin, just let go” Dean croons to you holding you up on the counter steadily thrusting into you already starting to leak more pre cum inside you. Your dressing room door still open wide leaving anyone able to see you being ruined by your manager if they just walked down the hall. Your cock starts to spasm and bob upwards jerking on its own about to cum as your legs wrap tighter around his hips, gripping his back and curling your toes tight arching.

Your walls clamped tight around his manhood when you finally hit your peak feeling rope after rope speed from the pudgy cock head when you orgasm. Dean pulls out of you and comes all over your thighs, holding you tight and panting when his cock throbs and releases its load all over your thighs in a thin and runny mess while you sit panting and truth to wipe away your tears before you can even look back at Dean.

“You did great, so great doll” he murmurs his words leaning down kissing your cheek and wiping your eyes leaving you sitting on your dressing room counter all splayed and ruined with cum coating your skin and runny mascara flowing down your cheeks as you watch Dean remove his hands off you and start fixing up his pants, wiping his cock off before putting it back inside his own boxers.

“I’m sorry I have to run honey, I need to straighten things out and I have an appointment with the magazine executives for your next shoot” with one last kiss on your cheek and an infatuatedly pleased smile when he looks down and sees your thighs coated in his cum, a small peck is forced on your lips before you watch him leave as he always did once he was finished.

Sitting alone in your dressing room, still up on the counter with the door now shut feeling the sadness wash over you from the after effects of your orgasm leaving your rubbing your eyes having to get up and get cleaned “I have to learn to stop crying, I swear” you whisper aloud to yourself walking around the dressing room just cleaning yourself off with a complementary rag and looking at your disheveled appearance in the mirror making you sight, after all how could you not? This same scene replayed day after day with Dean and you knew it would continue to.

[venusandsaturnsrings]

you sighed heavily, zoning out on some of the elaborate wallpaper in front of you as your friend chattered on enthusiastically at your side.

last week, they had burst into your workplace with an expression so anxious you had thought something was seriously wrong. they went on to elaborate that famous director mr. reca was on penacony and having a surprise casting call and, as a member of the iris family, they just needed to go and audition but the idea of standing in front of such a well known face in the cinema world had them more panicked than they’d ever been before. whining endlessly about how they were so very nervous but couldn’t possibly miss such an opportunity, you easily picked up what exactly they wanted; you to go with them. sighing you offered your companionship partially as a good friend and partially to make the other workers stop glaring daggers, you finally chased them out the door as they promised to meet you at the studio on the weekend.

now in a long line of other actors and actresses hoping to finally get a breakthrough part, the number pinned hastily to your chest was starting to irritate you on top of not wanting to be here in the first place. agreeing so quickly was looking more like a mistake as you were realizing you had no experience or anything prepared and you’d soon be standing in front of a man who’d scrutinize your every move; a real nightmare in the dream.

it took a surprisingly short amount of time for your friend to be whisked away into the audition room with its heavy soundproof doors and you had to stand alone coming to terms with how much of a fool you’d look like. a brief thought of running flitted through your brain as you nervously tapped your foot but before any commitment to bolting could arise, you were ushered in.

the room was elegant but felt unbelievably sterile with the marble floors and delicate chandelier. behind a large wooden table stacked with folders, notes, and expensive looking pens was the man you dreaded explaining this predicament to. with piercing eyes and a predatory smile, mr. reca seemed unnervingly interested in what you’d go on to show him; nothing, unfortunately. you took your place in the centre of the room and awkwardly cleared your throat before dumping a word vomit of an apology and explanation filled with ‘i can’t act for shit,’ and ‘i’m sorry for wasting your time.’ he nodded with a low hum and seemed almost sympathetic as he tapped a finger against his lips while thinking.

“you’re here now and your… appearance… seemed perfectly suited to a personal project of mine i can’t seem to get out of my head,” his smile was unnerving in a way, “humour me and try out a couple poses at the least. such a role would come with magnificent compensation.” not the response you expected but you figured he was owed something for such a fumble. upon your agreement he had you shift into numerous positions that made your face flush with embarrassment but mr. reca seemed beyond pleased if his praise meant anything.

“magnificent. please, i’d love to have you star in a this minor film of mine. such a project will only take a few afternoons and i’ll make sure it’s worth your time.”

it’s the next week when you’re at his home. he welcomes you with a neat suffocating hug and offers numerous snacks and drinks as a show of good will. it’s quite charming until he takes you to where he’s set up for the first scenes.

the room is dim, lit by ambient lighting only and silk ribbons drape across the room. in the middle is a bed covered in luxurious sheets and soft blankets with a table on each side holding a variety of lewd toys; your face is warm. mr. reca cheerfully points to every object explaining the purpose and how it’ll be used after fiddling with all the different locks on the door to successfully trap you in. suddenly you feel sweaty and your chest is tight as you shiver uncontrollably. his personal film was an adult film. he dangles the previously signed contract over your head with a promise to publicly humiliate you if you don’t, “strip and put on these pieces,” a lacy pair of panties and a bra that hides nothing. he’s throwing a pair of stockings at your chest as well before making some adjustments on his camera. with no choice, you change and pray that this will be over soon but the sinking feeling in your gut says otherwise when you see he’s undressing as well.

[anetherealpoetess]

Neil Gaiman, let’s be realistic. A 21-year-old working in the home of a man four decades her senior cannot truly give meaningful consent to any type of sexual encounter, let alone within mere hours of meeting him. Even though you are denying it was not consensual, the fact you have conceded the sexual encounter did happen at all is a full confession. You are, by your own admission, a predator.

[esthercore]

Cw: Mild Dacryphilia, Gn Reader! Oral, Size kink, dom/sub, a bit non-withdrawable consent if you squint, user has a crush on Capitano, power play

Telling you, I won't slow down, won't slow down Girl, you gotta know right now, there's no way out Imma pull the trigger off And imma let these bullets talk

Capitano glared down at the little soldier in training standing in front of him, their eyes red from crying so hard, cheeks and nose flushed too, the makeshift tent filled with the noise of their sobs.

"Tears will do you no favor, this is the outcome of your own incompetency," he said, yet the way his pants tighten around him crotch by the sound of your pathetic noises.

Silly thing trying fight off some treasure hoarders who tried to meddle with the fatui cargo you were help shipping, only to ruin the supplies yourself, by falling over them. Your posture all wrong, can't even hold a sword properly, yet tried to be a hero just for his attention.

And you did get his attention, alright, especially from his dick who takes a special interest how perfect you look, especially when crying.

"Why not make up to me then, cadet?"

"Ho-"

His finger laid against your lips shushing you, so gentle, as he leaned down so that your forehead can touch the cold metal of his helmet, his hand cupping your face, lightly brushing away the tear stains, "Just be a good doll for me"

His hand patted your head lightly before lightly pushing you down, guiding you to your knees, leaning a bit back, his torso moving ahead, so his clothed dick rub against your face.

Looking up at him for approval, you gained a strong tap on your chin, "Hands on knees, no more waiting." So you followed, hands pressed down, lowering his zipper with your teeth, only to be greeted by the unholiest length in Tevyat, gasping out loud. His pretty uncut cock very thick, and long, veins all visible and the slight up tilt on the tip, oozing out trickles of pre cum on your parted lips.

Tired of your slow pace, he positioned hi hand on the back of your head, pushing it on his cock, making you gag at the sudden intrusion in your throat, causing you to slap his thigs as a reflex, eyes watering again, earning a sharp pull on your hair, forcing his cock deeper in your throat.

"If you can't be useful if the field might as well use your pretty body for something." God how he loved they tears rolling down your cheeks, "Don't act like you haven't been dreaming about this for month, I'm not blind if you aren't aware."

Silly thing want to crush on him? He had all the rumors about you moaning his name in your nightly 'self-care', they way you look at him like he's a god, they way you are unable to not blush around him. A warrior must be observant after all, he notice the way your body moves, how pretty you look while doing anything and everything, how much you are not suitable for the cruel battle grounds, how desperately you need someone to take care of you.

How suitable you are to stand alongside him in public, and how pretty below him in bed, all his to indulge in.

Well if you want him so bad then get ready to be the best cocksleeve in Tevyat and he happily be yours for the eternity, no take backs.

Wrote this honor of him invading my dreams last night, hoping he come or cum back.

[thedarkestrivernymph]

Power

Yandere!Noble x Gn!Servant!Reader

warnings: power imbalance, death of animals, implied noncon, murder, gore, blood

©Copyright -2024-thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

You were convinced you were born unlucky.

Crawling up the social ladder, working day-in day-out for a speck of the luxury the wealthy had—you were still nothing but an insect that could be crushed under a noble’s shoe.

You were slaving your life away as a measly servant—head hung low when someone of higher ranked passed by, always rushing, scurrying to another back-breaking task whether it was scrubbing the mansion's floors or something as emotionally taunting as having to rinse the young master’s soapy bundle of raven locks.

It was exhausting, to say the least. So it wasn't unsurprising that when the demands for you overtook the physical labour and turned into emotional terrorising, you couldn't uphold the quality of your work any longer.

The young master, you had known him all his life, was one of peculiar taste and character, to say the least.

You still vividly remembered when you both were eight, you were awed by the size of your mother's new workplace, duckling behind her, fighting the urge to clutch onto her skirt because of how the nobles regarded you with nothing but indifference or revulsion.

That's when you were first introduced to, or rather you met him in the garden on accident. He had sneaked out between his endless tutoring lessons, climbing down from his room to sit in the grass.

You blinked once then twice at the sight of him, feeling somewhat a flutter of your heart—which wasn't strange considered he was living the life your mother had always wished for you.

However as much as you felt intrigued and eager to approach him, the only other child in this whole mansion, you hesitated, opting to watch him from behind a tree as you discovered the ball of white fluff in his lap. You felt giddy, seeing the kitten rub all against him, as he regarded her with something akin to a gentle smile.

Your eight year old self was almost tempted to reveal itself, step closer and admire the little fangs of the creature from close-up, yet you didn't and you were glad so, because what you saw next was chilling to the bone.

With the same smile on his face, large pools of brown staring down at the fluff in his lap, he slowly crept his hands up and up the kittens body, gently rubbing and scratching behind its ears, before suddenly clasping his fingers around its neck and snapping.

It was an ugly, screeching sound that left the animal as it immediately fell limp, died without much protest.

And perhaps, if you had just being able to stay quiet, keep the startled squeal in, bite down onto your lip and hadn't stepped onto that twig that snatched beneath your foot—perhaps he wouldn't have seen you.

Perhaps he wouldn't have lifted his head, gaze snapping to your direction, focusing on you and smiled.

Sometimes you wonder if he smiled because he knew that the dead kitten in his lap would someday be you.

You shook your head, you never liked to dwell in the past, why start now? Enduring the torturous labour wasn't so hard when you just turned your brain off, really, it was quite simple actually.

If it wasn't for the young master's constant presence, breathing down your neck, that is. As if he was hoarding you, lingering glances causing chills to climb up your spine, and that awful unsettling little lift in the corners of his mouth everytime he saw you.

You couldn't bend over, get on your knees nor simply stretch to dust the headboards without feeling like having to protect your dignity—that’s how horribly bad his staring was, it was unrelenting and uncomfortable.

It had always been like that, it was as if he was taunting you for ever daring to have witnessed him commit such a brutality as a child and then many more—you found dead birds on the foot of your bed, their bellies ripped open to allow everything that should be kept inside to spill, mice and rats smashed into a puddle of blood on the floor of your room, yet the most vile trinket still remainded the mangled-up body of a dog placed onto you.

You knew who it was—and the culprit knew too, but no one else did, and even if the head of the house, the young Master's Grandpa, found out, he would rather act upon the same violence to keep the family secret sealed—that the handsome young man graced with equal intelligence as looks was sick in the head.

Your ability to endure it was strong, you were resilient, you were given a roof over your head and a job for life and sometimes once in a blue moon you were granted as something sacred as a hairpin albeit not out of jade, but it did it, the bribery worked and you kept scrubbing out all mistakes the young master did.

That was until that fateful day.

You were used to all his mistakes by then, but this was probably his most grave one out of them all.

“Young Master? Young Master!” you cried out, raw unfiltered fear in your shriek screams, trying to wriggle out of his grasp—moments prior you had just been scrubbing his back, working in the rich soaps and oils into his skin and now you laid on his bed pinned beneath his naked figure.

“What is it? What is it that I can't have? You're so far away—I can't reach you.” his voice was unusually erratic, that kind of tone that declared of the impending meltdown that followed.

“Young Master—” you squeaked trying to put on your bravest front, swallowing your fear, you just had to stay calm, just stay calm—

“Why can't you be mine?” he slapped you right across the face, causing tears to prick your eyes. “You're so shameless! You flirt with that foreign guard—you bat your eyelashes at him, but you never even thanked me for the gifts I left you! How could you be so cruel?” he screamed in your face, his own flush with anger, panting and heaving rapidly, his chest pressed into yours, with the thing between his thighs pressing into your abdomen stiffly.

“Please young Master—” he didn't allow any more protests, wrapping his hands around your neck, planning to wring it like he did to that innocent kitten, but you didn't let him.

Gasping for air, you struggled against his strength, hands kicking and punching, clawing at whatever you could as the panic put you in a frenzy. It was as if your brain split from your body and gained its own heartbeat that sent currents through your entire being, down to your fingertips.

It wasn't until you clutched onto one of his candle holders and dragged it over his head, did he release you with a hiss, stumbling back, touching the dent on his head only to feel blood while you rolled off already scrambling to run away.

However the sight of blood only turned him more into revealing his true face, an unruly monster.

So he lunged.

Tackling you to the ground like a wild beast, keeping your hands pinned above your head, having learned that much from the bleeding spot on his head, this time he didn't let go until he was satisfied that evening.

You weren't the same after that—and who would blame you for that?

The very next day you tried to quit and got refused. It didn't work, they didn't let you, because no one wanted to gain the wrath of the young Master and his elders especially cared for him, which is why they allowed his childish fixation with you.

That's why you escaped, you couldn't continue this, you refused to be a toy for some noble that had plagued you for most of your life already.

Your escape was the trigger.

Dragged back by your hair, fingers trying to hold onto the wet earth, you were promptly shoved inside the manor, thrown in front of the young Master standing amidst a bloodbath so gruesome you wished you he taken your eyes with the countless lives.

“There you are!” he exclaimed pulling you into a bone crushing hug, as his breathing finally fell into an even rhythm, relaxing with you in his arms. “Why—why—” you were choking out but he just hushed you, making you stare long and heavy at all the familiar faces—the servants that were your friends, the guards ordered to keep you inside the manor and lastly a white kitten that resembled the first one of his many kills, like some sort of anniversary present for you.

“Just don't go—this is all your fault—don’t leave me again.” he didn't allow you to breathe, crimson soaked fingers digging into your back almost bruising.

You remained an insect, now caged in gold, a toy to be played with, used and abused that could only dream about fleeing and regaining some resemblance of normality.

Because born unlucky stays unlucky.

[sugurouge]

— diabolic waltz : getō suguru x f!reader

content warnings! DARK CONTENT, dubcon/noncon, yandere themes, size difference, strength difference, corruption, power dynamics/imbalance (reader refers to geto as master), pet names (doll, whore, toy, bunny, little one), hair pulling, water torture/forced drowning/waterboarding, punishment, deep throating, mind break, degradation

summary: You should know better than to behave greedy or entitled, but if he so sweetly entices you to misbehave, even the impeding punishment doesn't stop you from taking what you need. Until it's time to pay up. And Getō makes sure you always pay your debts.

wordcount: 2k | my kinktober masterlist

by clicking read more you are agreeing to consume dark content. don't interact if you cannot differentiate fiction from reality.

Geto rests comfortably in his armchair, dark purple eyes rake over your needy body—only hidden beneath a layer of satin. With you in his lap, there is at least a sort of solace to his tiresome days. He likes to view you as a sick way of rewarding himself, his prize for making it through another 24 hours. Hence why you're always kept on display whenever it's just the two of you. Him and his property, the weak human that somehow won his twisted interest. Nothing more than eye candy for him. You're so pretty until you turn needy and start talking too much.

"Master, please—" you start your advances all over again. Ever so prettily as your nails drag over Geto's exposed chest; you have long since pushed aside the layers of his attire.

Geto heaves a heavy sigh. It's his first indicator for you to shut your pretty mouth before he sends curses your way. Yet, simultaneously, he can't resist the torture; cannot keep his right leg from bouncing to cause friction against your puffy lips. Teasing you further to hear more whimpers instead of your actual voice.

Your hands press against his body as you try to control the bouncing, but the friction created by your dress brushing against your nipples makes it impossible to form coherent or cautious thoughts. Your legs clench around Geto's muscular thigh, attempting to maintain the pleasurable feeling.

"You really wish to bother me like that right now?" His dangerously low voice challenges. Suguru is well aware that he is the cause of your distress, but would he ever admit that? Not in a million lifetimes.

You know full well what will happen if you say yes, how your day will turn out if you give in to your own neediness when your master isn't the one to initiate. Your glossy orbs beg him without another word spilling from your lips as you nod.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. You're just so dumb; how could he not adore you? The minor tilt of his head gives you the okay to shed your dress, to expose your perfectly clean body to his eyes. It's one of his priorities, to always have his doll look prim and proper. Soft and dewy skin, rose oil spoiling your figure to make it shine in the low afternoon light and envelop you in faux innocence for him to ruin.

You sink down to your knees right between his legs, your delicate fingers running over his muscular thighs up to his stomach, but the "tsk" coming from Geto's lips has you freeze immediately. Doe eyes look up at his intimidating stare, while his entire face remains stoic—almost bored, as he rests his cheek in one of his palms.

"Hand or thigh, no cock," he bluntly states.

You try to suppress the whine rising in your throat, try not to furrow your brows at his statement.

"Well, what will it be, bunny?"

He doesn't actually ask. Geto simply enjoys oversaturating your lusty mind with difficult decisions. You're always so afraid he will leave you.

"Hand, please, please," you bat your lashes at him even though you're painfully aware of how little effect it has on him. Yet he pats his thigh, indicating for you to sit on his lap once again. Your body follows suit.

"Any other wishes?" Narrowed eyes stare at you, they make you feel small and vulnerable as his hand dances along your thigh, drawing close to your needy pussy.

Your eyes snap down to his dishevelled clothes, raking over the layers of fabric that hide his perfect body from your gaze and touch.

You inhale sharply the moment his fingers snap you out of your thoughts, penetrating your walls deeply without warning and immediately curling against your clamping muscles. Yes, Geto might be okay with listening to your begs once in a while, but his pleasure lies in overwhelming your pathetic body, not preparing you softly.

Your head lolls back, fingers holding onto his shoulders, though they twitch to run through his black strands. You are well aware of the fact that he'd never let you ruin his hair.

Soft moans spill from your parted lips. He taught you to stay quiet, to not ruin his image of you—his sweet doll.

Yet the feeling is too good. The way his fingers stretch your cunt, your slick dripping down over his digits and palm. Your hips roll against his hand, pretty whines causing your chest to heave so perfectly for Geto to enjoy the sight of your tits.

He adds a third finger with ease and uses his thumb to draw intricate patterns on your clit, applying more pressure on the nub once he feels you tighten around him. "Such a needy whore..." he mumbles impassively.

But his cold voice, the boredom laced in his words mixed with his brutal ministrations, are exactly what you've grown to love from your master. It's so clear that you're doing something wrong, that you're messing up his perfect routine—but you just can't help it.

Your whines grow louder, small fingers now gripping onto his wrist as the coil in your stomach tightens further and further before it explodes. You fall forward, against Geto's chest, covering his neck area with moans, tears, and sweat as you gush all over his hand and dirty his robes.

Goosebumps run over your heavenly skin, clearly proving how overwhelmingly good he can make you cum with just his hand by now.

"Disgusting..."

You flinch slightly at that, eyes squeezing shut from just one word coming from Geto. He pulls his hand out of your tight cavern, your slick clearly coating his skin as a scowl spreads on his face. "You enjoy this? Staining me with your slutty needs?"

You create some distance between your bodies, shamefully staring at his hand before your eyes trail over his tainted clothes. You didn't plan on this happening, didn't plan to make such a mess, especially not over him, but why does he have to be this good?

Being a disappointment still has the same effect on you as it did from the start, causing tears to spill from your eyes as your body starts to shiver. "'M sorry, I didn’t—I wanted—"

"Time for a bath, no?" he sighs and gets up, pushing your smaller body off his lap with little care as disgust is clearly painted on his features.

Your butt meets the hardwood flooring and you try frantically to stop the tears from running down your face. Pleading ever-so sweetly with a shaky voice for your "Master..." to have mercy.

The clacking of his shoes stops the moment he stands beside your body once again. Long fingers card through your locks before he kneels beside you and tugs at your roots.

"How much longer are you going to make me wait, little one, hm?"

The sting on your scalp rips you out of your struggling mind; it forces you to rely on your instincts if you want to get out of this unscathed tonight. "Forgive me," you whisper.

So incredibly cute.

Geto takes a deep breath, eyes running over your body as he hums. "Five minutes."

You nod in perfect understanding and immediately grab your gown before hurrying over to the bathroom.

Aftercare is important, he always tells you. And aftercare you shall give him.

So you let water fill the spacious bathtub, let the most expensive bubble bath fill the room with a soothing scent as you light candles to set the mood and welcome Suguru in.

You stand in front of his large frame, looking up at his face to grant you permission to undress him, carefully undoing the ties of his gown before letting the heavy garments hit the floor. You will wash them as well.

Only his briefs aren't yours to touch as he walks past you and finishes undressing himself before he sinks into the warm bathwater.

You watch him the entire time—how he leans back against the expensive porcelain of the tub, arms resting around the rim—looking oh so inviting. His eyes meet your gaze, appreciating your obedient state as he slightly tilts his head to make your body move.

You follow his silent order, going down on your knees right behind his back, cool fingertips carefully reaching out to lie on his tensed back.

The stark difference in temperature makes Geto hiss in annoyance, slightly flinching out of your reach as he glares over his shoulder. You are quick now to rub your hands together, mumbling your apologies before trying to touch him once again.

Small fingers soothe his skin, spoiling his muscles. You always start with his shoulders, using a sponge to have the warm water coat his exposed back and chest, massaging the well-trained area until his breathing calms down and little groans escape his throat.

Only then do you move on to kneel next to him, carefully admiring his relaxed features—he looks almost angelic. So calm, almost innocent.

Until his eyes meet yours and he holds out his hand to you. The exact hand he used to make you cum and that was tainted with your juices.

You focus on it, carefully massaging his fingers and ‘cleaning’ him further. "Good little doll..." Suguru breathes his praise out between his soft lips. It's usually the only compliment you receive, so you make sure to savour it.

You smile gently and finish up your care of his hand until he takes it out of your hold. He brushes your hair out of your face, leading his hand to reach around the back of your neck as you bend over the bathtub, nails digging painfully into your scalp while being pulled forward to be met with the bathwater.

You squeeze your eyes shut immediately, trying desperately to keep your lips sealed as you're pushed beneath the surface. Your nails grab onto the porcelain of the tub, weak muscles trying desperately to stop him from shoving you down further, but it's to no avail. He's much stronger than you'll ever be.

Geto lifts your head back up out of the water, and you suck the air back into your lungs—which quickly mixes with the bathwater as he dunks your head down again.

Your screaming is drowned by the transparent liquid all around you.

It becomes a loop—the pain of him tugging at your roots, being met with the cold air of the bathroom before he pushes you down again.

It becomes a loop—the pain of him tugging at your roots, the cold air of the bathroom meeting your skin before he pushes you down again. Your mind loses focus, your fight grows mellow until he pushes his erect cock between your lips. It jolts you back awake. Not only are you drowning in the water, but you also have his thick shaft infiltrating your mouth. Tears mix with the water, nails digging into his abs and thighs as your attempts to scream vibrate along his cock.

Geto groans. His eyes roll into their sockets as he completely relishes the feeling of your convulsing throat around his member—all while in the comfort of his bathtub. But he has to stop. Sadly, at some point, he remembers you’re not actually a doll. Your body grows slack, and the struggling of your throat diminishes.

Only then does he pull your head out of the water, letting your body slump over the edge of the tub as he slaps your cheeks until you wake up. Your head pounds as you choke up water; it almost feels like someone is ripping your lungs apart.

“Stupid toy…” Geto mumbles, already dragging your head down and forward again.

“No, no, please, not again!” you frantically plead, and he stops—stops right before the surface of the water meets the tip of your nose.

“Why not? I made you cum how you wanted to as well, didn’t I?” he analytically proclaims. “Now suck like I taught you.”

The sting of the water is maddening; only the stretch of his cock against the back of your mouth inflicts more pain upon your body as he guides you up and down with water infiltrating your lungs.

It all becomes a blur in the end, and it’s hard to tell what is real and what a bad dream when you wake up the next morning in your soft king-sized bed, dressed in one of his favourite baby dolls, and his strong arms around you.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[grimmweepers]

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃: OCT 1ST

— ♤ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Sebastian Michaelis x Female!Phantomhive reader

— ♤ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: reader is in her twenties, SFW but slightly suggestive, reader is ciel’s older sister who also has a pact with sebastian, reader wears a silk scarf around her neck to cover up her pact mark, confession, gothic, victorian english, forbidden love, power imbalance if you squint (masterxservant), timeline isn’t canon, calls you ‘my lady’, 2.7k wc

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

a/n: this piece is the soft opening for my kinktober event! it's SFW but worry not! the actual filth will come very very soon. enjoy the read! the title is named after this song

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: bound by duty and pact, sebastian has served you and ciel for years. but as forbidden desires grow, the line between lady and servant blurs. on a still night, away from the world's noise, your butler confronts you and you discover that love is both perilous and powerful.

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You never celebrate your birthday.

Your soul was traded long ago for a hand in retribution so now you'd prefer not to mark the passing of your limited years.

Each year was like another tally of how long it had been since the great fire, a stinging reminder of how long you've survived without your parents.

So while the rest of polite society makes birthdays an extravaganza with galas and banquets, you welcome another year by sending your staff on temporary leave and Ciel with them.

"Go into town and enjoy yourselves." 

This was non-negotiable but Ciel understood your reason better than anyone else. So off they went for their annual day of leisure—and bless the beating hearts of your servants for never questioning why you chose isolation as your way of celebrating. Distracting them with the best rooms at the local establishment was partially to blame.

When everything is said and done, the Phantomhive manor is always left sitting in a biting cold, allowing you to finally take in a fresh breath of solitude.

In the dead of night, the manor offered little light aside from the moon peaking through the windows, and with no maid or butler to tail you with a candelabra, your presence would only be known by the sound of your footsteps echoing in the halls. 

Each year on your birthday, you were no different from a ghost, only that you had a heartbeat.

You found yourself stopping at the ballroom entrance and after giving an almighty push to the wooden doors, they slowly groaned open.

Refined as it was, any semblance of glamour in this room disappeared when the doors shut behind you. The ballroom looked much smaller without its usual lighting; the shadows cascading from each corner made it haunting—almost derelict. Despite there being no party, you were still dressed for the occasion. 

Alone or not, you wouldn’t be caught dead looking poorly. 

Your pace remained slow as you strode toward the center, entertaining yourself with painfully accurate scenarios if you were hosting one of your usual gatherings. Poor Finnian would probably be running around, setting forget-me-nots to their respective arrangements; Baldroy would be cooking in the kitchen, trying his best not to light his dishes ablaze; Mey-Rin would be somewhere tripping over her own feet, and as for Sebastian…  Well, he’d be making sure it doesn’t get worse than that. As much as it pained you to praise Sebastian, he was always reliable even when faced with the toughest predicaments. Everything always seemed to run smoothly when he was around. 

This made you snort. 

Of course, Sebastian was reliable. His bustling duties are part of the contract and everyone would suffer if he were to breach it. 

Between the clicking sound of your shoes against the smooth hardwood, you thought about how many years had passed since creating your pact. Five years ago, you and your brother had nothing to lose except the one thing that made you humans—your souls. And even that was given up for him to be eternally bound to you.

The pact was purely transactional. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

At least, that’s what you’d been trying to convince yourself for the last year. You’ve been through enough adventures together to dull a weak heart. If he held back within the first few years to preserve your professional relationship, you could feel his restraint chipping away the longer you stayed together. 

Was it wishful thinking or was a demon truly fancying you?

While the butler occupied your train of thought, you hadn’t realized you stopped walking. You gave yourself a moment to brush away the last of your thoughts and remained in the centre of the floor. The silver moonlight nodded at you through the glass roof and with open arms, you suddenly spun in a complete circle, basking in the empty ballroom in all its glory. At that moment you felt so easy, so yourself, so—

Thump.

You snapped your head toward the sound, your heart racing only a little. It came from the staircase, but it was far too dark to see who caused it or what. All that ease you had just felt left as quickly as it came. 

“Who goes there?” You called into the void.

Another thump. Footsteps. 

You sucked in your breath, kicking yourself for not carrying at least a dagger. Oh well, you mentally shrugged. In cases like this, at least you had somebody to summon.

With no answer, the figure began to emerge from the darkness as it reached the foot of the staircase and what was revealed made you want to scream a string of curses.

That bloody tailcoat! 

You’d be able to recognise who that belonged to even if you wore an eyepatch like your damn brother. “Oh for God’s sake,” you mumbled under your breath.

“Forgive me if I startled you, my lady.”

“What the hell is going on? What are you doing here?! And who's with Ciel?" 

"May I suggest for you to calm down—"

"As I recall, I sent everybody on leave. That includes you.” 

With a gloved hand over his heart, Sebastian bowed earnestly, “Ciel is being taken care of. I understand your need for isolation but it’s not often good for your mental state, my lady. I thought I could provide you with some company even if you wish to remain stoic.”

“You’re going against an order.”

He approached you slowly as if his sudden presence wasn’t the only thing he had up his sleeves, “I know I am and I know you’re capable of punishment at a later time. I’ll be happy to accept it if that means you get to experience something other than loneliness and silence on your birthday.” With a hint of a smile on his lips, he glanced at the silk scarf you had neatly wrapped around your neck, “Should you feel uncomfortable, you have the power to stop me by force.”

“You’ve gotten quite bold lately, haven’t you?” You crossed your arms and sighed. “So what next? Do I need to walk you through my impressive list of things I do whenever I—”

“There’s no need,” Sebastian took his last step in front of you before the ballroom suddenly came to life. The moon still shone as your main source of light but as if a delicate veil had been lifted, soft, orchestral music rippled inside the hall. There was nobody else aside from the two of you but you felt as though an entire symphony was hiding in the shadows. Leave it to Sebastian to wield the pleasure of music as a weapon, especially when it was the one indulgence you could truly say you cherished. 

“I’m guessing this is your doing?”

He extended his hand as a subtle invitation, bowing as he did. 

“Guilty as charged, my lady.”

Slightly reluctant, you accepted his hand but not without question. “Are you trying to butter me up with a dance?”

“That depends on whether or not it’s working,” He answered as he pulled you into a gentle waltz. You both move with natural elegance, light on your feet while the music ebbs and flows, and the melody feels familiar to you like you’ve done this many times before. You’ve danced with a handful of Dukes and Barons but nobody has ever led you around a ballroom as gracefully as Sebastian. He whirled you in a full circle and then pulled you close to his chest. You huffed in response.

Sebastian resisted the urge to smirk, finding your flushed expression rather cute.

“I take it that you are displeased?” 

“No,” You dropped your shoulders, “But dancing with my butler wasn’t in my playing cards for tonight.”

“Yet here we are, waltzing in the ballroom,” he twirled you again before settling his hand around your waist, “Consider this a birthday present, my lady.”

You stared at Sebastian with confusion. He was the strangest person you’ve ever known. Despite him being the embodiment of somebody’s nightmare, you felt safe around him, but even more so when your eyes met. 

You hated it. 

“And why gift me something this year? What’s so different from previous years?” 

After all, he wasn’t always so stubborn.

He slid his hand to your lower back to gently dip you; as he reeled you back in, he held you closer than before, only stopping when your faces were inches apart. From here, he could smell a hint of your perfume and he could have sworn he felt your heartbeat. He hesitated for a moment as a tinge of guilt succumbs him, “Would you mind if I told you something… personal, my lady?”

You answered curtly with a nod.

“This year is different for two reasons. The first is that you’ve haunted my thoughts for quite some time now. And the second is that… you look especially beautiful tonight.”

Your feet had stopped shuffling at this point. You stood before him, ignoring that your heart had skipped a beat, “What are you trying to say?”

His eyes flickered over your face while his mind flicked over all the possible things to answer. Instead of responding to the question, he changed the subject slightly. 

“My Lady, have you ever been in love before?”

“I can’t say I have,” you blinked at him. “And what do you know about love, demon?”

You couldn’t help but assume that his version of love was wicked and cruel. You’ve seen him exploit the human condition more times than you could count. 

“I won’t pretend I’m an expert at love but in my long life, I could say I know things about it that you would hardly believe.” Sebastian smiled to himself, amused at the irony of being called a demon when these feelings were the most human they'd ever been. He traced small circles on your waist while shifting his other hand to the crook of your neck, never breaking his gaze as he freed the knot that kept your scarf in place. The scarf was discarded onto the floor but neither of you cared to look. “I’ve seen it in all forms and colours. Love is beautiful, despairing, and everything in between. Love can ruin everything you’ve ever built. It can be your biggest weakness or your greatest weapon. But more importantly, I know what someone looks like when they’re in love.” 

A brief silence followed as he allowed himself to take your hand once more and he could feel your grasp tighten so faintly when his lips hovered over your skin, “Pact or not, you have me wrapped around your little finger. But something is killing me. Would you like to guess what it is?” 

It was unbecoming of him but he kissed the back of your hand, leaving the pact mark on your exposed skin glowing — ultimately betraying every feeling you tried to suppress. You swallowed thickly before playing it off with a laugh.

“No. Enlighten me instead.”

“As you wish.”

Sebastian hummed as he began swaying you into a much slower version of a waltz, holding you so close you touched at the hip. He lifted your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his, but he was almost left entranced by how ethereal you looked with his mark on you. It wasn’t the first time seeing it but it was the first time he allowed himself to imagine the many other ways he could imprint you.

“Well, my lady, you have no idea how maddening it is to serve you, to watch over you, to constantly want to touch you, to hold you, while knowing that I cannot. It is pure agony. You could call that love, could you not?” 

You were barely able to continue speaking, the feelings you had also been hiding were threatening to bubble at the surface, “Well, I suppose you could.” While you rocked from side to side, he thumbed the skin around your jaw as if to ease whatever thought was wracking your brain.

Suddenly stepping away from you, Sebastian said, “Pardon my rudeness, but this is a reminder that my senses are far sharper than a human’s—” he then twirled you in three spins, and when you faced him for the final time, he caught you by the waist, “—so is it safe to assume you carry the same burden as I?”

This brought your waltz to a slow stop but the music continued to quietly play as if the ballroom became a whimsical world unto itself. As you got back on your feet, you rested your hands on his chest while your head hung low. It always frustrated you a great deal that he could read your soul like a book. All you could do was chuckle—earning a brow raise from the butler—but when you finally decided to look up at him, what remained of that chuckle was a rare and defeated smile. 

“You caught me,” you confessed.

In truth, he was surprised. He didn’t think your answer would come so easily, even letting out a quiet laugh of his own. Not counting your sadistic grins while you and your kin carried orders at the behest of the Queen, this was the first time he had seen you smile so genuinely in his presence—he couldn’t help but marvel at you. He found himself captivated by it but soon realised that despite your smile, you were just as flustered.

“I knew it,” Sebastian failed to prevent himself from squeezing your waist. No matter how many centuries had passed, humans always felt so fragile to him. You opened your mouth in a silent gasp but he leaned towards you, his voice a low whisper in your ear, “Now, I must tell you something else. However, you may deem it inappropriate.” 

A shiver went down your spine and even though you were aware you were alone, you quickly glanced around the room nonetheless, “As if this wasn’t already beyond inappropriate but be my guest.”

Sebastian carefully considered his next words but there was no way for him to conceal his desire any longer—he called your name but his voice was dripped with something you couldn’t put your finger on. “You’ve become so intoxicating, like sweet poison I willingly drink.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. All the words you had prepared died on your tongue immediately. Sebastian always prided himself on being a butler worth his salt, so in the years that you’ve been together, not once has he let formalities slip. You took a moment to think about the events that led you here and embarrassingly, the warmth you were already suffering with, deepened. He wasn’t addressing you as the Lady of the House nor as a butler. He was speaking to you as Sebastian Michaelis, a love-struck fiend.

His fingers brushed against your forehead gently, moving the hairs away from your eyes, studying you intently with a faint hint of wonder in his stare. He had always done his best to hide his attachment but you felt his arm around your waist growing more possessive,

“And seeing you smile—the sight of you is just mesmerising. It unravels me.”

You could feel the confusion and irritation and your mind melted down by his show of affection. “I wish the world would give me more to smile about,” you muttered in a heartbeat. 

As if your body had a mind of its own, you caressed his cheek and it was cold in comparison to your skin. 

“How damned am I to only smile in the presence of the wicked?” You continued. 

He closed his eyes and leaned into your hand—a low, contented hum slipped past his lips. If he could drift into a dreamless dream like this, he would. 

“Ah, but are you damned or destined?”

Under the cloak of night, you moved your hand against his lips, making his eyes flutter open in surprise.

What do you think, Sebastian? 

Now, it was his turn to smile. Sebastian began placing trails of hot, forbidden kisses down your fingers; you tasted soft and warm, drawing him in like a secret only the two of you shared. 

When he saw how all of the sharp edges and hard masks you used to hide behind were gone, he desired nothing more than to take you, hand in hand, towards a place with no promise of light. Despite it defying all conventions, Sebastian whispered with sincerity you had never heard from him before,

“A soul such as yours is so very tempting. Be it that you are doomed, I will enjoy burning with you to the fullest.”

a/n: thanks for reading! happy 1st of october!

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

networks: @pixelcafe-network @houseofsolisoccasum

dividers: @/astrumaur

[libingan]

— the wolf’s den. (2)

summary: after finding yourself lost in the forest, you accidentally stumble across a wolf’s den. unfortunately for you, his intentions are dark and possessive—he's chosen you to be his mate, dragging you into a nightmarish world where escape seems impossible.

cw: kidnapping, power imbalance, dubious content (readers in heat so like she’s irrational n shit), dark content, wolf hybrid! ghost x bunny hybrid! reader

a/n: i’m trying to write this shit as fast as i can because my classes start next week and i will be too tired to get anything done

part one | part three

days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. your life had settled into a monotonous routine, each day blending into the next. as simon’s mate, you had learned to adapt, to survive in this new reality. the initial terror and resistance had faded, replaced by a dull acceptance.

every morning began the same way. the sun would rise, casting soft light into the den. simon’s deep voice would rouse you from sleep, his commands starting the day. “get up, and make breakfast,” he’d say, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

you moved through the motions mechanically, your mind often drifting as you prepared meals, cleaned the den, and tended to the small garden outside. the work kept your hands busy, but your thoughts were a tangled mess of longing and resignation. you missed your old life, the freedom you once had, but you had learned to push those thoughts aside.

despite being simon’s mate, the wolf hybrid barely touched you. his presence was a constant, looming shadow, his eyes always watching. he rarely spoke beyond giving orders, his silence a heavy weight that pressed down on you. it was as if his gaze alone was enough to keep you in line, a reminder of your place.

simon’s wolf tail would twitch occasionally, his wolf ears perked up and alert. he exuded an air of dominance and control, his every movement calculated and purposeful. in contrast, your bunny ears would droop with resignation, your fluffy tail a stark reminder of your own vulnerability.

you would catch him staring at you often, his eyes tracking your every move. it was unnerving, but you had grown accustomed to it. you had learned to avoid his gaze, focusing on your tasks to keep your mind occupied. it was easier that way, easier to pretend that this was just another day.

he kept you busy with chores. “clean the den,” he’d say, and you’d scrub the floors until your hands were raw. “cook dinner,” he’d command, and you’d prepare meals with trembling hands. “tend to the garden,” he’d instruct, and you’d spend hours pulling weeds and planting seeds.

the days were long and exhausting, but you found a strange comfort in the routine. it was predictable, and in a twisted way, it gave you a sense of purpose. you had learned to find small moments of peace in the chaos, moments where you could lose yourself in the simple tasks and forget about the wolf who owned you.

one day, while simon was out hunting, you felt an unusual heat spreading through your body. it was a strange, overwhelming sensation, one you had never experienced before. your skin felt flushed, your thoughts clouded with a desperate need.

you realized with growing dread that you were going into heat. the intensity of it was unlike anything you had ever felt, a primal urge taking over your senses. you tried to ignore it, to focus on your chores, but it was impossible.

you retreated to a secluded corner of the den, hoping to find some relief. your hands roamed over your body, trying to satisfy the burning desire within you. your fingers found your clit, rubbing circles over it, but it wasn’t enough. the need was too great, the emptiness too profound.

you were lost in the haze of your heat when you heard the den’s door creak open. panic surged through you as you scrambled to cover yourself, but it was too late. simon stood in the doorway, his eyes dark and intense.

his presence filled the room, his scent overwhelming your senses. he took in the scene before him, his nose twitching as he scented the air. “what the fuck are you doing?” his voice was a low growl, filled with a dangerous edge.

you stammered, your mind a fog of confusion and desire. “i-i’m sorry, i couldn’t help it.”

simon’s eyes narrowed, his pupils dilating as he took a step closer. “in heat, are you?” he murmured, his voice laced with a predatory edge.

you shook your head, trying to cover yourself, but simon’s hands were quick and firm. he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head. “don’t lie to me,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “i can smell it.”

you whimpered, your body trembling under his intense gaze. “please, let me go.”

his eyes darkened, and he inhaled deeply, his own body reacting to your scent. “you need help, huh?” he repeated, his voice a rough whisper.

without warning, he crossed the distance between you, his powerful hands gripping your shoulders. he pulled you close, his breath hot against your skin. “i can help you with that,” he murmured, his voice filled with dark promise.

his touch sent a jolt of electricity through your body, the intensity of your heat amplifying every sensation. you tried to push him away, but your strength was no match for his. “no, please,” you whimpered, but your protest was weak, your body betraying your desperate need.

simon’s tail twitched, his wolf ears perked up with interest. he sniffed you, his nose trailing along your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. “you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice filled with raw desire.

his hands roamed over your body, exploring every inch with possessive intent. his touch was both rough and tender, a mix of dominance and strange affection. “let me take care of you,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear.

you moaned softly, the sound escaping your lips before you could stop it. the heat was overwhelming, driving you to the brink of madness. you needed him, needed his touch, his presence. “please,” you begged, your voice a desperate plea.

simon’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his tail swishing behind him. “that’s more like it,” he murmured. he pushed you down onto the bed, his hands firm but gentle. “spread your legs,” he commanded, and you obeyed without hesitation.

he knelt between your legs, his eyes locked onto yours. “look at you, so fucking needy,” he teased, his voice a low rumble. “you want me to help you, don’t you?”

you nodded, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. “yes, please, simon.”

he grinned, a predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine. “good girl,” he murmured, his hands spreading your legs wider. he leaned in, his breath hot against your inner thigh, and you shivered in anticipation.

“so wet,” he murmured, his fingers trailing through your slick folds. “you’re ready for me, aren’t you?”

you moaned, your body arching towards his touch. “yes, please, i need you.”

simon’s eyes darkened with desire, and he positioned himself at your entrance. “you’re mine,” he growled, his voice filled with possessive intent. “and i’m going to make sure you know it.”

he leaned down, his tongue flicking out to taste you. the sensation was electric, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. you moaned, your hands gripping the sheets as he licked and sucked at your clit, his fingers teasing your entrance.

“s-simon,” you whimpered, your body trembling with need. he grinned against you, his tongue delving deeper, his fingers finally pushing inside. the combination was overwhelming, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

“you like that, don’t you?” he murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating through you. “you like it when i touch you.”

“yes, oh god, yes,” you cried, your body shaking with pleasure. he added another finger, stretching you, preparing you for him.

he took his time, bringing you to the edge again and again, only to pull back at the last moment. it was torture, but it was perfect. you needed him, needed his touch, his presence.

finally, when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he pulled away. you whimpered at the loss, but he quickly positioned himself over you, his cock hard and ready. “you’re mine,” he growled, his eyes locked onto yours. “and i’m going to fuck you so hard, everyone will know it.”

he pushed into you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you completely. you cried out, the sensation overwhelming, but it was exactly what you needed. he set a brutal pace, his movements rough and demanding, but it was perfect.

“simon, oh god,” you moaned, your body trembling with pleasure. he gripped your hips, pulling you closer with each thrust, his growls filling the room.

“you like that, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low, sensual growl. “you like being fucked by me.”

“yes, oh god, yes,” you cried, your nails digging into his back. he grinned, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“good girl,” he whispered, his thrusts becoming even more intense. “you’re mine, and i’m never letting you go.”

he drove you to the edge, his movements relentless. every thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, your mind lost in the haze of your heat and his overwhelming presence.

"please, simon," you whimpered, your voice a desperate plea. "i need more."

he grinned, a predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine. "you want more, huh?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear. "i'll give you more."

his thrusts became even more forceful, his hips slamming against yours with a brutal intensity. you cried out, the pleasure almost too much to bear, but you couldn't get enough. you needed him, needed every touch, every thrust.

"simon, please," you begged, your voice trembling with desperation. "i need you to breed me. fill me with your pups."

his eyes darkened with desire, his pupils dilating as he took in your words. "you want me to breed you?" he growled, his voice filled with raw need. "you want me to fill you with my pups?"

you nodded, tears of frustration and need streaming down your face. "yes, please, i need it."

he gripped your hips even tighter, his claws digging into your skin. "then beg for it," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "beg for me to breed you."

"please, simon," you sobbed, your body trembling with need. "please breed me. fill me with your pups. i need it so badly.

he growled, a deep, primal sound that sent shivers down your spine. "that's right," he murmured, his thrusts becoming even more intense. "you're mine, and i'm going to fill you with my pups."

his words sent a wave of pleasure through you, your body responding to his every touch, every thrust. you could feel yourself nearing the edge, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable intensity.

"who do you belong to?" he growled, his hands gripping your bunny ears and pulling them slightly, his eyes locked onto yours.

"you, simon," you gasped, your body arching towards him. "i belong to you."

"who owns you?" he demanded, his voice rough and commanding.

"you do," you cried, your voice a desperate plea. "you own me, simon."

he grinned, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "that's right," he growled, his thrusts becoming even more powerful. "you're mine, and i'm never letting you go."

with a final, powerful thrust, he drove you over the edge, the pleasure crashing over you like a wave. you cried out, your body trembling with the intensity of your release, your mind lost in the overwhelming sensation.

simon followed moments later, his own release powerful and consuming. he growled, his body tensing as he filled you with his seed, the sensation sending shivers through your already trembling form.

he held you close, his breath hot against your skin, his presence a comforting weight. "you're mine," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied growl. "and i'm going to make sure you know it every single day."

you clung to him, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your release. you knew that this was your life now, and while a part of you longed for your old freedom, another part of you found a strange comfort in simon's possessive embrace. you were his, and he was never going to let you go.

[skele-bunny]

NOO THE POLL IS WRONG PLEASE POST THE ZEPHRIT PLEASEE :((!!!! PLEASE PLEASE

OH MY GOSH OKAY 😭 THERES LIKE.. SO MANY OF YOU IN MY INBOX RN. AND MY DMS. AND WKKWKSJ???!!! (Small tag for @sister-nyx , @everybodyshusband , @hypnoneghoul , and @artificialmoth I know y'all were also interested) is this impractical? Ye. But it's fun to me

College AU — Zephrit

Warning: It's professor/student in this but everyone is consenting adults

Cw: Internalized Homophobia, Pet Play, Master/Pet dynamic, Power Imbalance

Ifrit at college on a sports scholarship, but he's recommended to have extra credits to keep his GPA up, so he takes a German language class. Mr. Zephyr Luft, this cold, no nonsense professor who has a reputation for kicking people out even for little things. So take Ifrit who's now suddenly the bane of their existence.

Snarky comments, not doing any work always with the excuse of "This is only extra. I don't need this course." And he's gotten so many academic write ups, even to the point of Mr. Luft talking to the sports director. Nothing. So, they take it into their own hands. Requesting Ifrit to stay after class one day, and he obviously automatically assumes he'll be getting "the talk" of why it's important to do work and that he'll be getting another deduction.

Zephyr waits until the final student closes their door before beckoning Ifrit near, getting up and walking around with their cane as they do, indeed, babble about how Ifrit will be getting a deduction. But also...

"I can tell you were never properly raised, Gör. Such a nasty tongue you own."

"Whatever you say, old man."

There's a sigh before Ifrit can only gasp as a hard wack goes to his ass, turning around and seeing Zeph slowly put their cane back and stare.

"Did you just—?!"

"Well, obviously. Do you feel like speaking with manners yet?"

Ifrit just scoffs, "I'll have your job you fucking pervert."

A simple shrug. "Then I guess I need to make my worthwhile."

Now, Ifrit's strong. Works out a lot. He's taller than them! So he doesn't understand how this older, shorter person that relies on mobility aids had the ability to slam him back over the desk and keep him pinned while caning his ass more and more.

Finally had enough and letting Ifrit drop, face a dark red, fists clenched. Zephyr is just as calm as ever, not even paying attention to Ifrit anymore as they return to their desk and mumble that administration is in a different building upstairs. Ifrit sniffles a bit before quickly getting up, grabbing his bag, and high tailing it out of there.

He's so fucking humiliated! He's a grown ass man who could've overpowered them! His own damn professor!! Who do they think they are?! Slams out of the building and to his car, wincing as he sits down and stares at the admin building Zephyr mentioned. He has all reason to go there. To report what was done to him... But... That would mean they'd have to see. They'd have to know that Ifrit was too weak and too much of a pussy to defend himself from some old guy. Swallows his shame and instead, just goes home early. Looking at his bruised ass in the mirror, cane welts very obvious.

It's in the shower where he massages the pain, his dick slowly getting hard and he just chalks it up to the water. Nothing else. Nothing else is in his mind as he released down the shower drain. Don't realize the pattern as every time he has Mr. Luft's class the rest of the week how he'll massage and jerk off again. And again. The memories of being bent over and used and... And... And that cold stare that he starts imagining watching him, demanding perfect satisfaction as Ifrit masturbates in front of them. Then slowly changing to that cane dragging between his thighs and making him rut against it.

He feels sick the first time he imagines one of his one-night stands as that same old asshole.

Staring at himself in the mirror, turmoil bubbling. He's not gay. He's never been gay. He loves women and pussy and tits, and so much. This must be his nerves, is all. Some kinda trauma thing maybe? But even still, he notices how his attraction has slowly shifted. They must be the exception. Attracted to a single amab body, that's it. That's all it is. But he craves it. Wants to feel that helpless again. Wants to feel his body pinned down and where he's not the one in control...

And Mr. Luft can do that.

Packs so slowly one day after class, waits until it's just them when he approaches their desk. Zephyr humming and asking if Ifrit's reported them yet.

"No... I just, uh," There's shame and embarrassment Zephyr instantly picks up on. "Would you... Would you do that again? To me?"

"Spank you?"

"Yeah..."

They stare at each other before Zephyr just laughs a bit, worsening Ifrit's shame. But, "You poor thing. Just a stray dog looking for warmth, aren't you?"

He just nods, keeping his eyes down but can see Zephyr lean back in their chair. "No need to whine, hund. I can take you home with me if you'd like. Give you what you want."

Ifrit nods, and the rest is history.

Given directions to Zephyr's home after classes are finished, Ifrit knocking with hesitation. Brought in and led to the bathroom, listening to Zephyr make demands of how Ifrit is to shower, to attempt to finger himself for the first time, and lay on Zeph's bed nude. He does as he's told, albeit questioning himself more and more. This is some freaky shit he's getting into, isn't it?

But oh... Oh it's worth it. Explained how it's not Mr. Luft in the bedroom, only Zephyr or even Master. That he must say thank you to everything given to him, even punishments. He didn't realize how much he missed that cane against his ass now with hands as well once they start. Who gets his ass eaten for the first time and cums from it. Sucks cock and fingers Zeph for them to ride him. The degradation and that sharpness on their tongue like always. Sometimes speaking it in German, Ifrit can't understand, but he can feel the tone and just whines from it.

He stays over, tucked into Zephyr's arm as they come down from their bliss. More internalized hatred bubbling in his mind but it always seems to mute when he focuses on Zephyr's heartbeat. How he hates having to leave, but Zeph assures that all Ifrit has to do is ask and their home is open to stray dogs.

Ifrit takes that offer.

Finding himself on his knees just about every other day for them, listening to commands and being dominated. Taking on his role of a dog, desperate for that love and care in the form of heavy hands and instructions. Finally, a simple collar around his neck. So many new things he's exposed to and he loves each and every one of them. How German lessons follow into the home, Ifrit bent over and spanked with either a ruler or their cane for every thing he mispronounces.

Finds himself with no interest in the opposite gender as he's come to terms of what he's attracted to, just how much Zephyr has opened his mind and what he enjoys. Learning so much about himself in the process. Not only does his grade drastically improve, but so does his mental health. Finds more confidence, a new release as he doesn't have to think with Zephyr. Just has to be a good dog and listen to what he's told to do. What's he's trained to do.

Always lingering in their classroom, spending lunches with them and his free time. Their relationship developing so much they officially start dating privately, and to the point Ifrit moves in with them out of his dingy apartment. They keep everything quiet, out of respect for each other and also Zephyr's job. Everyone thinks they finally had a meet God moment, as they've become different people basically. Even Zeph watching some of Ifrit's games and practices, that cold stare no longer being of distain but craving.

Just a loyal dog as ever.

[venusandsaturnsrings]

as your universities beyond dedicated humanities professor, boothill easily charms all students with his enthusiastic demeanour and charming personality. he’s effortlessly engaging and you wouldn’t be able to count all of your peers that had little crushes on him with ten hands. you feel a certain type of jealousy reserved only for lovers but with the status of merely another face in his class. it’s frustrating, almost, but you rationalize how the relationship wouldn’t pan out with him being your teacher; he teaches all about ethics after all.

it feels almost comical when you stumble up to his office door hugely sleep deprived and desperate for help on your most recent assignment. sometimes his rambling was spectacular for making you understand but other times it only served to confuse you further thus, you were nervously knocking with heat blooming on your skin. his voice rang out a curt ‘doors open, c’mon in,’ and he sounded almost exasperated at being bothered. briefly you felt guilty but there was no running away now. you carefully turned the knob and inside you saw boothill himself with his legs atop his desk and his glasses pushed up and pinning his hair away from his handsome face. stumbling out an apology, you practically begged for help shifting side to side under his ever piercing gaze. he chuckled lightly, asked for you to close and lock the door, and beckoned you closer.

standing in front of him and playing with the hem of your skirt, you felt utterly exposed. boothill let his eyes take you in fully like some sort of judge at the gates of heaven before nodding.

“i can offer ya some help, ‘course. couldn’t ever deny a cute lil thing like you but,” he paused and you thought naturally this would come with some sort of annoying stipulation, “i need ya to help me out in return with the promise of keepin’ it a secret till yer outta my class.” you blinked half a dozen times, mind trying to keep up and process if he was really asking for what your mind was hoping he was. stuttering out some form of question you sought for an answer on what exactly he was implying and he grinned. “pretty sure ya understand, dollface. a man’s got his needs, and a cute spoon of sugar like ya fits my tastes perfectly.” nodding nervously you prepared yourself for what felt like a dream come true.

not long later, you were sat on his lap panting with his cock burried to the hilt inside your warm and sopping cunt. it was hard to think let alone figure out the answers to each of the purposefully convoluted questions boothill proposed but with large hands groping your chest and hips, ever braincell was fried. yet he most certainly wouldn’t be letting you tip over the edge till every answer was perfect.

[screamingcrows]

Start Carvin' Darlin' - Dottore x f!reader

Note: I've never suffered this much anguish just to make a single bad pun. I do want to write their first encounter buuut we'll see if it ever happens. Bear with me, I know it makes little sense. By all that is important- please heed the tags.

~7k words

Tags: dead dove do not eat, nsfw, dark content, fem!reader, cannibalism adjacent thoughts, manipulation, coercion, noncon, drugging, medical malpractice, power imbalance, age gap, somnophilia, sexualised dissection, fingering, needles, blood, gore, dacryphilia?, drowning, no aftercare, thoughts of death, thoughts of murder, brief choking, no pleasure for reader, Il Dottore centric MINORS DNI - I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH

There were few things, and even fewer people, Dottore would consider faithful companions. The world had made clear that nothing could be trusted and any gesture of kindness was bound to come at a price. The rest were blind to their perils. After all, so long as it was woven tight enough, even a tapestry of lies would be beautiful.

Hunger was different in that regard. Its claws had always nestled deep within his flesh, ripping through muscle and sinew to carve out a space for itself. He'd known every flavor it had to offer, from light tingles creeping down his spine to the dagger that had been lodged and twisted between his ribs, unbearable when he'd dragged himself through the scorching dunes that refused to be a home.

His eyes flickered to the scalpel held loosely in his gloved hand, the light reflected in the metal devoid of warmth. There was no real reason to wear them, the broken husk atop his table served no threat, and contamination from himself was a wholly irrelevant concern to the present analysis.

Force of habit was what he reasoned, the motion of putting them on coming almost as naturally as shushing the commotion in his, their, mind. There had been quite enough of that lately, only worsened by his own souring mood. Cutting the link off for the day would be best for them all.

That torment and the hunger accompanying it was but a faint memory now. Much more vivid were the tendrils that had coiled around his gut so long ago and punctured the fragile organ, leaving holes that would never be filled no matter the knowledge he devoured.

Every form of craving was a base need that Dottore had long since catalogued and archived in the back of his mind, giving him control whenever they surfaced. Desires were a potent tool when wielded right, something to use and then push away, a drive he'd discovered far more difficult to replicate mechanically.

What good was fear of decay to something that had never truly been alive?

It wasn't before you entered his life that Dottore understood what it meant to be truly starved. Four weeks. That was how long you'd been gone, a speck of dust compared to his solitary existence. It would likely be another two before you returned. Living as a famished man had been all too easy before the taste of sunsettia lingered on his tongue in the dead of night, the sweet fragrance in the air cloying despite every window letting in the frigid Snezhnayan air.

Ichor poured forth from the incision, rich in color as it stained everything in its path. Light reflected across the surface of the syrupy liquid, creating millions of constellations one second and replacing them the next. How would it feel on his tongue? Look running down your throat? It enveloped his fingers in a welcoming embrace, spilling over the edges as it made way for curious probing.

Crimson eyes refocused under the mask, shattered remnants of crystalline mimicry laying separated from the sharp casing. Rarely did a delusion crack. Even in death, the poor thing still clutched it with fervor. Each delusion was a testament to progress, every shard a strict reminder to never grow complacent. In time, he'd examine the shards for impurities, but for now, the cold flesh bearing the consequences was his priority.

Selfishness ingrained after hatred burning too brightly, his recklessness had long since settled into carefully calculated moves. Still, the temptation of your flesh had been too much. By no means were he a weak man, yet the promise of warmth in the otherwise cold halls had caught him unaware.

It's lungs were expanding almost desperately to accommodate the growing pressure of death upon the air. That was another faithful companion, silent and ever watchful, no doubt waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. The ashen skin was beautiful and had he known no better, it would've seemed obvious to write off the limbs as carved from stone. But there was no reasonable way to make that assumption, not with how the remaining muscle still moved under his touch. How it stretched when tugged. As tenderly as a lover, the sharp metal severed a piece to call it's own.

It hung from his palm, no longer part of anything that could have held importance, the tempting pink that was so familiar tainted by a vulgar discoloration, no doubt caused by the elemental energies it had been forced to absorb.

It bordered on obsession with how his thoughts would always circle back to you. He'd seen that color in the bruises he left on your body, in the plums you so enjoyed, pearly whites ripping through the skin and piercing the soft flesh underneath. You were always messy, with juices running down your chin while you perched so prettily on the cold metal tables of his workshop, nodding along to anything that left his lips. His eyes focused on a single drop running down his arm, deceptively anonymous in origin if seen in isolation, it might be a believable substitute for licking sweet nectar from your lips. He wondered if you were still as sweet as your favorite fruit. If it would sate the longing that gnawed at his insides the same as your presence did.

"Lord Harbinger? I- please excuse my intrusion, I'd been led to believe you weren't otherwise occupied."

You'd come to him as a wide eyed recruit, having had the misfortune of being made a cog in their machine. Such had become the fate of most, ironic that all they would see accomplished in their lifetime was trading who held the reins of their suffering. His wooden doors had creaked on their hinges as you tried to be discreet, trembling and clumsy with the salute, clearly still trying to come to terms with this new fate. You were everything he'd despised; weak, helpless, naïve, and so willing to throw yourself at whatever would have you and keep you safe. It fed something selfish.

"I am always busy. Quit wasting my time and state your purpose."

"I'm supposed to report for a health examination before they finalize the recruitment…"

Under normal circumstances, he'd have punished a disturbance like that, especially when paired with such ignorance. A medical exam. That was what you inquired about, and while he knew it to be true that every acquired asset must be examined, it was laughable that you'd fallen victim to some superiors directing you to his space.

Dottore had been in a good mood, finding himself willing to entertain the misunderstanding, if nothing else, it had provided a good distraction from the failures that had haunted him. Not even an hour after you'd left had he requested your transfer to his command, deeming you suitable for a few impending projects.

There was nothing sentimental left in him, all that had been forsaken, turned to dust when he broke himself into pieces. That was the truth as he willed it.

Another chunk of red left the body on his table, nimble fingers peeling back a layer of epithelia to trace the vessels that permeated it. They too had been contaminated, their walls glittering preciously in the sharp light. Steady hands held a syringe filled with water, letting it perfuse the artery before he gingerly collected it. A sample of blood for purification would be necessary as well. A pity the body had been left long enough that tracking the spread of energy would be useless through the crimson liquid, tissue damage would be the most reliant evidence.

Nothing remained of his past self, the parts that still clung to a desire for belonging, not satisfied by only the unity of ambition. It had been your eyes that revived it, looking upon him as if he held the sun in his palm and brought forth the dawn. As if he held all the secrets that would bring salvation.

Undoubtedly, you were one of the healthiest subjects to find themselves on his tables. And that was the justification he'd used that first time his hands had roamed the expanse of your skin, checking for any deformities and writing down scribbles on a sheet of parchment. It was both to placate your nervous mind, betrayed by the wobble in your lips and fidgeting hands, and to record your initial state, in case an opportunity to bring you back regularly and monitor any changes presented itself.

His fingers pushed inside, pliant flesh parting around his digits and swallowing them whole. It was a mesmerizing sight, his free hand twitching briefly before mindlessly wandering to unclasp his mask, as if the removal of it somehow made the wetness now coating his fingers glisten all the more. A shuddering breath passed his lips, forced out by the growing pressure in his chest as he remained unable to pry away his eyes. How utterly beautiful a sight it was. Unable to hold back, his fingers spread out to better stretch the opening, viscous liquid slowly oozing out as he engaged his other hand.

"a-ah I don't think that-"

"Good, keep it that way, there's no need for you to think. The more you squirm around, the longer this will take. Although, from the sounds you're making, it almost seems as though you are enjoying yourself?"

"No I'm.. Hurts.."

"Relax for me then."

Dottore had wondered since that day whether you were truly that clueless, or if you'd excuse yourself with the anxiety he'd seen choke your thoughts so often since. While he could grant you the benefit of doubt concerning the implications of his title, surely you'd know that a Harbinger had far more important obligations?

Entertaining whims had a habit of bringing more trouble than the brief euphoria indulgence could ever warrant. That had been his first mistake pertaining to you.

A flick of his wrist and the liver was easily removed, threads of adipose tissue clinging to the engorged mass as if unity would somehow save it. How tragically still it all was, the clockwork driving it forward had long since ceased operating, leaving only obsolete parts in the wake. The liver had been discolored, electro particles having seeped into the matter, it was made even more noticeable by the crisp white fabric it came to lay on. One of the segments could prepare biopsies from it, check if the energies had disrupted or otherwise changed the structures.

They already had an understanding of elemental overloading in organic matter, but it was a rare chance to observe internal damages caused by high loads over a short time rather than the prolonged use cases of their regular agents. Dottore had come to understand that no matter his insistence and want for knowledge, the soldiers wouldn't carry their dead with them, and he hardly had time to waste collecting material himself, no version of him did. Not with how close they were to their objective.

You had understood his desires and promised to try. The distaste had been palpable in the slight twitch of your eyes and wrinkled nose. It was the desire to try that fed his hunger. The silent promise of wanting not to understand, for how could you ever, but believing when he said the benefits were worth the hassle.

That he was worth the hassle.

Ah, how lovely you were. Keening moans and gasps of his name feeding into his budding obsession. The sounds had been enough to distract him from the churning feeling in his gut, barely able to handle how warm your insides had been, how tightly you squeezed his fingers. The feeling reminded him of reaching into a bed of roses, thorns puncturing his being and forcing his breath heavier.

It had been nothing but slow, languid movements, meant to explore and not fulfil, the sweet pleas that left your lips were simply a tacked on bonus. Dottore could only hope that you were left aching and wanting far more than him and that you hadn't seen how his cock had strained against the front of his pants, throbbing in tandem with your mewls. It was unbefitting.

"Two doors down the hall, on your right. You should fix your attire, it wouldn't do for a recruit to look as disheveled as that on their first day."

"I will, Lord Harbinger, and thank you… Did you fill out a form or something I should bring?"

"Consider this a preliminary inspection, the actual one will be done by a physician two doors down the hall."

How unfortunate that those The Mayor promised a better future were also the ones who would never see it come to fruition. They gave their lives, some more willingly than others, for a reward they could never reap. It had already caused a disease to run through Snezhnaya's people, unrest and distrust filling the veins of their nation instead of the wealth and prosperity they'd been assured would come. Dottore had found it most useful in handling you, a little taste of false certainty accompanied by the promise of power to protect yourself. Your gaze had rested upon him with nothing but devotion.

Another chunk left the body on his table, almost tossed aside without the faintest hint of grandeur, the heart was of no use to them This was far from his preferred medium, more durable constructions would always be at the forefront of his interest, yet there was still appreciation behind his mask at the delicacy. It had stopped the moment a flash of electro singed the nerves. He briefly wondered how its now blighted lifeblood would feel atop his tongue, would it prickle? Burn the roof of his mouth?

How he longed to taste yours again, feeling the tension in his jaw at the memory of biting a little too hard, that's what he'd called it anyway, an accident. In truth, he would not hesitate to drain your blood in seconds, the thought of your reliance on something apart from him made a feeling better left unidentified carve a path through his lungs, leaving the structures to collapse without air.

Every time his hands had touched you, tears had been rolling down your cheeks. How long before you learned that compliance was the logical path, that he wanted to gag every time his hands were forced to harm you?

Threats of missions far above your qualifications kept you in line for the most part, pliant enough that the restraints kept for livelier subjects rarely saw use.

Despite his best efforts to keep everything under wraps, Tartaglia had grinned brightly, not a care in the world when he'd approached, having the gall to simply barge in, to inquire about what promising new people he'd taken on. 'It had barely been a week' was what he argued, commenting how surely you must be something special to rouse The Doctor's interest so. Any reaction to his taunts would simply play into the ginger's hands, a game he was always surprised the young man knew how to play.

Something wet slid down his wrist, immediately drawing his attention back as he pulled his hands from the bloody mess. His lips curved downward, observing exactly where the edge of his glove had been pushed down, leaving the marred skin beneath vulnerable. With a huff, Dottore stepped away and discarded the gloves, letting cool water rinse away the icky feeling now writhing under his skin.

"Come now, Doc, why won't you let me have a friendly spar with you newest acquisition? It's so rare for you to take a special interest in anyone, surely you can understand why I'm curious?"

"That is exactly why. She shows promise, and I cannot have you breaking her prematurely."

"That's a promise then! When the time is right!"

"Get out, Tartaglia."

"I heard she's been coming in for regular 'inspections', you have to admit, that sounds a little unsavory. Does she actually think you're a real physician? Oh I know, tell her you studied medi-sin."

"That was an order. Out, now."

The water in Snezhnaya had an edge to it, as if pieces of glass were contained within. It left one feeling raw and aching despite no physical proof persisting. If it did, his hands would've been torn open days ago. There had been too many small mishaps lately, too many times he'd needed to cleanse himself after his mind had wandered. Despite how clearly the words echoed in his mind, no part of him would admit to their truth.

You'd done this to him. You'd instilled in him a weakness, a beast that wouldn't let him rest when you were gone.

A soft knock followed by the click of a lock behind him cleared his head in a flash, clean gloves swiftly tugged into place with newfound anticipation bubbling under his ribs. None of his segments knocked. No one else had a key. His body remained still, awaiting an announcement from the intruder, willing patience to persist even if the idea of feeling your skin under his uncovered palm was clawing at his muscles to move them.

"Doctor, I don't feel so good," weak and pitiful was the voice that reached his ears, it should've made him recoil.

Instead, Dottore found himself struggling to keep his movements languid, the image of a predator barely conserved in the slow turn of his head. He had no doubt you'd be scared if you could see how his eyes lingered upon your silhouette.

"You're making a bad habit of returning in a state of disrepair, there is only so much I can do to keep you patched together. Disrobe while I clear a table."

It would be a shame to discard the rest of the opened body already, there were still so many secrets to be pried from its cold grasp. Perhaps he could get you to-

No.

You would adamantly refuse, already he could sense the unease rolling off of you in waves at the putrid stench of death. Instead, the remains were wrapped tightly and brought to an adjacent room, the air misty from the cryo applicator installed inside, ensuring it could rest unaffected by decay while he tended the living.

A chuckle passed his lips upon seeing the way you were eyeing the metal surface as if it'd dissolve skin and bone. The sound alone was enough to stir your body, movements stiff as you sat on the edge. Such obedience was an admirable trait, one that would make the investment well worth it when he would one day enhance your form. He would. That's what he had to tell himself, even if the thought of peeling back your skin and rewiring everything inside was tied so intimately with an odd sense of loss.

"Finally…" his words had no real bite, only mild impatience.

Still, you hid yourself from his gaze, shoulders slumped and arms wrapped around your chest. As if he hadn't seen it all already. Dottore let himself take a moment to simply rake his eyes down the shapes constituting your body, careful to let none of the flames eating away at his insides show. Would you be able to discern it in his eyes should he discard the mask? Light fingers traced down the mock beak, briefly contemplating if he should let you try, it would be nothing but torture no matter what.

Being able to put a monstrous form to everything you'd heard about him, everything he'd done to you, it coiled in the pit of his stomach and upheaved anything on its way. He would never admit to being afraid, but the thought of being regarded with repulsion by you sent a shiver down his spine.

The injuries you'd sustained were minor, shallow and located at safe distances from anything vital. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to play a little, the table had already been cleared and he might as well take the break. Lips set in a scowl, his hands found your shoulders and pushed you back, already relishing in how perfectly the curvature fit against him, how little resistance there was in the movement. Made for him. That's what he would make of you. Scarlet lines had been drawn along your skin, urging his fingers to trail along the wetness.

"Do explain what, precisely, led to you looking like this," he kept his voice frigid for now, knowing how much more responsive the thought of having upset him made you.

"We were on our way back from taking care of-"

"I'm aware of your assignment, do not forget who signs off on your outings, give me the specifics."

A curious finger brushed over your hardened nipple, hearing the words catching in your throat.

"Treasure hoarders. I failed to block a strike and-" your body tensed as it wrung out the words.

"You failed to block a strike from such vermin?" He tutted, hand squeezing a little tighter around the soft flesh of your chest, seeing it spill out between his fingers, "That hardly warrants returning all cut and bruised, clearly, you lack the perseverance I thought I'd observed in you. Soon enough, you'll be nothing but nutrients for the wayside flora, is that what you'd like?"

Dottore wanted to laugh at your pitiful expression, a kicked puppy laying at his feet and wordlessly pleading for forgiveness, unknowing that it had already been granted. It was deliberate that you were never sent away far or for long, but there was no reason for you to know. Fear fostered obedience and your obedience was always pleasant, speeding up the process of cleaning the wounds you'd sustained with minimal squirming.

That didn't mean one hand wasn't constantly splayed over your sternum, pressing down to keep your body pinned. Already, a faint buzz was crawling along his bloodstream, months of conditioning catching up in the most frustrating manner as the front of his pants tightened. He had to swallow hard, forcing his fingers to relax before he left bruises. How would it look, he mused, if his nails could dig into your flesh? At the mere thought of those red crescent, a wave of heat washed over his body, accompanied by images of what other marks he could leave upon the canvas of your body.

Could he replicate and improve how pliant your thighs were under his grasp, would new vocal cords make sweeter sounds, added nerve endings would no doubt make for interesting results, if your muscles were synthetic the force they could exert would be greater meaning-

Not yet.

Dottore willed his focus to return, threading a needle as his disinterested voice rang out in the otherwise silent room.

"Do I need to strap you down?"

There was no need to look, knowing you were already oh so bravely shaking your head. An amused smile graced his lips upon seeing your teeth sink into the dirty uniform. Such foresight deserved praise, a small nod of his head accompanied by a finger rubbing along your collarbone in an almost soothing motion.

Having done it countless times before, the needle went effortlessly through your skin, thread pulling the flesh tightly together whenever he tugged. A hand kept returning to your no doubt soft locks of hair, carding through it and pushing back the urge to give a tug. The few tears that had fallen were swiftly brushed away by his fingers, the taste almost cloying upon his tongue.

Dottore sighed softly, tapping your side to get your attention back to the present, seeing your glassy eyes and the small shivers that ran down your body. He could already smell your arousal in the air, the scent growing in strength every time your hips shifted.

"That's it for now," his hand skimmed along your bare stomach, ending atop your sternum and keeping you down, "however, some of the lacerations appear to be in early stages of infection."

How he'd missed the little hitch of your breath, the stutter of your heart underneath his hand. Unceremoniously, Dottore put more weight into the hand, feeling your pulse echo throughout his own body and letting every beat slowly fill the gaping pit beneath his ribs with hollow promises.

There was no infection, of course, but he needed something to placate you before an injection. And the sedative would be invaluable. After weeks of being famished, there was no guarantee your comfort would be at the front of his mind, and it was so much more pleasant when you didn't struggle. Last time had bitterly taught him as much.

"But you can make me okay, right?" There was a sweet tremble to your voice, always so scared of death.

"The mere question is an insult to my abilities," he practically purred, excitement bubbling as his chosen objective for the day moved closer, "it'll just be a little prick and then you're safe. Now, sit up for me."

He'd already turned around, hands aching to return as he rummaged through a few drawers, eventually pulling out both a vial and syringe. Your body came into view reflected in the clear liquid, barely having sat up and already exploring the stitches.

All it for your eyes to lock on the syringe was two taps to the glass, unease so plainly written across your face while he pressed the plunger to clear excess air trapped inside.

His hand encircled your arm, tugging upwards and tutting at the grime that clung to you. With the syringe between his teeth, he wiped the area down, satisfaction flooding his system when goosebumps spread. It had been so long since he'd had you properly.

"There. Now, you need to stay here a little so I can ensure that there are no immediate adverse effects. The blanket is in the usual spot."

It would have been far more practical for you to put the uniform back on, but Dottore trusted that you'd follow his directions regardless and without fuss. When he caught the rattling of metal buckles, he wanted to laugh at your naivety, were you truly not accustomed enough by now to know what he wanted?

"I said; the blanket is in its usual spot," the icy sneer left his lips without a second thought, and oh how beautiful your widening eyes were.

"Well, I know, but it was just-" your voice was already a pitch higher, the irrational fear further irking him.

"Should I consider this insubordination?"

Already, Dottore had crossed the distance and wrapped a large hand around your jaw. It was no secret what happened to cross subordinates. He was well aware that your little slip hardly warranted this reaction, but it was difficult to hold back when the urge to sink his nails into your skin screamed and begged, fighting to drown out every other thought.

"N-no, please…"

It would be all too easy to squeeze a little tighter, hear the crack of your mandible as it would threaten to give out. His fingers stretched to move further up, pressing against the condylar processes, feeling around the joint as images of you with your jaw agape crashed over him.

Dottore knew how little force it took to break. And how a replacement could be crafted and implanted in less than a day, stronger and sturdier than what occupied the space now.

"Remember your place, and be thankful I don't leave you to wilt," the words were spat out with more disdain than anticipated, his fingers giving a last wanton squeeze before releasing your jaw.

With a small scoff, Dottore returned to one of the workbenches that lined the walls, feigning disinterest as his hands automatically began tinkering with the closest contraption, barely willing to divide enough attention to ensure it wasn't something that required further protective equipment for handling. Of course you'd know there were proper medics within the ranks, the most accessible ones located a few rooms away, but they couldn't offer what he did, and the reassurance that you always came back for him to lick your wounds with his barbed tongue, it was enough to pacify any frustrations with your brief moments of hesitation.

Five minutes of pretending to be distracted and Dottore found himself a little impatient.

Ten minutes and it had built to irritation, glassware scraping along the surfaces as he pushed it around, mindlessly 'reorganizing'.

By fifteen something would have been thrown were he a lesser being.

Sweet relief came at the quiet sound of your voice shattering the thick air, the words slurred as if you couldn't quite make out the correct shapes with your lips.

"Am I s'posed to feel tired?"

A small chuckle wormed it's way from his lungs, nonchalance fully restored now that he could turn to gaze upon your slumped body, fingers tightly clutching the fuzzy blanket that enveloped you in a flimsy haven.

"You've just returned after weeks in the field, having sustained injuries and all," Dottore spoke calmly, betraying none of his greed as he gestured to the trace remnants of blood on the table, "it is no wonder that exhaustion would begin to take hold now that you are safe."

The question was plainly written in your eyes, making Dottore incline his head in silent motion to continue, preemptively stepping closer to catch what would no doubt be a whisper.

"Should I go back to the barracks?"

"Would you prefer to go?"

You wouldn't be given the opportunity to go, of course not, but there was no need to be forceful when he could already see how valiantly you fought to keep your eyes open, how your body seemed drawn downwards. It couldn't be more than a few minutes now.

Irritation briefly sparked in Dottore's chest at the little shake of your head, it would've been far more fulfilling to hear you say it.

No attempt was made to make your way through the laboratory to reach the modest cot that stood tucked away in a corner, crates of supplies and projects on hold usually hiding it from view. How ethereal you looked, head lolled to the side and the blanket slowly slipping from your shoulders as a false slumber curled its gnarled limbs around you.

Whatever conclusions you mind would reach were of little consequence, the sedative would take care of that, countless tests indicating that it always left the recipient's memory riddled with inconsistencies, making it easy to dismiss any unpleasantries as imagined.

Dreams.

The risks associated with using the modified Akasha were still too great, even if the possibility of directly rewriting the barrier between truth and fantasy was a tempting one. This way would be more satisfying in the end, having had to put in a little work and flex muscles that had been allowed to atrophy since his days in The Akademiya.

Dottore showed extra care when he hoisted up your unconscious form, grip unyielding as he closed his eyes to revel in the weight against him. In a past that mattered little, others had sworn the ego he carried around was inflated enough to see him ascend in any way but the desired, perhaps this would've been enough of a tether to their reality. For this alone would he allow himself to be held down.

Perhaps things could have been different had that lone island in the sky not decided for his fate to be nothing but misery. Thus logic dictated that you too would be lost. A soft tremor reminded his fingers to relax, gently stroking over the crescents they'd left.

Your breath warmed him far more than it had any right to, coaxing forth memories of a soft summer breeze, rose petals velvety between his fingers as they were plucked from their stem and plummeted to their inevitable demise. And an inviting sound, bubbly and sweet that had, for just a night, filled his veins with the toxin your presence had reignited.

Having you clean would be preferable. The emergency shower would hardly be sufficient, not with how the filth seemed to have embedded itself in your skin. With you unconscious, there was no reason to school his expression, the notion only serving to exacerbate the scowl his face set in.

A soak would be easiest.

There was nothing pompous about the washroom attached to his quarters, and a pang of regret had the idea of bringing you to The Regrator's briefly surfacing. The sentiment didn't linger, an unwillingness to be indebted quickly reigning in the myriad of thoughts cluttering his mind in much the same way towels and clothes were currently strewn around the room.

It made a pretty picture, your body curled up against the side of the tub, a few rays of pale light slithering through the lone window to caress your face. A feeling that had never quite been within his grasp lingered in the rays of light, coaxing something painfully unfamiliar to tug at his shriveled heart.

Just a little longer before the tingling in his fingertips would be sated.

Quick work was made of disrobing himself, a watchful eye making sure your head remained above water. Dottore let a weary sigh hang in the otherwise empty silence, hating the hesitation that riddled his movements as his clothes fell to the floor. There was no reason to be reserved about the results of a life lived, the chances of you regaining consciousness would remain negligible for a while.

Finally settling with your weight in his lap was undoubtedly the closest to rapture Dottore had found himself. Arms securely around your midsection, your back flush against his heaving chest, had every uncertainty draining into the water.

Dutifully, one hand tore itself from your form to reach for a clean cloth, struggling for a moment before muscle memory took over, fingertips gracing the fabric without the need to tear his eyes from your parted lips. It was nothing short of tranquil, letting the cloth scrub away the remnants of your excursion with meticulous care.

Dottore saw how your skin turned red from the continued friction and consciously ignored it, some small voice wanting to rub it off completely and leave you a blank canvas.

He looked instead at his reflection in the water, vermillion stare drawn to its counterpart, noting briefly how it wasn't nearly as comfortable as being under your gaze.

At least his subconscious mind had the decency to have left the few areas he'd stitched together alone, not that they mattered in any practical sense, but you'd be distraught if they were gone when you woke. With time, would you be as broken as him?

Only once you'd been scrubbed clean were thoughts of his own desires acknowledged, cock throbbing against your back as soon as attention was diverted to the feeling. A small hiss mingled with the steam from the water, Dottore easily repositioning you to let his length slide between your thighs.

Already, satisfaction rumbled in his chest, vision engulfed by white for a moment upon repeating the soft motion of his hips. Your thighs easily gave way when tugged apart, body every bit as pliant as previously. Having made peace with his impatience long before, his lips were immediately descended upon the crook of your neck, stifling the groans that spilled forth as he aligned himself.

The water provided additional friction, a slight burn dancing against his sensitive tip upon breaching your tight entrance. Soap met his tongue, disgustingly sterile as it danced along his taste buds, only spurring him on to mouth at you with renewed vigor, desperate to taste the sweetness he knew lay buried underneath.

His hips snapped up as the familiar taste invaded his senses, eyes rolling back at the pleasure of being buried to the hilt. Had his faith been intact, a prayer to the archons for your silence would have tumbled from his lips. Warm droplets carved out paths alongside old scars, gathering at his chin before being caught in the soft locks of your hair. Dottore felt his skin crawl as traces of a pained howl bubbled in his throat, body trembling in time with every squeeze of your insides.

If time would remain forever frozen as the land just outside the walls perhaps everything would be more bearable then. Would it banish both the threat of separation and the burden of remaining what he'd made of himself in spite of reality?

Another sound crawled from his lungs, foreign and intrusive when it met his ears, wanton in a way that caused nothing but dissonance. Dottore curled his body around you, panting heavily against the nape of your neck as he sought out some form of relief, his muscles straining with the increased pace.

Stagnating would be of no use, pleasure was fleeting, worthless without contrast.

Dottore felt euphoria flood his system, spine tingling mercilessly as his sharp teeth tore into the pliant flesh beneath. It was a thoughtless action, driven only by the need to claim and consume, satisfying the desperate desire to be whole. Water sloshed against the edges with every rut of his hips, driving himself deeper into the warmth you so selflessly provided.

How much time had passed felt secondary, the only thing truly worth attention being the rapid tightening in his abdomen, pleasure steadily building with every movement. Seeking more, Dottore found his hands had moved down to grasp the curve of your hip, easily hoisting you up to twist your body around.

With a ferocity that should by all means have been concerning, his lips sought a home against yours, relishing in how they had already parted for him. A hand in your hair was all that was needed to stabilize your head enough that he could delude himself into thinking you awake.

That the little puffs of air that passed into his waiting jaws were instead keens and broken moans spilling forth. His tongue pushed into the waiting heat, wanting if he could to explore deeper, have your throat squeeze around his tongue as your body did his cock. Before he could hesitate, the curve of your nape rested in his calloused palm, the appendage twitching with budding excitement.

A light press was all his mind would allow, knowing all too well how little it would take to snap such a precious thing. As intoxicating as holding the fate of another in his hands were, this was wrong, without reason.

It was the way your thighs quivered around his hips that brought order to all those thoughts, tugging your head away for a breath of fresh air to stifle his burning lungs. Only a single breath afforded, diving back in for more as all else lost meaning. He needed more, needed to hear you beg him, needed your hands to tug at his hair, needed-

Water splashed over the edges as he pushed forward, hands grasping for the back of your knees to push them against your chest. His chest heaved at the sight underneath him, growling like a wounded animal as he reaped what he'd cultivated, one hand keeping a leg pinned while the other covered your nose and mouth.

He was so close.

Close enough that every clench of your slick heat choked his thoughts. Close enough that he threw back his head, willing the image of your eyes briefly opening from his mind, focusing instead on the water soothing his burning skin as he gave a last few thrusts, cursing as the thread snapped and released washed over him.

It would've been no surprise if the tub had cracked from the force, even less if you had cracked, his body still shaking from the force of his release, milky white leaking out into the water and dispersing. Your body was swiftly pulled above the surface as Dottore sat back, once more cradling your head to his chest, trying to ignore the emptiness that wanted to force itself along the clarity that came in the wake of euphoria.

He laid your no doubt exhausted frame onto the cot, hastily tossing the grey blanket over your form. The harsh light of the laboratory did little to hide the marks that littered your body, blooming purple along your thighs, fierce red at your shoulders, already tempting him to reach out and touch again. It was a matter of creating distance, unwilling to let attachment fester and consume more, already now the gnawing had returned, weaker than before but far from sated.

By all means, he should've swung the door shut with more force, knowing at the back of his mind that the lock never clicked. It did nothing to stop his body from collapsing onto his unmade bed, pushing at the covers before crawling further up. He didn't find himself opposed to having you drape yourself against his body, rest in his arms.

Would you seek him out by yourself once the sedative wore off?

Would that finally stave off his hunger?

[gabessquishytum]

I’m SO sorry about this but I saw the most ridiculous porn vid premise 2 days ago and immediately had to make it about dreamling for some reason.

Human AU, tw manipulation

Dream’s life is pretty miserable. His family is stinking rich and he’s very sheltered, but his relationship with his siblings is terrible, he’s a disappointment to his mother and his father is not a fan either. That doesn’t stop his father from ordering around and dragging him to events, to which Dream goes because he’s just so eager for any approval.

The latest is a big shindig at the golf club, and of course everyone is going to have to play a bit just to not be rude, but Dream is. SO bad at it. His father has tried to teach him, but he doesn’t have much patience and especially not for Dream.

So, daddy-dearest sends him to golf classes so Dream won’t embarrass him.

Enter Hob, golf instructor. Dream explains the problem and Hob does feel a little bad for this teary-eyed, bitten-lipped kid (he can’t be older than 20) who looks like he’s never stepped outside his mcmansion before, but mostly is very distracted by how gorgeous he is, with that tight little ass in those tiny golf shorts.

Still, Hob has him swing the club a bit and yeah, sure enough Dream is a disaster. His posture is just so bad, his swing. Hob tries explaining the correct technique him, tries demonstrating, genuinely tries! But nothing seems to work, so he resorts to grabbing Dream’s hips, standing behind him, his front flush to his ass, and trying to show him how to pivot around his centre, his body has to move around a fixed point. And huh. That ass really is just as perfect as it looks. Hob can’t help starting to get hard.

Dream tries to swing again and does a little better like this, but he just can’t seem to keep his ass still when he swings, and he’s still missing his swings by a quite a bit. He’s crestfallen about it, he’s so desperate to not disappoint his father, and Hob just can’t see such a sweet thing cry with that perfect ass rubbing against his cock without getting… ideas.

“Well,” he says, “there is a way pros do it. To really perfect pivoting on your centre, you know? But… it’s really harsh stuff— you know what? Forget it-“

“No!” Dream shouts. He has to please his father. He needs to learn. “Please, Mr Gadling?”

Hob sighs really dramatically.

“Well, it’s a really tough technique, I wouldn’t blame you for tapping out, but it would help you get a sense of that pivot in no time…”

“Will you stop dithering and just tell me what it is? I need to get good, no matter how!”

“Well,” Hob says, “I could stand behind you, just like this, and put my cock inside you.” Dream’s mouth falls open in shock, but Hob continues: “I know, it’s not for the faint of heart, but I’d just stand still behind you and with my cock inside you you’d have something to pivot around easily, once you get the motion you’ll form the right muscle memory real quick and you’re done.”

Dream is red in the face and a bit speechless.

“That seems… extreme.”

Hob shrugs.

“That’s how the pros do it to really perfect their stance, but again, you don’t need to be perfect, you’ve already improved a bit. I’m sure you can improve a little more before the day’s done.”

That does it for Dream.

“No, I must see if this helps as dramatically as you say.”

He lowers his own shorts and pants immediately, putting his pretty pink hole on display, and Hob is fully hard instantly.

Thankfully, Hob keeps some massage oil in his bag for long days trekking on the green, and has been know to find a quiet spot to rub on out in his cart on slow days, so he knows it’s safe to use as lube. He lubes up quick, and puts just one finger in Dream for a moment (after all, this is supposed to be harsh training, not for anyone’s pleasure, he doesn’t want Dream to catch on. Besides, Dream will surely chicken out, might as well seize the chance).

Hob presses the tip of his cock to Dream’s hole, and Dream barely has the time to get the words “I have never” out before Hob sinks in to the hilt.

Dream keens and bends right in half.

“I’d never- I’d never-“ he half-sobs, half-moans.

Hob understands, because Dream is tight. He feels fantastic. Hob absolutely has to drag this out as long as possible.

“That’s even better,” he says cheerily, “it wouldn’t work as well if you were used to it.”

“R-really?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not sure this will help me…”

He’s shaking so bad, weak-kneed and breathing hard, and clenching so so beautifully around Hob’s cock.

Hob thinks he’s starting to figure Dream out a bit, so he says: “It absolutely will, but I did say it wasn’t easy. If it’s too difficult we can always stop-“

“No, no, please, I have to— but, how-“

“You have to straighten up, straighten your legs, hold the club firmly.”

Hob stays where he is, doesn’t lift a finger to help. Just keeps his hands grasping Dream’s hips, keeping himself buried to the hilt. He’s enjoying this immensely. Dream is so tight and squirming so good that he could make Hob come without Hob needing to move a muscle.

Dream tries, he really does, but he can’t. He just can’t stop shaking. Mr Gadling’s cock feels huge inside him, it’s so overwhelming, and he just can’t stand straight. He’s so scared to disappoint his father, though, he almost starts crying he’s so upset.

Hob sighs.

“Fine. I’ll help you. but only the once, yes?”

He pulls back, then thrusts back in hard.

Dream whips upright, gasping, back nearly flush to Hob’s chest.

“There, all better, isn’t it? Now, grip the club like I showed you, and try a swing.”

Dream’s arms and legs are still trembling, but he does try… and the ball goes almost right where he aimed. Hob’s cock inside him really does help him swing correctly! Dream is overjoyed, and Hob is so kind to keep passing him balls so Dream can bend over and place them down. And if he struggles to stand upright, Hob is always ready to thrust into him again to straighten him up.

Thing is, after Dream starts getting the hang of the motion and is less and less distraught and has to think less about the technique, he starts to really focus on Mr Gadling’s cock, and how nice it feels, especially when he thrusts in! It’s too bad he only does that when Dream can’t straighten on his own… so Dream starts to pretend to struggle. And Mr Gadling is so kind to oblige him every time! Dream is even able to stay bent in half after a thrust sometimes now he’s getting used to the feeling, and he needs two, three, four thrusts to be readjusted. And it feels. So. Good. Dream is completely overcome by it, until he can’t take it anymore. He has to pretend he’s just so tired and can’t keep his back straight, so Mr Gadling will have to keep thrusting.

Dream only means to do it for a little while, just to experience how it feels, but it’s. fucking amazing. The rhythmic slide of Hob’s cock and the slap of Hob’s balls on Dream’s hole, and before he knows it Dream is mewling and whimpering, and soon after the club is abandoned so he can touch himself… that’s when Hob’s hand closes around his.

“You know what I think, Dream? I think you’re enjoying this. I think you’re taking advantage of me to get your arse fucked instead of using my cock to learn. Now, that’s very naughty. You’re such a little slut, aren’t you? Maybe, if you cum, we can go back to learning.”

Then Hob actually starts fucking Dream. Continuous thrusts, never stopping to see if Dream will straighten his back this time. Dream hadn’t even realized that Hob had barely been fucking him before! He fucks Dream so fast and hard, cock pressing against Dream’s prostate on each stroke, and Dream very soon cums so hard he sees stars, all over himself.

Hob slows down a lot, waits for Dream to be able to speak.

“W-will we return to the lesson now, Mr Gadling?”

“Not yet.” Hob slams his cock hard back into Dream. It almost hurts. “If you think you’re so good already that you can slack off, you can try training without my cock.”

Before Dream can beg forgiveness, Hob starts fucking into Dream in earnest again, until Dream’s ass is stinging with the fast slapping of skin against it. Dream almost thinks he might cum again until Hob cums inside him. It feels like so much to Dream, and when Hob pulls out it starts dripping out so easily before Hob stops it with a finger. Hob cleans his cock off on the inside of Dream’s pants, then pulls them and the shorts up high and tight. Dream instinctively clenches up as he feels Hob’s cum start to soil his pants.

“There, clench those cheeks, love. See if that helps you keep that lovely arse still while you swing.”

Dream’s face burns with humiliation. He’s half-hard already and wants to come again so badly, Hob’s cum feels so good inside him! But he has to obey his instructor, or he won’t get better! It’s incredibly hard to keep his ass clenched while spreading his legs to swing, but his stance and aim are so improved!

By the end of the lesson, he’s hitting every hole, and he’s so happy! His father is vaguely satisfied, and decides to keep sending Dream to Hob for lessons, Dream enjoys golf a lot more now that he’s good at it, and whenever he’s anxious or frustrated or sad about things happening at home, after a while Dream doesn’t even have to pretend he needs a refresher on the right stance anymore, Hob is always willing to just fuck him so Dream can feel better!

(I have never in my life played golf, please don’t @ me)

PA

PA ANON you have scored a hole in one with this one. Oh my goodness, what a delicious treat. I am so obsessed with golf instructor Hob, I think I may actually be blushing.

Can you imagine how delightfully mean Hob is to Dream? Dream is a sheltered little posh boy and he's so easy to manipulate. One of Hob’s favourite games is making Dream go hunting for golf balls all around a 18 hole course - all with Hob’s cum inside his own cute little hole. Hob punishes him if he lets any of the cum escape while he's fetching the balls - his favourite method of punishment involves putting one entire fist inside Dream while he tries to practice his swing. When Dream trembles and falters, Hob uses his free hand to help adjust his grip... all while wearing Dream on his other hand like a glove.

He makes sure that Dream always addresses him as "Mr Gadling". He can't have the little rich-boy getting too snooty and thinking that he's too good to be fucked. Not when he was clearly made to be Hob’s pretty fuck toy. But if he is good, maybe Hob will take Dream up to the clubhouse sometime... and show off his pretty, hardworking student to all his appreciative friends <3

[wishluc]

˗ˏ IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY...

On a scale of 1 - 10 I think the yandere here is around 4? 5? But I find Childe to be terrifying regardless. Set in Sumeru, during the archon quest.

✧ CW: yandere character, abuse of authority, power imbalance, mentions of Harbinger-typical violence

✧ PAIRING: Childe x Fem! reader

You can't help but be mesmerized by the twinkling stars, shining so brightly against the blanket of darkness. A peaceful night like tonight is a luxury you can't usually afford.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?"

Your mood is soured almost as quickly as it was lifted as you hear the careful emphasis on your name, almost as if he was testing it out for the first time

Regardless, you aren't surprised to see that Childe is here again.

Despite his position, he didn't seem to have much to do—except, of course, spend every possible moment hounding you. Unlike the frightening rumors that lurked around the Harbingers, Childe appeared only as a man who was extremely proficient with his weapons, full of boyish charm and towering ambition. At first, you considered that he may be putting on a front—one that relied on a disarming smile and easygoing words—but after your actual meeting with him, you realized he was not full of tricks and traps. Childe was a blatant, proud challenge. The lack of deceit on his part, the plain truth he laid out to you when he introduced himself to you as "Number Eleven of the Fatui Harbingers," was because he wanted you to know. He wanted to exude his power over you, while simultaneously, extending an invitation to you, one that read loud and clear; Try and cross me, if you dare.

Even if he wasn't with the Doctor, on official business, Childe was still a Harbinger, and it was made very clear to you already. You had never seen a man so thrilled by violence, so exhilarated at the sight of blood and pain. He wielded his weapons with frighteningly natural ease, swiftly cutting through air and flesh alike with the same fluid motion. And when he stood, yearning for yet another rush after yet another battle won, it looked as though he was born to do this. You still remembered the blood-splattered figure, the glowering blue gaze, and the mad expression on his face, and you remember thinking that somehow, you believed nothing would suit him better.

And now, you're forced to regard this bloodlust-driven creatur, as the esteemed diplomat he makes himself out to be. You have to smile at his jokes and agree with his demands, forcing yourself to ignore just how swiftly he can pull a blade out and press it against your neck, and how it would only take a moment, a single command, to get his loyal soldiers to rip your heart out for him—since you clearly won't do it yourself. You have to pretend his sly remarks and coquettish grins fluster you, and not disgust you. You have to ignore the reminder that the callouses on the hand that was often placed on your shoulder were from training with numerous weapons and what exactly the mask at the side of his head symbolized.

And you have to do it all pretending like you're honored to be serving him.

"Master Tartaglia," a polite smile found its place on your face, "I hope your night is going well."

He grins, a playful quirk on his lips, "seeing that you are here, comrade, I can confidently say that it's going splendidly."

Childe gently turns you around, a hand finding purchase on the small of your back, to face the masked Fatuus who had been silently following him, "I'll be with my friend here, so you lot can go make yourself busy, hm?"

They immediately scatter away at his words, and he turns to face you again, the lopsided smile still playing on his lips, "sorry about that. They take their jobs quite seriously."

You nod in understanding, as he looks over the railing with you. You see his eyes linger on the many food carts stationed by the streets, a soft glow of light embracing each one. He looks at you with a knowing look, that excited glint in his eyes dancing wildly, and puts out a hand for you to take. You bite back any protests and take the gloved hand offered to you, praying the night would pass quickly.

The food is as good as you remember, hot, savory, and bursting with flavor. But it's hard to enjoy yourself when you're standing next to a man who is obviously a soldier of some sort, earning you both wary looks from all around.

"What's wrong, pretty girl?"

You've always hated when he called you that. At least, with 'comrade' you could believe it came from a place of equal respect, him recognizing the role you played as his guide, and the dangers you had exposed yourself to by doing so. That, and anyone could tell that you worked with him. But when he was flirting, it made it so much harder to deal with him. He wasn't stupid. He knew that there were others listening. He knew exactly how much harder it was coming up with excuses about why you were walking around with a Fatuus glued to your side when said Fatuus was sweet talking you, face pressed close to yours, instead of marching ahead of you with no concern for how you struggle to keep up.

"Nothing," you reply, "it's just been a while since I've come out here."

He chuckles, "I must have kept you quite busy."

Your laugh is awkward at best and forced at worst, but by now, he's used to your pathetic attempts at avoiding conversation. It doesn't perturb him—not that anything you do does, anymore. Childe only hums, seemingly lost in thought as his eyes gloss over the scenic view.

The streets suddenly fell silent, except for the rustling of paper and hushed whispers. It felt as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see what the Harbinger would command. You weren't sure if other Fatuus had already come around here and wreaked some havoc, or if they were just unsettled because of the way Childe's smile never met his eyes.

Then, at last, he walks some ways out to a more secluded spot. The lights here are dimmer and the silence even more deafening. You find your eyes searching around for any other signs of life, despite knowing that Childe did not bring you here to have you killed. Not yet, at least.

"I was thinking," he says, eyes closely gauging your reaction, "of extending my stay."

He's not asking for your input, that much you can tell.

"There's still a lot I'd like to see around here. So, what do you say?" The warm smile is everything but inviting, now. It feels like you're about to sign a deal with the devil.

"I'll have to see if the Akademiya—"

He sighs, "The Akademiya works for us. That wasn't what I was asking." Almost as quickly as it dropped, the all too familiar grin is back on his face, "what about it, then?"

You think back to the calloused hands stained red and the blades concealed on his person. It would take less than a moment for him to pounce. How many of his subordinates are waiting for his orders, hidden in the dark and ready to attack? You remember the bloodstained Harbinger you were introduced to all those days ago, that look of uninhibited delight clear in his eyes. Childe—Tartaglia—was not asking for your opinion. He did not have to go through the pleasantries of pretending to do so, because there was clearly only one answer you could give him.

"It would be my pleasure, Master Tartaglia."

all works © wishluc. do not copy, steal or repost my works on other platforms. (including translations)

[jebiknights]

'theyre boss and indentured employee" though i agree snd i find codywan annoying bc is everywhere and ppl dont even tag it and act like is default, rexwalker is also boss and indentured employee 😭😭 😭 still love them lmao

I mean yeah lmao pm all of the Jedi/clone commander ships have this power imbalance. The post was about how fan bases act lol. rex/Walker fandom ime at least is much more willing to admit and confront the imbalance (tho keep in mind that doesnt mean they do it WELL) esp compared to Cody/wan fandom. It's always been one of my biggest beefs with cw fandom, that they handwave away the power imbalance, the age difference, etc. while at the same time being really judgy about many of the "problematic" ships and characters. The fact that they act like it's canon and everyone ships it or should ship it just elevates that frustration.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Oh Ana made me think of an alternate timeline where killer does control the Reset—he is the most Determined now—and yes he did repeatedly kill and brutally murder and torture Chara to death repeatedly, just like they did to him.

..but he never switches into Stage 1. He never attempts to say goodbye to Papyrus, never attempts to Reset and then Erase himself from the world. Never gets interrupted by Nightmare and kidnapped.

..He stays in Stage 2. ..and now he doesn’t know what to do. All he wants something new, but what about beyond that.

he wanted control. but now that he has it..what is there to do. what is he supposed to do.

chara knows killer. they know how his mind works, theyre the reason it works that way at all. so this dynamic sets up a “person a thinks theyre in control and is in many ways, but person b knows them so well and person a doesnt know how to function without person b.”

so yes killer controls the Reset now. this time he gets to repeatedly murder chara when they step out of line and this time he gets to choose what games they play and this time chara isnt allowed to touch him or look at him funny or speak in that tone. he gets to choose to Erase this world and move on to something new.

..but he still needs chara, right. he doesnt know how other worlds work. what if he tries to kill himself in stage 1. what if he loses control in stage 3. he doesnt know everything about the reset. stage 4 will be completely lost without them and who will tell him when he does a good job? who will understand? the worlds would hate him.

..yes he still needs chara. but its different now, he has control…even if he does frequently listen to chara’s “ideas” and “suggestions.” even if he does look to them for approval and confirmation. even if they do often have to explain a lot of things to him.

he has the most determination. he wants this and hes choosing this for himself. not because Chara suggested doing this or saying this.