#putting on this meek and mild front like???

[magicmagica]

Some serial killer level bullshit omfg

[fawnpires]

EVERY MAN GETS HIS WISH — SIMON "GHOST" RILEY.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ synopsis: under the enemy's eye, you're required to accompany the task force's lieutenant but an unfortunate situation of enemy attack occurs; falling victim to both things, your superior and some hidden feelings.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ contents: sex pollen, non-consensual drug use, one-bed-trope, inappropriate relationship with a superior, oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, age gap, manhandling, pet-names, size difference, dirty talk, grinding, mild degradation, praise kink, porn with plot, loss of virginity, innocence kink.

He wasn't a saint, nor was he heroic man to be looked up to; which was baffling considering his status of customary deeds. Brave, noble, bold — all of those things checked off to be deemed as heroic, as simple as that.

Rather than a man of military, he was more of a vigilante — acting on his own accord, directing himself and the men he worked along with the mind of personal dominance. He knew he didn't fit the stereotype of a soldier; obscene mindset, crude jokes cracked, stiff posture that made him stand stall and all intimidating, and a exterior skull of a clothed balaclava. As daunting as the man was, he was just like peers — quite ill-mannered off the field, absorbed too much in himself.

But he had learnt to contain a majority of that. Solitude was more ideal than ill-mannered, and he preferred that. Often covered up with tracks of blood and brutality, his humanlike isolation made up the whole of him; swallowed him up whole. He didn't know why he enlisted for the military, or why he hadn't quit so many years into the position. Perhaps for the adrenaline rush, or to endure the experiences of war, but the utmost possibility was to make something out of the miserable man he was — sculpt a more successful alternative.

In some way, that had worked out, made him whatever a hero was supposed to be. If that had made him a hero, then be it, if it didn't, then who was he to care? It's not like he cared for his general image, what others thought of who he was; only a man of great cruelty, inhumane and cold-blooded.

A lot of that shifted with you. One of the few women recruited, reserved and utterly meek when interacting one-on-one. You're instantly caught in the range of his observations, curiosity and skepticism as the two perplexing sensations that send him over the edge. Though he's afraid, and not in a tensed sense, it's more based on his feelings; those feelings that he thought would be triggered off in him, until he has you in his sights. That's why he scarcely ever partnered up with you on missions, putting some separation there to rid of those perplex feelings compressed to himself.

Unbeknownst to both you and him, that changes by a great deal. With Price's organization of the next mission, only in need of two personnel, it's down to the coincidence of him being paired up alongside you. The one thing that he was oh-so-successfully doing so well for the couple months you've resided in the task force, but shattered to bits when approaching this unfortunate expedition — it's pressuring, wearing his nerves out — tense. (As if you weren't as equally on edge about being collaborating with your intimidating, enormous superior.)

You're close to him, practically almost rubbing arms together. The overhead sky is dull of sun and some additional clouds, reflecting off the shade of his masked face and the tactical gear he displays. Forwards on, there's nothing but fields of fading grass and a waning path. The intercoms attached to both your uniforms are radio silence; no commands, no Price on the other end except from a few minutes ago when given the straight order to push on until Ghost gives direct instruction there.

Every so often you feel his eyes on you, causing you to adjust your head in his direction only to see him facing the path in front of him; yet sometimes you catch him side-eyeing you through the holes of his mask. Anxiousness boils in the pit of your stomach with each passing second — with his close physical contact, aware of him catching tiny glimpses of you — it causes you to distance yourself from him without your own awareness.

"Careful, kid," he said, his rasped voice the only sound you've heard in the rounds of minutes, "Stay close, don't want you wandering off now."

You blink a few times in a daze at the name, sliding yourself right back next to him, uneasiness tainting the void that was slotted right between you and him. Your hold on your firearm loosens, clutching it closer to your chest, the fingers of your left hand tightening around frontier piece. The sole use of his pet name intact for you leaving you flustered and weak in the limbs.

A sigh blows past your lips. "How much further?" you ask, "Been minutes, hours."

"Almost there, right through this path." he replies swiftly, crouching before gesturing to the right, "Cut here."

He takes lead, in front, and you linger close behind. The trail is cut off, there's more open field and sky where the sky darkens; shadows drawn on the ground, sun merely in sights and lowering beyond the horizon line. Arising in the distance, a structure stands its ground; a warehouse, seemingly deserted, dim light fixtures hung side-by-side with a half opened roll-up sheet door.

In a crouched position, he kneels in the fields of dried grass, signaling for you to do the same — which you oblige with. The slinging strap of your gun digs through your tactical wear, felt into your skin, marking the flesh with the outline of it. Around the airspace is tight and claustrophobic, your chest heavy with the beat of your palpitating, head weighed with a throb and some exhilaration.

"Visual on the hideout," he presses his intercom open to Price, gloved thumb to the button and his head tilted.

Price is heard clicking his own intercom through. "All yours, Ghost, your command from there."

Ghost pauses in his movements for a second then aligns his head back in position on his neck, closing off his intercom as it goes back to the original state of radio silence. He revolves his entire body in your direction, even crouched he's still so much towering and intimidating, eyes a shade of sepia surrounded with black war-paint dying right into your bare ones. "Stay close by me, then separate once inside, then you stay on watch while I locate, understood?"

It's a different request, more distant than what you were usually accustomed to, but in this position; there was really no arguing back on this, or better yet declining.

"Affirmative." you reply, getting off the ground and maintaining a standing position, still bent on your knees to avoid possible detection. He does the same, taking lead again and scurrying out of the grass into the open expanse of the warehouse's front, taking careful measures as he leans to grab a hold of the half-opened roll-up door's handle and widening the entrance so that's their enough space to set foot in. You're sweating, pumped of adrenaline as the whole situation sends yourself into a condition of delirium and kicked of a strange thrill — rifle no longer clutched to your chest, but in a prepared-aiming stance.

A scent, between a bitterness and saccharine, stings your nose. The inside of the building reeks of it, your face hit with a handful of it, causing you to pull up the cloth of your uniform and hold it over your nose.

(Luckily for him, he sported that damned mask of a skull all the time. The one time that you've fully understood to why he would need it, even coming across a situation like this.)

Fluorescent lights in tubes buzz overhead, flickering in flashes across each of your faces, background of quietude besides the shuffles of Ghost moving in his gear and the humming of the lights. He raises his arm to gesture the previous order given, you stay put up against a wall while he proceeds further and observes the stairs, the upper level with a room; unsuspected of the flat, low contour of a light that casts through the glass panes of the space. You watch across your shoulder, moving up to the bottom of the case of stairs, detecting each of his calculated steps, prepared to act on direction.

He reaches the top platform and eyes the door — though, before he has the chance to elbow the door wide open, his suspicions of there being lifeforms present are confirmed — the solid matter of the door bursts open without warning and a clink of an object hits the ground where he stood.

Adapting the consciousness to back away from it was far too late to act on now, a blow of the now-identified smoke grenade pollutes the atmosphere around, white and clouds around more than you had expected it to. Despite having your uniform stuffed to your nose, the scent is brought back to you — that bitter, sweet-smelling one — and it throws you into an abrupt coughing fit. Some of it breaches to your eyes, leaving a whole of you to be incompetent to retaliate against the enemy; hell, you couldn't even fend it off.

There's a grit of your teeth while slump back against the stairs. You lay against your rifle that had been abandoned from the clutch of your hands, your chest abnormally heavier; as if you were lungs were filled with a burdensome matter. Through the veil of your fogged vision and the diminishing sheet of smoke, the lieutenant held more strength than you, holding himself up against the wall of the room and held the handle of his knife up into one of the perpetrators.

His strength in the moment was impressive, nearing admirable, but it wasn't enough to overturn the situation with more than one perpetrator present. About two circle him while another three take notice of your debilitated figure haunted with the beginning side effects seeping into the fissures of your body, your head.

The last few recollections were of slow footsteps approaching your comatose-like body, your breaths heavier and more echoed against the shells of your ear. That sensation in your chest sourced from the smoke was growing into more crucial, dangerous areas; the smoke's aroma intense and all that you could really smell. They're crouched and talk over your body through muffled hoods, gas-masks.

It's difficult to make out what they're saying, (In this state everything was difficult, from vision to solely breathing.) A palm rests at your forehead, frigid to the touch before it burns down to a more scorching feeling once left more on contact to your skin.

You use your last bit of brawn to grasp at an attempt to get away downwards but there's an additional grab to your legs from below. A grunt flows from your throat in a strained manner, the ramifications of the unknown dust outdoing your own control.

A palm to your forehead, acidity stench, and the rear of a shotgun to strike you to a vacant space of unconscious void.

Against your skin, there's heavy breathing, and motions of flexing arms under your lifted thighs. You find your hands balled in fists at the fabric of his tactical jacket, his jacket, Ghost. To your surprise, he had proved your accusations of his strength giving out back at the warehouse wrong — overthrowing the opponents and beating them to pulps like his usual violent self, his bloodthirsty persona which slaughters the targets he chooses. Undeniably, he was rabid. No morals, no mercy for his rivals like the truculent brute he was.

His hand supports your back, the other to your legs which had explained the flexes that continue under you. He stumbles over to a tree which provides a temporary shelter as he slants at the bark.

He isn't vulnerable, he almost never was. It was either a violent, bellicose identity or one of great endurance. Ghost was an inexplicable man. On the battlefield, he's nothing more than a weapon — a masculine personification of warfare that taunts and douses his victim in a bloodbath of gore. (Who knew if he had developed some sick satisfaction from it, years of countless executions bound to his hands.)

But now he an absolute contrasting mortal to that, possessing you in his big arms right to his chest. You almost feel safe, sort-of sheltered more than you've ever felt in your entire presence of being restricted to the Earth's grounds. You take notice of how he checks over his shoulder then sloping his head down to your laid physique. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, lifting you slightly.

"Come on, c'mon," he whispers and buries his fingers deeper in your hair, "Stay with me, kid."

In response, your half-lidded eyes widen up a little more, hands ghosting over his forearm and leaving your fingers to brush over the sleeve. You think you hear a sound of relief, but it was complicated to say with his smothering mask dying down a mass of his words.

The collected scenery around had been ingested fully with the effects of dusk, nearing complicated to make out where you the both of you resided for the time being. All you could comprehend was that he accomplished to elude from the main origin of the danger, and had hid out nearby in this perspective of trees.

"How'd... how'd you get get away?" you ask, sitting up with his supportive hand still at your back.

"That's what years of military training does to you," he replied, panting, "Reinforced stamina, mask helped drag out some of the grenade too."

You blink slowly, bringing your middle and index finger to your face which gathers some of that bitter residue. "What is this shit, anyways?"

"Not sure, has to be some conjured batch of contraband. Never been out to be transported, personal use — that's what I say."

"Some strong stuff." you mutter.

His strength which is used to hold you up heightens when he stands from his crouched position, a grunt choked in his throat. You link your arms around his neck for more support, doe-like eyes staring right into the pit of skull and cloth.

He doesn't mind, you think.

"Saw a safe-house up there, we'll spend the night there." he states.

"What about the rest of the operation?"

"I'll get in touch with Price," he said, "Possible case scenario is the whole thing being postponed."

You can only bring yourself to nod your head; at the same time, those secondary effects of the substance flowing back into yourself, stronger. Ghost starts back up forward to where the safe-house was situated, and his motions produce perceptions of vertigo. A whimper is hushed from behind your closed lips, head pressed to his shoulder and submerging into his jacket. His own scent gives distraction from the sustained bitterness and swirling sweetness that made your head pulsate in equivalent palpitations to your rapid heartbeat.

Your limbs are brought to weakness, frail and shaky against the perimeters of your pants. Sweat sticks to you — your forehead, your skin, your clothes. The strap of your bra feels more mauled into your flesh, branding into your sultry skin. There's an unanticipated rush of heat that throbs out from between your thighs, another whimper muted from your secured lips. Right in the moment, like a natural instinct, you could't help but trail your eyes over to Ghost.

How his biceps flexed and bent underneath you, his distinctive scent stalling at your nose of gunpowder and pine. It was intoxicating, holding you in a trance complete of him; all your focus on your lieutenant. You were known to hold an admiration for him ever since recruitment, his particular set of skills and proficient demeanor that was worthy of your commendation. But now it had shrunk into nothing but merely a hidden, perverted desire that had been brought out in the faults of the anesthetizing matter. Pressing your head deeper into the cloth of his jacket, you force your legs to squeeze together — an aim to rid of the shameful sensations that were coming down at you at the same.

As you doubted it was never going to transpire, Ghost had successfully brought the two of you into the safe-house. No longer in use, abandoned and dead, the short-term sanctuary reserved for you and him only. One story, decently-sized, and ideal for hiding out from potential nearby threats.

You're supported up in his arms for an interval while he inspects the building until reaching the upstairs, in the single bedroom which had been the only one throughout the investigation. He leans downwards to allow you to stable yourself on two unsteady legs from his hold. You stagger over to the solitary mattress and sit on the edge of it, two hands resting on the edge, fingers compressing into the foam. By now, the effects the substance took on your body had evolved into a level of unbearable.

Sweat drapes over your body in a fitted sheet, that vertigo subsiding into a lower degree but adjoining to the intense pulsing of your cunt that you've managed to handle for a while now. You slap a palm to your forehead, down your face, examining the extreme sweat that stains the skin there. Ghost sits at the foot of the bed, close to you, and begins to strip of his vest and his jacket.

"Get some rest, you'll need it in the morning." he advises towards you, proceeding to strip of the rest of his heavy gear.

"Was there not another bedroom?" you ask.

"Just this one," he said, "Why? You ashamed of sleeping with a superior or somethin'?"

Sleeping. To your current perverted head, you take it a more immoral way, heat rushing to your face at the thought.

"No, no, I just... thought you needed more privacy. Wanted to have some alone time, you know?"

He glances to you. "If you're uncomfortable, I can just sleep on the floor, kid — nothin' personal."

"It's fine, Ghost, seriously." you said.

His stare drifts on you for a little while longer before shifting away, bending his upper half into the pocket of his tactical jacket for a lighter version of his balaclava; one that wasn't supported with the hard shell of a skull at the front, but printed with a the design of the skull instead. His eyes were more visible this way, tar-like paint on pale skin around the browned irises. You shyly strip of your own vest and jacket, leaving you in a black tank top and tactical pants. The only light that had really illuminated the room was the tranquilizing beam of the moonlight through the pane of the window, white and glowy.

You slump fully onto the bed and sink into the soften material of a pillow. Your resting position distributes some heaven from the tormenting sensitivity that throbs like hell through your pants. The space on the mattress from behind you droops with his weight, a breathy sigh leaving his lips as he settles close to you; the closest you've ever been with him, almost intimate.

After a slight period of time, he's knocked out in a slumber — but you're left awake, a hand now between your legs as the pulsing is at its height; panties drenched and your heartbeat thumping out of the cage of your chest. You gaze over your shoulder at him where he lays closer facing you, his eyes visibly slit shut with the gleam of the moonlight. He adjusts himself and moves in closer to you in his sleep, towering figure nearly pressed up at you. The adjustment leaves you flustered, shock.

Without hesitations, you remove your hand that nestled from the space of your thighs and slipped through the waistband of your pants; stripping of your pants, gliding into your panties and fingertips feeling the soaked fabric of it before trailing further, rubbing slightly against your cunt. Your back arches and you muffle a whine into your pillow, heartbeat sounding at your ears in impossible volumes. Shame was no longer present, libido taking authority over your body and leading you to do such perverted things while thinking of your superior — who was sleeping away right next to you.

In this sort of mindset you can barely grab control of yourself anymore and find yourself stumbling backwards into Ghost, your free hand over your mouth as you feel the area of his crotch press up against the curve of your ass. One of your eyes twitch, hand in your panties rubbing at your puffy lips while your hips begin circular motions at his clothed crotch. The hand at your mouth fails to stay together, fingers parting from each other and granting the noises from your mouth to spill out. His arm then wraps at your waist, unconscious or not, seemingly pulling you closer to him; a bulge in his pants felt at your panties.

"Lieutenant..." you whisper breathily, looking back at him only to see his eyes were no longer shut — but half-lidded and open.

His arm at your waist travels to your hips, trapping you in the enclosure of his hands while he pushes you down further onto his bulge; an audible whine leaving your mouth with additional pants.

"Look at you," he groans with a rasp in his tone, "Gettin' off on her superior like the needy whore she is."

"M' sorry, Ghost, fuck, needed you so bad..." you whine out as his hips grind against your ass harsher, almost in similarity to thrusting, yourself drunk on him and his cock.

"Yeah, love?" he questions, "Say it, how long have you've been like this for me? How many times have you touched that pretty little cunt of yours to the thought of me every night?"

Your eyes are shot vast, saliva pooled in your closed mouth and your panties moist — slick painting the inner sections of your thighs. Words struggle shape into coherent sentences through your mindless babbles and the disturbance of his erection prodding right at your clothed cunt, but you manage. "Ever since I joined the task force," you say through a half-whine, "Since I've first seen you."

A couple of months was your first appearance on working for the task force. Decently skilled and a couple of rank higher than your first impression of a rookie, barely given any training. That's how long you've yearned for him — how many times you've laid sole right at midnight, in your room of the barracks, a hand down your panties while breaths of weight exhale with personal noises of lust. You project his hand instead of yours in the fabric, veins and a bigger expanse of flesh that stretches your tight cunt out with lengthy fingers.

Now those momentary projections had manifested itself into the real life, the reality where your older superior had himself pressed up against you; hungering after you as much as you did for him.

He has his face in the crook of your neck. "Fucked my fist thinkin' of you," you said, "You and your heavenly body distractin' me on missions... drives me insane."

"Ghost, please." you whimpered.

"Tell me what you need, sweet thing, c'mon." he cooes against your neck, the arms around your waist locking you right to the area of his crotch when all you could do is whine and push yourself down for more of the relief. Your body burns and fits of sweat, the temples of your forehead pounding.

"Need you to fuck me," you pant, "Need you inside so bad."

Ghost places a masked kiss at your jaw at the confession and in an instant movement; you're underneath him, a caging shadow scarcely visible by the traces of moonlight through the glass panes. The loss of friction he once gave from behind you was no longer there, leaving you to press your thighs together once again in hopes to rekindle some of the loss. His palms are flat at each side of your head, the bulging muscles of his black shirt outlining through the material — and the thing you've longed for the most, the bulge that lines and becomes trapped in his fabric confines.

He uses his right arm and his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties, ragging the drenched item down past your knees and left to be discarded on the mattress. His eyes preserve in a mature desire; bleary and focused on the exposed region of wet flesh. You bite the skin of your bottom lip, sheepish to never having another person being so up-close to an area that was so confidential to you throughout a large portion of your life. Two of his fingers slide up your puffy lips, soaked of your collected arousal while he elicits a low gasp from you.

"Fuck, angel, never seen someone so wet all for me." he said.

You had wondered if you should tell him now — after you were the first one to make such a bold move on him, you had to confess the private matter of never having intercourse; the only closest sexual encounter you've had was with yourself. (Those nights in the barracks with your single hand.)

"Ghost, wait—" you stutter out, a palm spread-out at his chest in a way to interrupt him of his doings.

"Somethin' wrong?"

You breathe, your throat gone dry. "I- I haven't done this before." you admit.

"You're a virgin, honey, is that it?" he asked with his accent swarmed of concern, "Never had a man touch you like this?"

"No," you said, "I want you to be my first time..." the admission was brief to a point, sure, but it was what you were so desperate in need of. You reserved this occasion just for him, and it had finally gave life to itself.

"Oh, sweet girl," he caresses your face with both hands, large palms squishing your cheeks and rubbing soothing motions into the skin, "Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, please," you whisper, "God, I've waited and waited, only for you to be the first. Nobody else."

With that, his hands drag themselves down your face, your chest and stomach, and aligning at your thighs. He leans himself down onto the mattress, pinning his body onto the cushioned material. Your legs rest at each of his shoulders and his fingers create a restraint; powerless to thrashing or releasing from his hold. His thumb and index finger momentarily fix up the bottom of his balaclava to the brink of his nose, moving back to the flesh of your thigh. You squirm a little from the long, dragged-out desperation that spread through your body like a disease — a plague of lust solely meant for your lieutenant.

At long last his head descends to that throbbing territory right between your parted thighs, all bathed in your bloomed arousal and swollen clit. You feel his tongue kiss over your skin before running one long stripe up your cunt, lips fully puckering over you. To this new, overwhelming ease —out of the extended period of time with the substance's aches— you throw your head back to the headboard, a breathy gasp leaving you throat each time his tongue comes to work on your cunt. His nose adds to the ecstasy that he sends you right into, nuzzling and prodding right at your clit when his mouth works along your slit.

You stifle a moan, but ultimately fails when his tongue fucks itself right into your cunt, nearly felt at your walls. Whines echo off the boundaries of the room, the double simulation causing your eyes to flutter and your walls to clench around his tongue. Your thighs squeeze at his head while trembling, leaving your fingers to claw at the sheets, each and every assembly of your exclusive noises the nearest experience he would ever capture to hearing heaven — an angel, his very own angel.

"Fuckin' heaven right between your thighs, princess," he praised, running his tongue at the spots he was quick to learn that were sensitive to you, "Needy thing, you are."

"Y- Yes, yes... fuck." you whine.

"M' going to ruin you, bunny," he said amid his pleasuring, "Be the first man to ruin you, and this sweet pussy of yours."

Your thighs tremble, thrown-back head releasing noises of pants and disgraceful moans. His tongue works more diligently now, in the habit of working at your cunt. The ministrations are more faster and insistent. "Oh, Ghost..." you whimpered, bucking your hips onto his face and essentially riding his entire facial structure. He lifts his irises to your fucked-out face, staring in admiration, a raw visual of beauty — open-mouth, tilted head, sheet of sweat over skin, and all because of his own doing.

Rather than alternating between lapping at the exterior of your cunt and pushing his tongue right into you, he makes his mind up of only plunging his tongue in-and-out of you. The more rabid motions of his tongue driving up into you is a whole new degree of euphoria, a knot in your abdomen tying itself at the muscle fucking at your delicate walls. But it's not soon when that knot is unbinding itself, your body writhing under him as your hips roll and ripples of pleasure drive out from the undoing knot.

When Ghost arises from his spot between your now-fully soaked thighs, his mouth and nose are saturated with the liquids of your orgasm; the first orgasm you've had provoked by another person. You spasm, at some state of relief — but not enough to fully satisfy the explicit emotions that fomented right to him. Heavy breaths leave your mouth and his, trembling fingers of yours coming to pull off your tank-top and bra; fully nude and stripped beneath him now. You take notice of his eyes widening for a brief second behind the warpaint — astonished, or whatever he had going on at that unpredictable mind of his.

"Such a doll, baby." he said, inclining down to press a kiss to your lips, straightening his stance above you — towering you. He strips of his own shirt, a broad chest of muscles and pale skin, then lingering a hand down to his tactical pants where he shrugs the cloth down to his ankles; thoroughly peeling away from any fabric, except for his boxers with that prominent bulge at the forefront.

You patiently look up at him through your lashes while he slowly tugs at the waistband of the remaining article of clothing, a sensation at your gut anxious for the release of it. He wastes no time pulling the boxers down, cock smacking at his lower abs. Undeniably, he was as large as you've fantasized him to be — but with more length added, more veins that adorned him and a blunt head that oozed of pre-cum. Your breath hitched at the sight, a slow blink of your eyes while he clamped a fist over himself.

He pumped himself a few times in the fist, never once leaving the perspective of your near-goddess body all spread out for him. The stare in his eyes were darker, more obscured with shadows and a deep, perverted passion that you once obtained; only for it to die down at his domination on you, reduced to your usual timidity. Observing his cock in his fist, you bite your lip, that throbbing sense at your cunt returning in a more intense wave.

In a more bent position over your anatomy, you feel the head of his cock prod right at your entrance and you gasped when it starts in circular movements �� gathering some of the remnants of your arousal on the head.

His fingers grasp at your jaw, gently forcing you to make direct eye contact. "Hey, hey, look at me," he whispers, "Relax, honey, it's going to hurt a little since it's your first time, yeah?"

You give him a nod, lip bitten at your teeth.

"If it hurts, we stop, no big deal — got it?"

You give him another nod of reassurance. It was a huge thing to give up, to put trust into the hands of another man — but it was him, your lieutenant, the man you've admired and personally worshipped like your own god. You trusted him with your life, that's how far it was taken, and now you could trust him with taking your virginity; ruining yourself for him.

With the given permission, he slowly fills you up, the head of his cock slipped into your cunt. He groans at the tight sensation, a whimper of your end at his lengthy size inside of you. You already feel so filled, and it was only the blunt head that had been in you. Ghost immerses in how you feel clenched around him, tight and leaving him almost unable to fully thrust himself in; the intimate way your legs bracket at his waist, how your arms wrap his torso like a bandage and your fingers jab at his back muscles.

"Ghost—" you whine out, feeling yourself clench around the head of his cock that left you almost brain-dead — unable to speak, or form a coherent thought at that, "Oh, fuck..."

His large hands keep you confined at your waist, lips pressing at your face while one hand frees itself and cradles you in it. "Still doing okay, sweetheart?" he asks with a genuine concern, and you nod, allowing him to thrust the remaining inches of his cock right into your cunt. Your back arches off the mattress at the sudden movement and the short sting that accompanies it. "Doing so good, love."

He starts out in slow, steady thrusts and you whine with the flow of his hips against yours. Gradually, he speeds up once coming to the realization that you were already adapted to how he moved up inside of you. Your fingers at his back begin to dig deeper, breaking the skin and leaving red marks in the wake. His stamina is a whole stage of extremity than your own, which is why he's able to pound into your cunt without pause.

"You love this don't you, sweet girl?" he pants, "You love having your sweet little pussy filled up by your superior's big cock, huh?"

You rapidly nod with pants between your lips, saliva down the corners of your widened mouth, "Love it s'much, Ghost, oh—"

"My real name, say it, honey."

You whimper, the bottoms of your eyes twitching. "Love how you fuck me, Simon — be rough with me, please, I don't care anymore."

At the your request, his particular set of thrusts afterwards of his are hard and nearing animalistic, right up at your cervix — nearly at your womb. He reduced you to nothing but a writhing, moaning mess where you laid under him; legs fixated at his waist and your arms at his torso forcing him down closer to you.

"Always wanted to fuck you like this, y'know?" he rasps between grunts, "Every-time one of those lowlife rookies eyed you, wanted to bend you over and show them who you belong to," he said, "Fuck in front of everyone like a bunch of animals.

An audible, echoing whine slips from your mouth at his own perverted confession. Who knew he shared the same fucked-up fantasies as you did? (Truly a match made in heaven.)

In the way he fucked into your cunt at a rapid pace, it could be considered animalistic — just like his fantasy. His veined hands caress your waist while every thrust of his hardened cock brushing past your walls and pounding into your cervix extracts an angelic sound from your mouth.

"More, please, please—" you whine out, head thrown back and nails into his skin, "I'll be your girl, 'mmm my god — your only girl, I promise..."

He grunts. "That's right, bunny. I'm the only man who can fuck you like this," he said, "I'll make you remember this night, the first man to ever ruin you like this."

Ghost throws his head back, his posture aligning itself out while his jaw clenches. Sounds of skin-on-skin and a chorus of high-pitched whines along with raspy, masculine grunts leave the safe-house no longer deserted; conducted of sexual nature in its walls. You squeal as he never fails to reach your cervix while he continues to pound into you, addicted to the way your cunt clenches on him like a vice and how your body reacts to his cock impaling it like a natural instinct — clamping on, soaked of arousal just at the mere thought of it settled in you.

The space between your two thighs are messier than the first time, when you found yourself being carried like a bride in his arms, when you ground yourself right to the bulge of his pants. It's sloppy, with a combination of your arousal and his pre-cum painting your inner-thighs like a piece of artwork; the whole scene a scenario of a sexual, brutal renaissance painting.

"M' so close, Simon!" you squeal, "Need you to cum inside, mmph — please..."

"You want that, sweet girl?" he asks, "Want me to cum all inside of your pretty pussy?"

"Yes!"

He chuckles. "You lil' fuckin' whore, all needy like this for her first time."

And with that, Ghost smacks his lips to yours. His tongue laps at each crevice of your mind, a hand coming to grab at your jaw and keep you in position. The results from him eating you out still linger on his tongue, causing you to moan right into his mouth and allow him to eat you all up. Your insides feel raw at this point in the way his cock leaves squishes noises each time he meets with your puffy, sticky folds — cervix bruised and kissed with his overwhelming contact.

"C'mon, princess, show your lieutenant who you belong to," he breathes between kisses, "That's it, I know you can, bunny."

Ghost feels the abrupt stop of your clawing at his back when your cunt spasms around his cock, clenching as tightly when a burst of liquid seeps out and decorates the head of his cock, drooling down the veiny sides. The pads of his fingers come down to rub at your swollen clit during your orgasm, a loud whine earned at the contact. His cock twitches inside of you at your noise, and at the discernment of your pretty cunt squeezing down on him; in some way telling him to stay, never let you go, claim and haunt you down to never leave your side, never.

With your orgasm already wrapped and concluded, he undergoes one of his own; not long after yours. A gush of fluid plants at your walls and floods past your cervix, felt at the inners of your womb. Sensitivity still contemporary, you find yourself mewling at the impact when it spills to the parts deepest inside of you — coddled in the warmth of his seed, filled to the brim. He's quite the artist himself, painting your insides one of the prettiest tints of white. You capture him in a hug, pressing your face into the open slant of his neck while he sinks in the position for a little while longer. He returns the embrace and massages at your breasts before wrapping you in a full hug, collapsing to your body.

He rearranges the stances of your bodies while in the embrace — him on the bottom, while you lay on his larger structure. Your head rests on his naked chest, tiny pants from your mouth while he is successful in catching after his own breaths; his hand in your hair, petting in comforting strokes while he presses repeated kisses to your scalp.

"How was that for you first time, love?" he asks once in breath again.

"Brutal," you said, "I liked it, though."

"Think that grenade powder had quite the effect on us," he said, "fuckin’ hell."

You nosed at his jaw, kissing at him, inhaling his scent of sweat and gunpowder — addictive. "Never knew my superior could be such a pervert just cause of a little powder."

"Not only the powder, doll," he said, "It's you."

[starry-bi-sky]

I'm in A Mood™ (stressed) so im going back to my roots of melting two character together into one person. So bruce wayne!danny fenton. Danny Fenton who, for eight years, grew up in a beautiful gothic manor with his mom and dad under the name "Bruce Wayne". Playing piano with his mother, running around the manor with his father.

Then when he's eight it's ripped away from him. There's blood on his hands and pearls pooling at his feet, and both his parents are dead in front of him.

And he gets shipped off to distant relatives "the Fentons" shortly after, Alfred close on his heels because someone needs to take care of him, someone that knows him. Bruce goes to the Fentons for the safety of anonymity. Gotham's press wants to sink its teeth into him.

Danny misses his city even if it took everything from him. There are shadows in his eyes and he's pale as a sheet even beside his distant cousins, and they change his name to "Danny Fenton' because nobody should know that their newest child was illustrious orphan Bruce Wayne.

They call him Bruce behind closed doors. Danny prefers it that way, he clings onto the name -- the one his parents gave him -- like a lifeline. He makes friends with Sam and Tucker. Tucker takes one look at the willowy, morbid little boy standing in the corner like a shade, ghosts in his eyes, and drags him out into the sunlight, and takes him over to Sam.

When Danny is twelve, he's still not over it -- and he's a little obsessed with the Fentons' research, with the morbid. He has books upon books on death, murder, detective work. Anything he can get his hands on. And stars. He loves stars.

Alfred owns the apartment next to them and comes over regularly. Danny clings to him.

When Danny is twelve, he's still quiet, meek, a shy little thing prone to being bullied. Freaky little Fenton with the night in his eyes and too-cold skin even before he put one foot in the grave. in a sleepover in his room with Sam and Tucker, he tells them the truth. They're his friends, he trusts them.

"My name is Bruce." he murmurs, voice quiet as the breeze, always quiet. he's staring at his star-covered sheets.

"Like Bruce Wayne?" Tucker asks, a joking tone in his voice.

Danny smiles a little, lamb-like with insecurity. "I am Bruce Wayne." And he takes them down to the lab, disrupting Maddie and Jack, to prove it. Sam tells them of her own wealth then shortly after. They start calling Danny "Bruce" in private too -- its trust. Thats what it is. It's trust.

Sam goes to media functions and comes back with aching feet and complaints on her tongue -- and Danny soaks it up all like a sponge, splayed across a beanbag chair with Tucker in her room. He's not envious of her, he used to go to events with his parents and they kept him safe from the ugly of Gotham's Elite. For the most part. He's had comments made at him, he doesn't miss them.

Alfred returns to the manor semi-regularly, Danny goes with him. he wanders the hallways and helps Alfred clean, the last thing either of them want is for their home to fall into disrepair. He brings Jazz with him next time, then Tucker, then Sam. They all help him clean, and he shows them his room. The one across from his parents', it feels strange.

When Danny dies when he's fourteen, the first adult he tells is Alfred. He and Jazz go over to his house more often than they stay in the Fentonworks building. At least at Alfred's, the food doesn't come to life. Alfred sits at the kitchen table and weeps when Danny tells him, Jazz is upstairs, and its just the two of them.

Danny's ghost form wears pearls around his wrist and the gloves look stained with some kind of black substance. He looks like a child who died in a lab accident, but he also looks like a child who has shadows dripping off his shoulders, curling at his feet, hanging from his eyes.

because amorphous blob batman has my heart always and danny/bruce will not escape it even in death even if that IS the only reason im giving him Mild BatBlob Vibes...so far

when they go to the manor, alfred helps danny make a pile of stones between Martha and Thomas' graves, nobody but the two of them (and sam and tucker) will know what it means. (not even bruce's children later down the line, not for a long, long time)

danny dives into ghost fighting on shaky feet and not half as witty as he once was in one world. he's skittish, skittering between blasts from shadow to shadow and clumsily making his way through each battle. but helping people lights a fire in him. he still has shadows dripping off his feet but there's a purpose in his eyes.

and god help him, he's going to help people.

[kyamiia]

Wolf hybrid! Sanemi x Deer hybrid! reader

cw: mild animalistic traits (little prey & predator dynamics, only when mating), obvious fucking, breeding, size king/ strength difference, deer! reader,

- wolf hybrid! Sanemi who couldnt keep his eyes off you the first time he saw you <3 !!

- the way his ears perked up and his tail rose to attention when he caught sight of you in a crowded night market was comical, like he seen the most bewildering thing in his life.

-there goes ol’ you, talking to some merchant selling some miscellaneous product Sanemi couldn’t care about.

- actively changes his direction to go straight to you.

-nothing is scarier than a 5’10, scar covered, scary looking wolf hybrid approaching them as if he had some serious business with you, your deer ears pressing down on your head instinctively in fear as he approached you.

-surprisingly, he was mildly mannered, talking about how he noticed you, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck as he held a small conversation with you.

-from that day on Sanemi was smitten, it didnt take long for you and him to get close, going out, he’d visit you when he didnt have a mission, once he even showed up to your front doorstep with your favorite bouquet of flowers, his white tail swishing side to side behind him.

-6 months into the friendship and you both realize you both enjoyed eachothers company more than you both would like to admit . One confession later you were intertwined in a relationship with Sanemi Shinazugawa.

-Sanemi is as passionate in bed as he is with his duties as a Hashira.

- it comes out brash and intense, he puts his 200% in you.

- fucks you like its his last time ever seeing you, your head is tilted back as gasps are constantly coming from your throat

- he bullies his cock inside you as he leaves harsh kisses on the kiss of your exposed neck, he pants along your skin, his hips slapping against yours a the wet erotic, downright pornographic squelching sound fills the little space between you two.

“yeah yeah yeah yeah so good- yer good fer’me”

Sanemi slurs against your skin as he licks the sheen of sweat that stays atop your skin, his powerful hips bucking against yours in clouded abandon, he needs you, you feel so good, so snug around him, the warmth and wetness of your cunt cloud all of his senses as all he can think about is how good you feel around him. He removes his head from the crook of your neck, some strands of his ivory hair sticking to his sweaty skin before his lilac eyes glance down, taking in the sight of how his dick disappears into the plush of your cunt, its so hypnotizing, the way his girth sinks into you with minimal resistance , its like you were made for him.

Without thinking he grips your hips harshly, pulling out of your warm depths before flipping you over onto your stomach which earned him a squeal from you, turning your body to look behind you, deer ears pinned back against your head in confusion, eyebrow furrowing

“Sanemi ?”

your meek voice calls out before he hovers over you, lilac eyes wide and penetrating right into your very soul

“lemme cum in you.”

he growls out as his hand goes to play with your tail, his fingers going through the soft fur as his fingers ghost up your back and between your shoulder blades

“please let me cum in you.. y’feel like heaven.”

Sanemi practically whines, its needy and filled with such longing, his nose presses against your shoulder as he lets out a shuddered breath against your skin, he waits for your answer, not moving an inch unless he’s given a definitive yes or no.

“Sanemi yes- fuck— just fill me up-“

You whine as you arch your back into him, feeling empty at the lack of him being inside you after being so spent, you need him inside, it feels like the only thing that matters at the moment and that the world wont move unless he continues. With your clear answer his hand pushes your upper torso into the bed, its rough, it’s harsh as he presses his dick back inside, slowly easing himself deeper that elicits a sultry moan from you till hes buried at the hilt.

“hold on for me.”

He rasps into your ear before he snaps his hips up, its a snap that makes you audibly gasp, and before you know it hes set his pace but its rougher, like hes trying reach your lungs as his hips snap up frantically like a animal. White ears perked up a all he can focus on is how your ass jiggles with each rough thrust, his other hand snakes its way to the small space between your boulder blades as he pushes you down onto the bed more, using you as leverage to harshly fuck into you.

“oh yeah loook at you- fuck yah- yer so fucin pretty, gonna look all pretty with my cum in you.”

Sanemi babbles fall onto deaf ears as all you can focus on is how his fat tip pushes against your cervi with each thrust, its borderline brutalizing with how he holds you own and hoe he fucks you. the air being knocked out each time he pushes back in

“nemi- s-slow down- m gonna-“

A train couldnt even compare to how hard your orgasm hit, words catching in your throat like an animal in a trap, you bury your face into the mattress beneath you as you let out a high pitched cry, your cunt squeezing and contracting around Sanemi as he pushed inside you one last time, stilling and his hips lightly twitching as he finishes inside you.

hello :3 !!! plz hybrid wolf sanemi has been on the brain and i still don’t feel like i executed it perfectly, if you have any constructive criticism its very much welcome <3 !!

[meyousing]

𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨, 𝐒𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐦

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: chrollo + prompt 28 "feels good, doesn't it? isn't it so much better when you listen?"

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you've resentfully avoided chrollo's attempts at affection ever since he took you away. chrollo doesn't seem to think that you have any valid reason to act this way and devises a plan to show you why.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: nsfw, coercion, non-con touching, mentions of past kidnapping, lots o manipulation. all sexual nsfw will be below the cut.

Chrollo’s constant attempts at sharing affection with you were becoming infuriating, to say the absolute least. For such an intelligent man, you were shocked that he didn’t seem to have enough intuition to notice that what he was doing bothered you, or to see how his thought process was highly incorrect when he assumed that everything was normal between you two following your kidnapping. It was as if you were the one who was crazy, so mad for thinking that a dent had been put in your relationship by him taking you away. The look of mild confusion he would give when you ducked out of a hug or turned your head when he would try to kiss you; his lips pressing into your cheek instead. These happenings were indeed maddening, but for the right reason. Your bitterness alone towards Chrollo was enough to keep you grounded, not to let yourself be manipulated into thinking that you were the one who was acting out of line. 

The progression of your indignation reaching its boiling point was slow, initially by your choice, though eventually, your efforts would prove futile the longer that you tried. Chrollo was, above all else, as calm and collected as they came. The times when you would react more explosively than usual, in ways like slamming your bedroom door or pushing him away with more force than what could be deemed acceptable by any regular relationship’s standard, he would barely respond. His expression would be as meek as ever despite the obvious, unspoken assertion that he had over you; like he was just letting you get your tantrum out of your system so things could go back to normal sooner rather than later. Nothing can be normal ever again, you would always think to yourself.

His utter repose in these situations was the most discouraging part of it all. If you were showing him your worst, throwing fits when he would try doing something as harmless as brushing his knuckles across your cheek, and he would not spare you a second glance when you denied him in such a childish way… were you doomed? His being so unbothered should have been impossible, and if anything, it bothered you. How could such behaviour not displease him so much that he would be driven to let you go just so you would be out of his hair? 

Your resentment boiled over on one particular day, which ended regretfully. 

All you could hear him say this morning in your immediate post-sleep fog was that he would be out for most of the day, and would be coming home much later than usual. His typical day already had him arriving home rather late into the night, so the thought of him coming back so much later to the point of you possibly being asleep made you nervous for some reason–an odd gut feeling, like you shouldn’t leave yourself so vulnerable while alone in the den of a predator; however, it had been a while since you had experienced the peace of being home alone. You were still incredibly anxious about when his inevitable return would be, but you put forth your best effort to push that aside and enjoy your temporary solitude while it lasted.

Your morning started with reluctantly hauling yourself out of bed and putting on your robe after holding it open in front of the heater–the air had such a cold bite to it today. Tucking your frigid fingertips into your pockets, your body shivered as it adjusted to the newfound warmth, your cold feet carrying you downstairs to start brewing a hot drink. As you poured the water, setting it to boil and watching in wait, you began to zone out. 

Being able to stand here right now could be considered a minor miracle, as your first month in Chrollo’s clutches kept you confined to the bedroom and attached bathroom. He assured you that he trusted you, but he wanted to introduce you to your new home slowly and would have to wait and dictate when a good time for that could be. Considering your frequent fits, you aren’t exactly sure what you had done differently on the day that he decided it was a good time, but it was the one thing that you were grateful to him for. Bitterness always crept back in when you wondered why he restricted your access to the home in the first place if he claimed to trust you, but if it was because he suspected that you would try to escape, he was absolutely right. 

There was one day during this time when you were sitting under a blanket on the couch, watching Chrollo adjust his coat as he informed you that he would be leaving you alone for a couple of hours, before rushing out to whatever job his absence required. After you heard him lock the front door, you immediately hopped up and ran to one of the windows in the living room to see if you could get it open. You were unsurprised to find that it wouldn’t budge, not even when you used the force of your entire body weight to try prying it out of its frame. The situation was the same for every window on the ground floor, and it wasn’t until you stood in front of the front door itself that you heard a sudden voice from behind you, coming from inside the house.

“This has certainly disrupted your progress quite a bit. How disappointing, I thought you were moving along rather well.” 

You whipped around to see Chrollo standing a few feet away, his expression almost heartbroken at the sight of your hand reaching towards the doorknob. When did he come back inside?! You heard nothing aside from the sounds of your shuffling around the house. It hadn’t even been that long either, perhaps fifteen minutes? Had he left at all? Regardless, he was not lying when he said this disrupted your progress. You were condemned back to your bedroom for another week, as a punishment. Your dread of being sent back to that essential jail cell had you apologizing profusely, the biggest change in your behaviour since this all had happened. The sympathy in his eyes came across as so false while he told you that he was sorry to have to do this, but you brought it upon yourself.

The bubbly, popping sound of the water reaching its boil brought you back from your stupor, quickly shutting off the burner and pouring yourself a mug. As you plodded over to the couch, you began to wonder about what you could do today. From the way Chrollo made it sound, the house was yours all day long. You already knew that spending time trying to escape would not work, your last punishment not only taught you your lesson but also that he would never let any exits be accessible to you under any circumstance. No matter, you could just use your time today to sit and contemplate other ways to act out against Chrollo that would get him fed up with you, maybe to the point where he would drag you to the door and just kick you out. That fantasy made you chuckle; how hopeful you were. If my temper has proven useless this far in, what more can I do?

As you sipped on your drink, content with the heat of it pleasantly tickling your insides and warming out the rest of your body, you found yourself feeling comfortably drowsy. You recalled it being quite early when Chrollo left, and your excitement to enjoy your seclusion had you departing from your bed much earlier than normal, to make use of the day you were given. That previous thought of anxiety about falling asleep without Chrollo being here reinstated itself in your mind, but it was still early after all. A nap couldn’t hurt. You slouched down into the couch, taking one more sip of your beverage before placing it aside and curling in on yourself, resting your weary eyes for what would hopefully not be too long; just enough to feel relaxed for your special, lonely day. 

It was a sensation that woke you up, and given how strained your eyes still felt when you tried squinting them open, you could not have been asleep for very long at all. Your eyes fell back shut as you went to raise your fingertips and massage your lids, but when you wanted to move your hands from where they had been tucked into your chest, you couldn’t; they were restrained. Not by something as gruff as handcuffs, or implicative as some tie or silk ribbon, but by another pair of hands, a pair which you recognized much too soon. 

“I came back to get something that I forgot to bring with me. You looked so endearing sleeping here, I couldn’t stop myself by the time I was already at your side.” 

His voice came from over your shoulder, and you registered a moment too late that Chrollo was back home, cuddling you from behind with your hands intertwined. 

You hadn’t been this close to him since before your captivity, and it seemed to you then that this entire day was a setup to make this happen. He was just waiting for the perfect time to take advantage of you, of your comfort, to pounce. He must have been fed up with your resistance by now, especially since you tried moving your hands again but he wasn’t allowing that to happen, his grip iron. The idea of him going out of his way to do all of this was so upsetting to you, you truly felt excited to live today differently than every other mundane one you had here. The thought of it being a trap brought tears to your eyes, a reaction you had no control over once the first tear fell into your hair.

“Why would you do this?” your voice was whiny, words thick as you swallowed down the sudden lump in your throat. With your hands restricted, you opted to rub your cheek dry against the accent pillow you had been resting on. You didn’t receive a reply at first, you could only feel Chrollo shifting around before he appeared in your peripheral, hovering over your side.   

“Why are you crying?” he sounded genuinely curious, his knuckles so soft as they brushed away your tears. You were too exhausted at this point to resist his touch; your will crumbled once you discerned that you wandered right into his scheme, so naively. 

Chrollo watched you with solace-filled eyes and carried the utmost patience as he caressed you, but you couldn’t respond yet, any attempt at speech only turning into a broken whimper as you internally scolded yourself. He frowned at the small sounds you made, moving to cup your cheeks so you’d only be able to look at him. His thumbs swiped over your cheekbones, and he looked like he was about to say something more, but you cut him off.

“I can’t believe you would trick me again.” A harsher sob wracked your body as your emotions came crashing down, overtaking your actions. Your hands found his, latching onto his wrists with an abrasive dig of your nails as if to pry him off. “Why can’t you just leave me be, just leave me alone for one day?!”

You squeezed him harder, fingernails almost puncturing his skin, but no difference was made. He didn’t even flinch, his sorrowful gaze was unwavering as you broke down. Your eyes blinked shut, batting away the never-ending stream of tears that flowed out of them. 

What an opportune thief Chrollo was. Amid your emotional haze, you barely registered the newfound warmth on your lips; that being his own. The first time he was able to kiss you, without you having enough clarity to move away. 

Everything was calculated.

With being so flustered and exasperated by everything, you found yourself melting into the intimacy. Your grip on him relented, letting gravity control your hands as they fell to rest beside your head. Chrollo’s head tilted to deepen the kiss, sinking you further into the couch as his fingers slid to your jaw to keep you in place. The way his body caged you down in this suffocation almost felt like a representation of how caged off he kept you from the rest of the world. Over a month of captivity, with no rescuers in sight. You couldn’t know if anyone had even tried, Chrollo made past implications about “taking care of” anyone who would try to come between you two, so you would not dare to ask to spare yourself the potentially gruesome details. Understanding his line of work, you knew better. 

Even if you could find some form of escape despite the lack of active search-and-rescuers, running away by your merit, where would you go? You could not go back to your own home, nor could you endanger the lives of anyone close to you. To keep living, you would be left with no choice but to run right back into Chrollo’s arms. Those same arms that began to wander now, slithering off of your face and to the south of your body, his hands finding your breasts first and giving them an ample squeeze. 

The premonition of further invasion brought some brief lucidity to your mind in the form of a reactive fright, breath hitching and muscles tensing as you squirmed around in an attempt to drive him off of you. You gave this your best effort considering your compromised position, though it didn’t make much of a difference at all. That didn’t mean it went unnoticed, it worked to some extent when Chrollo broke the kiss, but his hands remained in their place.

“No more of that, Y/N. You’ve moved past this behaviour, moving so well. Don’t revert that progress again, now.” 

As if it should’ve just been that simple for you to agree with, his lips resumed their actions on you with an attachment to your neck, his tongue darting out after he kissed the centre, before sliding the tip of it down to your clavicle. His fingers crept up to the collar of your shirt, tugging it down as he nipped at your bone. When your head reeled back in an attempt to distance yourself, you were sure that from Chrollo’s perspective, it looked like a pleasurable reaction that only encouraged him further. You guessed right, as he moved to start unbuttoning your nightgown. Your response came too late when you tried to pull his hands away, he was moving too fast. 

You heard a tear as he yanked the material down, ripping it open. You frowned at the possibility of one of your favourite pyjamas being ruined, that frown deepening even further when you recalled your lack of a bra and what Chrollo could see right now. This brought you to panic and you tried to move away, but his body shifted further down so he could wrap his mouth around the tip of your breast, preventing your movement and making your chest churn. He looked into your eyes as his tongue flattened against your nipple, though when he saw that you were looking away he pointed his tongue and pushed the end of it right onto your bud, swirling over the tip and sending a sensitive tremor throughout your body. A helpless hum escaped you at the feeling, a mistake that Chrollo immediately planned to exploit. His lips sucked your nipple into his mouth, before letting it pop out as he lifted his head off of you. The cold air blowing over your newly bedewed skin made you shiver (or it could have been induced by your dread. With the whirlwind of emotions you were experiencing, how were you to tell?). A light, knowing smirk played on his lips.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Isn’t it so much better when you listen?” 

As one of his hands traced down your side, moving under your gown and stopping his palm over your panties, his fingertips landed above your clit and pressed in. You writhed, trying to shake your head in defiance to what he had just boldly asked you, but when he circled his fingers you were rendered immobile. His hand remained in its place, the extra friction created by your underwear pleasing you deliciously. Holding back any sound almost became painful, it was hard to resist pleasure when you had been denying him for such a long time, your body being neglected for so many weeks. Your reaction was out of your control, yet you didn’t wish for him to stop. 

He could tell you were settling into the feeling, your hips twisting and turning to follow his movements and meet the pace and pressure that he set, your chest rising and falling as your throat ached from forcing your moans back down. 

It wasn’t until you felt Chrollo’s tongue dampen your panties as it replaced his fingers that a keening sound was forced out of you; the change in touch felt so different now, so good. The increased wetness of his saliva and your growing arousal let him stroke along your clit as if there were no barrier at all, making your legs tremble. Before you could even try to stop it, one of your hands plunged down to grab at his hair, pulling on his roots which simultaneously pulled a groan from his throat. That vibration had your back arching, you were barely coherent now as you could focus on nothing aside from enticing the orgasm that began to stir within you, being further encouraged when Chrollo finally tugged your panties aside and splayed his tongue over your clit again, bare.

You let out a lewd gasp, your eyes watering for a second time today but now for such a better reason. That immediate skin-to-skin contact was divine, causing the buildup of your peak to be strengthened and amplified immensely, especially after being untouched for so much time. Untouched by this same man, who learned about all of your weak spots the very first time you slept together, and knew exactly how to touch them again later to get you melted and desperate beneath him. 

With that in mind, you always knew this would happen again. He never made any second attempts to touch you when you would push him away before, an obvious ploy to lull you into a false idea of his “respect” for your boundaries. Chrollo was, above all else, as calm and collected as they came. He had to remain composed to maintain his patience and seek out the right time to strike, after all. 

He nibbled your clit suddenly, and that was your end. Your thighs clenched around his head, his name husky on your lips and releasing in a higher pitch as you came hard, fingers wrenching against his scalp. Your body shook, breaths heavy and interrupted by mewls as Chrollo continued swirling his tongue, one of his hands sneaking down to prod his fingertips into your pussy, riding your orgasm out even better with the added touch. 

Once your pleasure crests to its fullest, the fall back down to reality hits you hard. Chrollo’s movements had slowed but not completely stopped, and when the delectation steadily turned into overstimulation, you remembered the vile course of actions that he took to get you here. You bleated in protest, unable to form the words that could demand him to stop as your hands braced the couch, helping you tug yourself away from him. His arms quickly hooked around your thighs to keep you right where he wanted you, hauling you back down. He gave a final sloppy kiss to your pussy, his lips glimmering wet as he looked up at you. The sight of him so dreamy between your thighs sent something down your core that you hated. 

“I don’t like having to repeat myself with you, Y/N. You know better now, I shouldn’t have to repeat myself with a jewel so bright. Lay back down, let me please you.” His hands were firm and kept your hips flat, leaving you stationary. 

“I know you weren’t ready until today, but allow me to make up for all of the lost time.” He kissed your clit again, stunning you further as the pain of overstimulation had long since faded, your body welcoming pleasure again, craving it. You would have never been ready, not until today or any other day. But you knew it would happen, Chrollo always got his way. A thief so unforgiving would stop at nothing. “As long as you continue to listen, I will give you everything you desire.” 

© meyousing 2023. do not share/export my work on to any other platforms. do not translate my work. 

[geeky-nightphilosopher]

I bet the first time Nana meets Eliot- she sees the God fearing, flag wearing 18 year old boy. (The one that Eliot looks for in the mirror and can't find.) Nana doesn't see a criminal. Doesn't see a man who has blood on his hands. She doesn't see a warrior bleeding and crying out for mercy. Just a over tired, stressed, broken 18 year old- trying to prove to the world he's worth fighting for. That there's hope in saving him. Nana doesn't question Eliot's roaming eyes. Roaming eyes that are either looking for danger or looking for exits. The older woman simply smiles and pulls him to the kitchen. Makes him sit down and puts a mug of coffee near his callous hands. Nana doesn't react when she hears screams, moans, and groans at night. Nor in the morning does she make a remark about walking by the room and seeing Hardison and Parker next to Eliot on the twin bed. (Eliot is in the middle.)

I bet when Nana first meets Parker, she doesn't question her habits at all. Some how (Hardison, obviously,) has Parker's favorite candy and cereal. Some times, Parker will sit right in front of Nana with a brush and a hair tie. Nana will gently brush her hair while she plays with whatever child is in front of her. She doesn't slap Parker's hands away when she grabs extra food. And she definitely ignores seeing Parker sneaking into the room Hardison and Eliot share. (Nana saw it when they walked in- Parker feels safe with them.) In the mornings and the windows are open- she looks out to see Parker and Alec on a bedsheet curled up to each other. She smiles. Nor does she comment on missing things after they leave. Especially since a few weeks later- those things return outta the blue. Nana has no qualms when Eliot shows up with both Parker and Hardison behind him- Parker sick and Hardison injured.

"Sorry, Nana," Eliot apologizes, looking meek at coming to her place, "I can't get them to list'n. Can't get 'em to rest." And together- Nana and Eliot get the two trouble makers on the couch. She might not question the reason why Eliot showed up with the two. However she does give Eliot a sparing look. She see's the ragged, tired look. It doesn't take a whole a lot of brain power to know that the two so called trouble makers- got Eliot into the dog pile. (He was suppose to follow her into the kitchen- he didn't. She knows Parker and Hardison grabbed his wrist.) (What can anyone say? She has eyes on the back of her head.) (Eliot allows to get pulled onto the couch with only mild, gruff, complaining.) When she goes back to the living room to check on her charges- she finds Eliot in squished in the middle- being used as a pillow. (He's knocked out too.)

Nana doesn't mind Parker teaching her kids how to pick locks. Or watching Eliot teach them self- defense. She doesn't question it when she see's little four year old Becca with pig-tails- standing by the counter helping Eliot with breakfast. Nana hums when she opens the door on a Saturday morning and see's Eliot, Parker, and Hardison (though Hardison begrudgingly-) with a tool box. After all she had left a message to Alec that her sink was leaky.

Instead, she makes coffee and pulls out Parker's favorite cereal. She asks if They are staying for lunch and even dinner. Makes causal remarks about one of her more difficult children- and watches as Parker and her baby Alec go and find the kid.

None of them comment about Parker recruiting half of kids that come from Nana's house. They keep it hush- hush when neighbors stop by for a cook out. Many of the neighbors ask about the trio- and Nana only replies with a smile.

"They're my kids." She says fondly- watching as Eliot grills as Parker is poking and prodding the chef. And Alec is simply smirking as he's showing Isak how to hack.

I bet Nana treats Eliot and Parker like her family. Because they are Alec's family.

[whoreish-behaviour]

Steven Grant + Marc Spector x Reader

Warnings >~< = Hair pulling, mild brat taming

Not proof read

Shutting your eyes, you attempted to breathe normally - anger radiating off you in waves as you sat criss cross on the sofa - gaming controller almost on the brink of breaking in your tight grip.

It's just a game, it's just a game, its-

Marc's scolding words repeating in you head as you (forcefully) dropped the controller on the floor, the satisfying sound of the plastic doing little to ease your frustration.

'Just a game.' You murmured, shutting your eyes momentarily so you didn't have to keep staring at the DEFEAT! on the tv screen.

However, as soon as you reopened them - the anger flew right back.

'Fucking assholes! Spamming the same controls doesn't make you a better player-.' You rambled, face flushing as you felt yourself getting worked up.

'And my stupid fucking team, like seriously-'

'Darlin’?'

You snapped your mouth shut at the sudden voice of Steven, turning your head to look at where he was stood by the front door. He was dressed in his usual oversized attire, brows pinched together.

'You okay there?' His voice was soft, head tilting in that adorable way when he was unsure.

You pursed your lips, one side of you knowing that you should just take your loss and move on. But, you couldn't shake it off, it was too fresh.

'I'm fine.' You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back against the sofa as you looked back to the tv.

DEFEAT! PRESS 'X' TO CONTINUE

You heard Steven's footsteps as he migrated through his apartment, the sound of something heavy dropping on the counter before the tapping of his shoes made their way to you.

You felt slightly stupid for staring at the unmoving tv screen but made no move to change the channel or start a new game.

You felt him loom over you from behind, hand coming up to rub the top of your head lovingly.

'Aw darling, you know its-'

'I know Steven.' You yourself almost winced at the bite in your tone.

He didn't respond, a pregnant pause hanging in the air before he gently removed his hand from your head.

'Okay, well let me know if you-'

'Uh huh.' You cut him off, the rush of being an utter brat going straight to your head.

While Steven was sweet, you also knew that he loved to ring you back and put you in your place - problem was that it took a long time before that switch would set off inside him.

Giving you the perfect open window to let your frustration spew with no consequences.

Uncrossing your arms, you leaned forward and away from Steven to reach for the remote - lips set in a pout.

You weren't expecting the tight grip your hair was succumbed to, fist unforgiving as you were yanked back to your original position, back flat against the sofa.

'That any way to talk to Steven pretty girl?'

You swallowed thickly at the sound of Marc's unmissable American accent, throat bobbing at the sudden nerves racking your body.

'Hm?' He probed, hand pulling your hair even more taught as he leaned down into your space, running his nose over you jaw and then down to your neck.

Your body immediately shut down, Marc's intimidation and dominance usually having that effect on you.

'And now you're ignoring me, just digging yourself a deeper hole.' He reprimanded, using his hold on your hair to give himself more access to your neck.

'I'm sorry.' Your voice was quiet and meek, complete opposite to your earlier coldness.

Shutting your eyes, you accepted your fate when you felt him chuckle into you - lips brushing your skin and making you feel like an exposed nerve.

'No you’re not.' He pulled away, cold air cooling your warming skin.

You gasped, eyes shooting open when the hand in you hair somehow tightened, pulling your head back until it was rested over the edge of the sofa, Marc's displeased upside down face coming into view.

'But you will be sweet girl.'

[nahoyasboyfriend]

Obedience & punishment

a/n: baby's first angst fic and my first time writing kit. hopefully this isn't too bad 😭 I tried.

warning: I don't think there's anything besides caning.

word count: 1.6k

sister mary had changed after she took over briarcliff. she wasn't the meek girl you'd seen from afar. She was cruel, outspoken, and authoritative. you happened to be the one chosen to do her bidding. so when she unexpectedly asked you to go fetch kit walker, it made you wonder what she wanted from him.

“if I may ask, can I know what you need him for?” you mumble, keeping your voice measured.

she glances at you, mouth flattening into a thin line, and then tersely replied, “he’s in trouble.”

nodding, you don't press it any further, and scurry off to go find him. you don't know why he's in trouble. you haven't heard any rumors about what he could've done, and nobody mentioned anything until now. you hadn't spent any personal time with him, but he seemed nice, or at least as nice as you could be stuck in here. he was cordial the few times the two of your paths crossed, and it was surprising that such a mild mannered man could do the horrible things he did.

surveying the bleak common room, your eyes hone in on him. even from afar you see how the asylum was wearing down on him. he was staring off into the distance, wholly out of touch with the real world. his spirit had dulled, emptiness filling the void where ardent desire to be free once burned. your heart aches simply looking at his despondent form. his eyes had grown heavy bags underneath them, his lips chapped. he looked a mess. you edged closer, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he noticed you before you could, flinching away. it was a justified reaction so you didn't acknowledge it, “I need you to come with me.”

he eyes you cautiously, chewing on his bottom lip, “why?”

you give a weak shrug, “sister mary asked for you.”

it takes a moment for him to get up, but eventually he slowly rises from his seat. your eyes follow him up until he's standing in front of you. then you turn around and head straight to her office. she doesn't appreciate waiting. occasionally, you peek behind you to see if he's still there, feeling a sense of relief wash over you when you do.

once you reach her door, you shoot one more cursory glance his way before knocking. you hear a muffled voice, that you assume is telling you to come in so you do. you push the door open, holding it so kit can slip by. you go to leave, but you hear her say, “no, stay. I need you to do something.”

rather hesitantly, you follow him in, letting the door fall shut behind you. she gets up out of her seat, walking around to lean on the desk. the tension kills you, makes an aching pit in your stomach. it makes you feel uncomfortable in your own skin.

“confess,” she proclaims. he looks confused like he's unaware of what she's questioning him about.

“admit that you murdered those women,” she asserts, crossing her arms and cocking her head.

“I didn't do it,” he snaps, like he’s repeated many times before. you've heard those words so much they've started to become blurry. a muddled heap of truth and lies. it doesn't matter if it's true. nothing they say really matters in briarcliff but they say it anyway. usually because it's what they want to hear, what they need to believe to survive in this place. if you're guilty then you deserve it, and nobody wants to believe they deserve this.

sister mary lets out an annoyed sigh, a frown tugging at her features. she falls silent for a few seconds, then she looks at you, “go grab a cane.”

she barely spares him a glance as she says, “pull your pants down and bend over.”

she pushes herself off the desk, stepping to the side. succumbing to his fate, he obliges. there's no point in fighting a losing battle. you walk to the cabinet, and pick out a cane. you pick the one you think hurts the least, mainly for your peace of mind than out of concern for him. you attempt to hand it to her, but she shakes her head, “you do it.”

worms breed in your stomach. a heaviness settling on your heart. you thought about saying no, and running off with your last shred of morality. sensing your dread, she gives you a deceitfully warm smile. a silent threat. now wary of the consequences, you stayed. bearing witness to the atrocities that took place in the asylum was difficult, but you could get accustomed to it– you had. you hardened your heart, convinced yourself that these people are supposed to be treated like this. but you had never been the one to deal out any punishments, and when you do it just happens to be oh so respectful, awfully polite kit walker.

you shouldn't feel bad, you know that. he murdered and skinned those innocent women in cold blood, but as you peered down at him, you almost couldn't believe that he would do such terrible things. you raise your arm, and begin the motion to swing, but you don't make contact with his skin. panicked, your eyes flit over to her but she doesn't look annoyed, instead she looks amused like this is free entertainment.

with a dismissive wave, she urges you, “go on.”

you swallow down the lump in your throat, lifting your arm once more. you do make contact this time, and you see him jolt at the feeling. his head falls onto the desk. you strike him again. he manages to muffle his pained cries by biting his bottom lip and shoving his face into his elbow.

“tell me you killed those women, walker,” she asks again. like a stubborn child, he wildly shakes his head. she tuts, “three more.”

and you obey because it doesn't matter how you feel. all that matters is her word and the fact that he needs to be punished. tears roll down his cheeks, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“admit it.”

“I didn't do nothin,” he grits out. his will power is commendable despite the circumstances, and it makes the weight on your shoulders heavier. she doesn't need to say it, because you're already hitting him again, four more.

“this could be over if you would confess,” she snaps, annoyed, and he lets out a watery chuckle.

“yeah, right.”

she isn't entirely wrong, this would end. although, it would be used against him in trial, ultimately leading to his execution. if it wasn't for that, you'd encourage him to confess too. though a sick part of you wished he would suddenly profess everything, save yourself from the heartache that you could be beating an innocent man. your arm aches, and your hand is throbbing from how hard you're clenching the damn thing.

he winces with every strike, though he tries not to. they’re measly attempts to cover up his weakness. stray tears intermittently slip down his cheeks, and there’s blood seeping onto his spit-shiny lip from all his biting. his ass is covered in raised welts and tiny specks of blood from the thin cane. It looks like the air simply brushing against it would hurt. in spite of all this, he remains resilient, taking each swat in stride. you've lost count on how many times you've hit him, or how many times he's had to repeat that he didn't do it. you can barely listen to her complaints, and her snide remarks about how he could end this.

when he still doesn't come clean, mary gets tired of him. quickly turning peevish and brooding. she goes quiet for a long while, until finally she lets up, ordering for you to stop. you try to brush off all of it just as one more smudge on your conscience, something else to keep you up at night, but the sight of him sticks with you. he looks so… broken. piteous little sobs leaving his pink lips, trembling through the pain.

“leave. now.” she huffs, and you can tell it's meant for the both of you. you wait behind to watch him leave.

he uses his arms to push himself off the desk, carefully tugging up his pants. you can see the way his eyes threaten to gloss over again and how his breath hitches from the pants rubbing against his welts. it must hurt like hell. you don't attend to his needs yet. not now, not under her watch, so you wait until he's out the door. you catch up to him in the hall.

“um, I can fetch you some salve to soothe the pain later.”

he doesn't seem too pleased with your presence because he flat-out ignores you, picking up the pace. determined, you match his pace. he scowls, shooting you a harsh glare, “don’t you have someone else to bother.”

“I just wanna help you.”

“I don't need it,” he remarks, continuing to walk away. accepting the fact that you're not going to make it through to him, you stop walking, allowing him to get further away from you. you feel a dull ache in your chest watching him step away. a hollow empty feeling. you just did something terrible to him, and you can't even convince him that you only want to help him. it's completely understandable on his part, but it still makes you feel helpless. so you retreat to your room for the day. you hope that he seeks you out and takes your offer. you don't know if it's the guilt or the genuine concern for his well-being that makes you desperate to help him, but all you can do now is pray that he comes back.

[seramilla]

carmilla introducing vaggie to her girls. misscarriage

Carmilla: girls, theres someone i want you to meet

Clara: moma, we already know vaggie

Carmilla: si, but im introducing her as your sister

clara passed money over to odette: told you itd take less than a year for her to adopt her

carmilla: not quite adoption, remember when we died i was pregnant?

Odette and Clara return to the compound later that evening, filthy and covered in grime from a full day of excavating angelic weapons. They can't believe the sheer number left behind this time. Thanks to Charlie and the others at the hotel, there were more angelic bodies than Sinners; carrying not only weapons, but covered in armor. The sisters are tired but excited to get back to work the next day, to dig into the secrets their discoveries may uncover, and see what they can create from them.

After cleaning up, they notice the building is surprisingly quiet. Carmilla said she had work to do, and would wait up for them. The dark expanse of the warehouse is eerie, and their footsteps echo as they make their way to Carmilla's makeshift apartment on the second floor. They can see from the lights in the doorway that she's still awake; or at least still there, so they can tell her what they'd found. Upon opening the door, however, the two quickly realize their mother isn't alone. It's that girl...Charlie's partner. Vaggie. Sitting at their mother's side, Carmilla's hand on her knee, talking like they've known each other for years.

Carmilla is...smiling. And so is Vaggie. Odette and Clara stop in the doorway, staring at the two, puzzled, until they are noticed. Carmilla and Vaggie immediately stop talking when they see their visitors; Vaggie even shifts away a little, embarrassed. Carmilla stands abruptly, rubbing the back of her head with her claws awkwardly, but ultimately gesturing toward her daughters to come in.

"Girls," Carmilla says, a little catch in her voice. "Welcome back. You've met Vaggie, haven't you?"

"Yeah," Clara says, as she and Odette enter and shut the door behind them. "We met when we delivered that custom order to the snake man at the hotel. How's the weapon working, by the way?"

"Umm..." Vaggie flinches a little when Clara brings up Sir Pentious. She has such a look of profound sadness on her face at the mention of him, like she wants to cry. There's such a drastic change in the angel's demeanor, Odette awkwardly clears her throat and tries to change the subject.

"You're that angel that's dating Charlie, right? How are you feeling? Are you recovering okay? You had such a nasty scrape with the Exterminators."

"Oh! Yes," Vaggie says, seemingly surprised Odette would ask how she’s doing. “I’m doing a lot better, thank you. Charlie’s been taking care of me. And, uh...Carm--your mom, too.”

Vaggie’s voice is so much smaller and softer than either Odette or Clara remember. She’d been so full of energy and authority at the hotel; directing all the residents and keeping them out of trouble. It’s surprising this is the same woman in front of them now, acting all meek and mild in front of their mother. Hadn't she challenged her just several days prior? What happened since then?

"You've sure been spending a lot of time with Mama lately," Clara says, putting voice to the obvious. It's not so much an accusation, as an observation. There's no suspicion or malice in Clara's voice, just a lilt of a...question? Odette's thinking the same thing, if she's honest. Carmilla's been spending a lot of time with the angel. She doesn't mind, but...she also can't escape the feeling that something else is going on. Something she's not being told.

"Did you adopt her or something, Mom?" Odette asks, chuckling, trying to lower the tension building in the room. "She's strong. We could always use an extra hand around here."

The silence that permeates the space at her comment shocks Odette to her very core. Suddenly, both Vaggie's and her mother's eyes spike open, like Odette just mentioned someone had died. The change in their demeanor is palpable. Vaggie turns away, as if she's unable to look at the sisters anymore. Carmilla stutters again, trying to find her voice. She's been doing that a lot lately, where Vaggie is concerned. Carmilla can't seem to find the words to explain, and Odette and Clara don't know the right questions to get answers out of her.

"What? What did I say?" Odette looks at her mother, concerned. Carmilla looks like she's about to cry.

"It's not like that, mija," Carmilla says, unconvincingly. Oh shit, Odette notices, she is crying. "Umm, girls...come sit with me for a minute. Please? I need to tell you something."

They do. Vaggie moves out of the way so Odette and Clara can sit on the futon next to their mother. Carmilla reaches for the angel, too, trying to draw her in, but Vaggie just turns away, her back to the rest of them. She looks so small again, like she's curling in on herself. Carmilla looks like she wants to say something, but thinks better of it, and draws her attention back to the other girls.

"Clara. Odette. I'm going to say something, and I need you to...to keep an open mind. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, Mom," Odette says, getting concerned at this line of questioning. "What's wrong? You know you can tell us anything, right?"

"Yeah! Whatever it is, we can take it. We're worried about you." Clara chimes in. As if her mother would ever doubt their resolve. Carmilla should know them better than that by now.

Carmilla pauses, for an unusually long time. Odette sees her trying to find the right words to say. Carmilla's hand then lowers, and she's...she's rubbing her midsection, over her pubic bone. Over her belly, like when she was...

Carmilla sighs, choking up again, but decides to just go for it anyway.

"All those years ago, when...when we died? Do you remember that I was...that I was with, aahhh...what state I was in?"

"You were pregnant, Mom," Odette says, squeezing her mother's hand, choking up at the memory. Carmilla had just found out, not even a few weeks prior. They hadn't even had time to celebrate. Her baby shower had been months away, and then their lives had been taken from them, snatched away like a thief in the night. "Of course we remember. You can say it. How could we forget?"

"Do you remember when we finally woke up, and how long it took for me to remember how we were killed? Clara, do you remember what you asked me?"

"I asked you what happened to the baby, and you said you didn't know. That it was just gone... Wait, Mama, hey! Are you okay? What's the matter?"

Carmilla catches them both off guard. She is actually sobbing now, out of nowhere. Face in her claws, digging them into into her forehead, and leaving red welts on the skin there. Her body shakes, wracked with grief, as if she's finally letting it all out, like she's been holding it together. For them. She probably has.

"I..." Carmilla starts, tears streaming between her fingers. "I can't! I'm sorry--I can't!"

Carmilla starts breathing rapidly, in-between sobs, like she's hyperventilating. Odette can't remember the last time she's seen her mother this way. Not since...

She and Clara are on their feet in an instant, about to wrap their mother up in their arms, and console her. Hug her, hold her, or...something. Anything, to get her to calm down and tell them what's going on.

They would have, anyway, except suddenly, Vaggie is there, already doing it for them.

"Carmilla, hey!" Vaggie says, squeezing Carmilla's shoulders from behind, much more level-headed and put together than the moment prior. She almost looks like she's back to her normal self. Brave...or at least she's trying to be. "Carmilla! Carmilla, stop! It's okay. You don't have to do this."

"I do!" Carmilla shouts, turning her head to look at Vaggie. The angel is surprised -- the matriarch's eyes are glowing. But around the edges, they've softened, and there's so much blue mixed in with the red.

Odette notices, too. Carmilla's eyes haven't been that way since...well, since they were alive. Like...like the human part of her is trying to fight to the surface. Resurrected by memories; ones she's being forced to recall, that she might rather have forgotten, to spare herself the pain.

"I have to tell them, Vaggie. They need to understand."

"Understand what, Mom?" Odette asks. She knows she shouldn't keep asking this. It's stupid. It's obviously hurting her mother. Odette's probably pushing a line here, that shouldn't be crossed, and she knows it. But her curiosity is killing her, all over again, and she just can't help herself. She needs to know what's wrong, so she and Clara can fix it.

Vaggie surprises her again.

"Let me do it, then," Vaggie says, forcefully, insisting, trying to get Carmilla to see reason. "You've been so strong for me. You've helped me so much. Let me do this for you."

"Vaggie, you don't have to...please, just give me a moment. I can--"

"No. This is hurting you. I want to help." Then, without hesitation, the angel looks at Odette and Clara, straight in the eye. Odette sees pain there, too; so much pain, and loss, but Vaggie pushes past it, and tells them, point-black, "It's me! Carmilla lost her baby, and it was me! All the Exorcists! We're lost children! We all died before we were born! They did tests on your blood when I was in the hospital, and you're all a match! Carmilla is my mother. You're my sisters! I know this may be hard to believe, and I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but you have to--!"

Vaggie doesn't get a chance to finish her tirade. Suddenly, a body collides into her front, wrapping its arms around her snuggly, in an almost too-tight bear hug. The angel stumbles on her feet, and may have toppled onto the floor, if the other person hadn't caught her.

That's when Vaggie notices the other person who has her is Clara, her arms grasped around her middle, with her face buried in the fallen angel's neck.

"I knew it!" Clara proclaims into Vaggie's skin, letting go of the smaller woman just enough to look back at Odette, sitting on the futon with their mother in a shocked stupor. Carmilla is looking at them, too. "I fucking told you, Odette! I fucking told you!"

Odette stands, and then immediately collapses to her knees. Despite her addled brain, despite her racing mind, and despite the absolute lack of belief she's experiencing in that moment, she still has enough of her wits about her to say, "Shit...sis, you were right."

[xzaddyzanakinx]

| A Gift | part two

Anakin Skywalker x Female Reader

MDNI 18+

Warnings: aggression, crude behavior, dominant Anakin, daddy kink, unprotected PinV, choking, inappropriate use of The Force, breeding kink if you squint, cockwarming if you squint and tilt your head

Info: Unburned Anakin, angry Anakin, established relationship, wife/husband, death, not proofread

Anakin POV

My mind was clouded and I was being pulled by The Force to intrude on her thoughts, there must be an explanation to the ridiculous amount of goosebumps that had spread over my skin. I reached out, tendrils of thought probing the universe in search of my love.

Finally, warmth flooded me, her pinkish aura surrounding me, but there was something else. This wasn’t her typical Force signature, there was a droning noise, as if she were exerting a mild amount of energy. It felt familiar but out of place.

I pushed farther, deciding the surface wasn’t deep enough, I needed specifics, a live feed of her thoughts. I poked and prodded through my minds eye until she relented and allowed me access, once the barrier fell I could sense an overwhelming feeling of pent up desire.

“What is this? What are you doing?” I demanded, my voice reverberated around the confines of her mind.

“Fucking myself since you won’t.” She retorted, quickly gnawing away at the fragile cord tethering our minds together, and in my shocked state I was in to shape to reinforce it.

The connection fell away and heat rose in my cheeks, rage flowing through me I threw up my left hand. An chair lifted from the ground and hovered in front of me while in groaned and creaked under the pressure of The Force. With a loud -crack- the metal pieces bent and crumpled in on themselves, only to be forcefully pushed in the direction of the door opening.

“Sir! The Senator is awake, would you like to speak with him now?” A general with a meek manner popped his head into the room.

“Fine.” I pushed past him, walking into a conference room turned interrogation chamber.

The general closed the door behind me as I watched the senator groggily blink as his eyes focused on the dark eyes of my mask.

As I stood here in the middle of an important meeting with a senator I was attempting to secure as another dependent of The Empire, a buzzing followed by a chirp sounded on my commlink bracelet, indicating I had a video message on my handheld.

“One moment Senator, take this time to consider your options.” I nodded at him, standing up from my chair and giving his bound hand alittle tap as he mumbled in agreement.

I walked out into the hallway, retreating to a private room. As I shut the door and locked it I realized the message was from -her-. My Sweet. The disc whizzed to life as it flickered while projecting the image in my palm.

I watched her curvy figure slink into view, her voice silken and teasing. She had always had a penchant for the dramatics and I reveled in her beauty as she put on her little show. This must be what she meant, my precious girl was only trying to cheer me up. I smiled hearing her playfully tell me she had something for me.

Eager to see what she’d chosen I sat down and laid the disc before me to enlarge the image. She returned with a red box, her slender fingers deftly untying her neat bow. With the lid tossed aside she reached into the box, pulling out a black mass, no… a helmet. She pulled it over her head, masking her beautiful face.

She was always so thoughtful, she’d had a brand new helmet made for me. I felt the soldered seams on my current mask with gloved fingers, grateful for her sentiment. My hand fell to my thigh quickly when she removed the helmet and walked with purpose to the bed. Spreading her legs and positioning herself over the mask.

“Just think, this could be you under me.” She lowered herself testing the waters with a gentle buck of the hips across the ridges of the new mask.

A slow burning anger seeped into my bones. It was one thing for her to pleasure herself with my permission. It was completely different when her selfish desires spilled over into the territory of disrespect. I ripped off my crudely restored mask to get a better look.

“Oh, Vader!”

What did she just say?

I tapped the disc twice and replayed that clip only to discover she did indeed utter my Sith name. I pounded my fist on the table, shaking the holographic image of her writhing form.

She mumbled incoherent nonsense between broken gasps and waves of unspeakable moments. Though one particular string of words jumped out at me, it was punctuated by the violent glare of dissatisfaction in her eyes. This was purposeful and what she would say next would surely be unpleasant to hear.

“Gonna make me cum quicker than you can!”

She squealed her voice shaking and legs stiffening around the helmet as she feverishly chased release.

Her face contorted, this was the moment I was intruding into the deeper confines of her brain, I could see the self pride she had about her disrespectful act flash across her reddened face as she concentrated to send a thought back to me.

Suddenly her orgasm crashed around her, I could hear the gushing of her slick on the creases and crevices of the mask. Her juices coating every inch of the maker-forbidden metal and plastic heap of shit between her legs. She came to the thought that she had upset me, she had pleasured herself by blatantly disrespecting my image and my position as her loving husband.

Unacceptable.

The disc flew into my metal hand and I crushed it easily, the pieces falling to my feet. A swift 180 on my heels pointed me to the door, on my journey to my TIE Fighter for a quick visit back home. I angrily snapped my helmet back into place before walking out the door.

Passing the room where the Senator was restrained I nodded to the guards.

“Take him to his cell.” I commanded and they quickly stumbled to follow their orders.

The determination in my steps parted the traffic in the hall much quicker than ever before. Once I reach the hangar my TIE is waiting for me front and center. A poor excuse for a commander attempted to intercept my departure, asking where I was going and did I need assistance. I answered by swiftly sending him into the durasteel wall with a sickening thump.

The engine roared to life and the moment it was primed and ready I took off at light speed, jumping into hyperspace just outside the hangar doors. Minutes later I was jostled around in the cockpit by the power behind the drop from hyperspace. My home the Death Star, my wife, my prized possession loomed in the near distance.

The tension was palpable even despite the distance to the docking bay. I could feel her annoyance and anger radiating off the Death Star. I was furious too, each parsec that passed was one too many, my metal appendage was creaking under the pressure of my grip on the controls.

Finally I breached the shields and landed in the docking bay, scarcely waiting for the TIE to fully power down before I jumped out of the cockpit.

“You!” I pointed to the nearest person, an engineer.

“Where is she?” I demanded, the fury evident in my voice.

The engineer had stood up in complete stillness spare the shaking of his hands at his sides.

“The Empress stationed a Trooper at your podium with strict orders to await your arrival.”

He pointed warily up at the metal loft where a trooper stood guarding… the helmet.

My footsteps echoed in the silence of the hangar. All work had stopped in my presence. Each person watched in silent fear as I made my way up the metal stair case with a heavy stride.

My hand shot out, pushing the trooper back from the podium and against the cold durasteel wall and pinning his arms outstretched at his sides. I snapped his neck to the side with a sickening crunch and he let out a whimper of pain. My leather glove touching the lip mark on the white backdrop of his helmet, streaking the color downwards.

I let him fall to the floor in a sputtering heap and swiftly turned and grabbed the helmet to tuck under my arm as I walked toward our quarters.

“Dispose of him.” I shouted, not looking back but hearing the shuffling of movement as I entered the hall.

With a wave of my fingertips the double doors leading to my personal quarters flew open and I marched in. Locking the doors behind me and tossing my cape and old helmet aside. The new one, fresh and shiny, and covered in her dried arousal rested in my hand.

“Where are you?” I shouted, heading toward our bedroom.

With no response I barged into our room, finding her naked and sprawled across the sheets before me.

“It’s about time.” You quipped, batting your eyelashes sweetly.

“Do you like it? Nice huh?” You grinned, loving the way his upper lip twitched in annoyance.

“You tore me away from very important business.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Oops.” You said, shrugging your shoulders.

“You little-“ he cut himself off grabbing your ankles and yanking you to the edge of the bed.

The swift movement made you squeal in surprise, mouth open in anticipation due to the hunger in his eyes.

“Such a whore that you had to do this?” He shook the helmet in your face.

He grabbed your chin with his flesh hand, his glove cold on your skin. He squeezed your cheeks to pry open your mouth. A sick smile twisting his lips when he heard your gasp of surprise.

“Clean it.” He demanded, giving you no room for argument.

He guided your mouth to the ridges and crevices of the cool plasteel, keeping your mouth forced open with enough pressure to make your eyes water. He watched with a glare as you licked every bit of your mess away. Once he was satisfied he dropped your jaw and your head fell back into the mattress.

“I should leave you here. Wet and needy.” He scowled, his wide pupils scanning your curves.

“You don’t deserve me after this stunt you pulled.” He scoffed, angered by your lack of response.

Each second his temper grew, your arousal did as well. You could feel a pool of wetness gathering between your legs and you clamped your thighs closed, hoping he wouldn’t see, but knowing it was futile.

He didn’t move a muscle, just sending a wave of The Force over your thighs to wrench them apart. He stepped forward, plucking off both of his gloves. He stopped just short of the edge of the bed where your legs were quivering in a Force hold. He turned and you thought he would toss his gloves aside, but he had other plans.

One large black leather glove came down on your damp cunt with a loud smack, sending a white hot streak of lighting up your spine and straight to your throat. A scream of pain left your lips as your face reddened, breathing heavily, tears collecting in your eyes.

“Look at me!” He demanded, bringing the glove coated in your slick down on your cheek.

It was embarrassing, disgusting, and thrilling. You couldn’t help but feel ashamed that you enjoyed this harsh punishment so much. Your pussy gushing again as a new wave of pain flooded your mind. You let your eyes meet his, his pupils wide as saucers, drinking in every minuscule reaction you gave him.

“You’re going to lay here. Take what I give you, with no complaints m’kay?” He quickly disrobed, standing before you he languidly stroked his rock hard cock.

You feverishly nodded your head, trying to move your arms and quickly realizing your wrists had been glued to the bed just as your legs were. Anakin let out a cruel laugh, watching you struggle.

He approached you at a snails pace, his hands gliding across your thighs and up your stomach. His metal fingers clamping tightly around your left nipple, stretching and pulling it roughly. His flesh hand grazed your neck, his thumb brushing against your jaw tenderly.

It was a moment shared between you, his no-nonsense attitude paused to make sure you were ready for your punishment. You gave a tiny silent nod and he smirked, immediately gripping the sides of your throat and forcing his throbbing member deep into your cunt.

The lewd squelch that echoed in the room made Anakin falter, relishing in the knowledge that he had done this to you. He had made you this wet, he was in control, he could give and take from you what he wished.

You whimpered at the burning stretch around his cock, he gave you no time to adjust, simply beginning his ruthless assault. His hips snapping against your inner thighs as he anchored himself to you with both hands on your hips.

Your eyes unfocused, your breathing unsteady as he pounded into you. You were completely helpless, unable to move, unable to deny how much you loved this. You moaned in a deep guttural way that made Anakin’s dick twitch.

“Dirty bitch.” He laughed. “You like being my fuck toy?”

“Uh huh.” You whined, getting a sneer in response.

“Pathetic.” He leaned over you, hovering above your breasts before taking a nipple into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth, flicking the hard bud with his tongue to elicit another groan from deep within your chest.

He pulled back, a wild fire in his eyes as he lifted your hips slightly off the bed to change the angle. Allowing him to rut into you deeper than before, you could almost see his cock moving in your belly and the thought of it made you clench around him.

His breath stuttered, his expression faltering at the feeling of you.

“You should be ashamed.” He shouted, rearing back to slap you with his bare hand.

The sickening smack brought the tears welling in your eyes down your cheeks as you let out a choked sob.

“What would your people say if they knew you liked this? If they knew their Empress was a cockslut?” He laughed, reveling in your speechlessness.

“Answer me!” He yelled, “let them hear you. Wanna hear you.”

“T-they’d be ashamed of m-me!” You shouted back.

“That’s right.” He sneered.

Anakin released his hold on your hip with his metal hand, leaving deep indentations in their wake. The warmed metal brushed your clit and you jolted at the new sensation. Your cunt already throbbing and raw from the relentless pounding of his hips. He snickered as you shuddered and tried to back away.

“Now, now. This is what you wanted isn’t it?” His voice condescending and cruel.

His metal thumb flicked over your swollen clit at an inhuman rate, releasing an equally inhuman screech from deep within your chest.

“Fuck!” You screamed, your bound hands searching for something, anything to grab onto.

Without missing a single stroke his other hand left your hip and you were held in place solely by The Force as he fucked you. His flesh palm pressing down into your stomach, his eyes rolling back in his head at the added sensation.

“Feel that? Feel daddy’s cock in you?” He grunted through clenched teeth.

You whined in a reedy response, too out of it to speak as your orgasm quickly approached.

“Yeah? You close baby?” He asked sweetly, his demeanor shifting from domineering to caring.

He cooed as you nodded, your face tearstained and red.

“Oh sweet girl. Doing so good taking my cock like this.” Anakin stared down at you, watching your tits bounce in tandem.

“Wanna hear you ask for it.” He breathed heavily, hips snapping at an erratic pace.

“Pl-“ you gasped, the tight coil already beginning to unravel. “No! Don’t please. Please don’t stop.”

He grinned, loving the way your voice broke halfway through your pleas.

“It’s okay baby. Give it to me, cum for daddy.”

He watched in awe as your back arched, your mouth gaping open in a silent scream. Your fists so tightly clenched that your nails dug into the skin. He released his Force hold on your arms and leaned forward, you instinctively threw your arms around his shoulders as he pushed your legs up. Your knees nearly touching your ears as his strong hands kept them in place.

“You ready?” He panted, a bead of sweat dripping from his nose down onto your lips, you eagerly nodded and licked the salty droplet from your bottom lip.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, loosing control quickly. “Fuck you full babygirl.”

His forehead dropping down to yours, his hot breath fanning across your face as he scrunched up his eyebrows in concentration.

“Su-such a pretty pussy.” he whimpered, voice getting quieter as his legs began to shake.

“That’s it baby, take me.” He groaned, his hips flush with yours as he pumped rope after rope of cum deep into your cunt.

“C’mere.” He whispered, cradling your head in his hands to give you a passionate and slow kiss, massaging his tongue with yours, taking it between his lips to suck it gently.

You bucked your hips unintentionally from overstimulation when his cock began to soften slightly. He chuckled, a sparkle in his eyes.

“You think I’m done with you?” He asked, holding you close to his chest, both arms under you possessively.

His lips brushed your ear, “Not even close.”

Tag List:

@tsugumiholic

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@burnthecheshirewitch

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@star611

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Let me know if you wanna be added/removed!

[marantis]

I'm feeling brave, or maybe I just wanna test out the waters and see whether or not what I have in mind actually works for people. So you get a WIP. This is my first try at a scene for the Scum Villain and Epic: The Musical mash up that me and @ineffectualdemon have cooked up together the other day. Would really like some feedback, but keep in mind that this is just a very quick little thing that barely got any editing. I'm testing the waters so to speak.

Luo Binghe stared at the man in front of him. Of all the things that could potentially have been thrown into his way at this point in time. He had not expected it to be Cang Qiong Mountains mild mannered sect leader appearing in front of him.

He wasn't as tall as Luo Binghe remembered him being, but then it had been years since he'd last seen him. Though the fact that they were of a height did little to take away from the oppressive aura emanating from the sect leader.

Mild mannered, polite and friendly seemed words entirely foreign to the cultivator blocking his path.

“In all my years of living it isn't very often that I get pissed off. I try to stay collected, but damn, you crossed the line.” Yue Qingyuan's voice thrummed with a low growl, making the hairs at the back of Luo Binghe's neck stand to an end. It took all his strength of will not to take a step back.

Just what had brought Yue Qingyuan to the point that he was seething like this, his eyes steely and cold? Luo Binghe's gaze flickered to the dead body of the ancient silver tongued lark. He had been aware that killing it would aggravate the cultivators as it was seen as an auspicious omen to be seen in these parts. Luo Binghe had not enjoyed bringing it down but Shang-shishu had insisted that its silver tongue was essential for their plans.

His continued silence only seemed to aggravate Yue Qingyuan more, he bared his teeth, his grip around the hilt of Xuan Su tightened. “I will make you bleed, I will put you down.”

Without further warning Xuan Su slid from its sheath, overbearing power barrelled into Luo Binghe, forcing him to take that step back after all. As he raised Zheng Yang he could feel it trembling from the strain of holding off Yue Qingyuan's qi, the tremor travelling all the way down his arm.

Luo Binghe grit his teeth, pushing back against the spiritual energy with his own. Then Yue Qingyuan swung Xuan Su.

The force doubled, tripled in intensity, wave after wave crashing over Luo Binghe, he could barely fend it off, as Yue Qingyuan stalked closer with each sword glare he let fly loose towards Luo Binghe.

“You are the worst kind of scum, cause you're just an ingrate. You who reeks of false meekness that's who I hate. You pretend to be friends, but then turn on him and push him down. Well, you totally could have avoided all this, had you not killed my son!” Luo Binghe staggered under the onslaught accompanying Yue Qingyuan's enraged cry.

At once, he realised where Yue Qingyuan’s anger was coming from. He could not fault the sect leader for it. Not when inside himself was the same boiling flame of resentment. Yue Qingyuan was just aiming it at the wrong person.

Luo Binghe opened his mouth to protest, to defend himself, but was immediately choked by the Yue Qingyuan’s roiling qi swirling around them.

The sect leader was almost right in front of him now. Had Luo Binghe not just mused that they were of the same height? Like this, killing intent rolling off of him in violent waves Yue Qingyuan towered over him. He blocked a direct slash from Xuan Su, Zheng Yang quivering in his grip as Yue Qingyuan bore down on him.

His throat was dry as he lashed out, hoping to drive Yue Qingyuan back, to get just a moment to breathe, but a primal fear clawed at his lungs. Luo Binghe had faced countless beasts and monsters, taken on dozens of high ranking demons, the heir to the northern throne amongst them, but the last time he'd felt fear like this had been when the abyss was looming open behind him and Shen Yuan had thrown himself between Luo Binghe and the approaching Shen Qingqiu.

“He was far too nice, mercy has a price. Unlike him I have no mercy left to give.” Yue Qingquan hefted Xuan Su into the air with both hands and brought it down, its blade gleaming murderously. Luo Binghe caught the blow on Zheng Yang but could only watch helplessly as his arm was pressed down under the mountainous weight of Yue Qingyuan's wrath until Xuan Su tore into the flesh of his shoulder.

Luo Binghe screamed as Yue Qingyuan's spiritual energy forced its way into him through the open wound, flooding him with a torrent of pain. “Close your eyes, the world is dark and ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves.”

Luo Binghe only barely caught Yue Qingyuan lifting one hand from Xuan Su's hilt, vision blurry from the pain of qi forcing itself through his meridians, then something shot forth from Yue Qingyuan's sleeve and his vision went black. His last thought was, that this couldn't be how it ended. Weren't they both fighting for the same person?

[sorencd]

CAPTIVATED

pairing: steven meeks x reader

summary: dancing in the rain with steven.

word count: 1k

a/n: OOH MY LOOOOOVEEEE U DONR HAVE TO LIDTEN TO A WOOOOOORD I SAY anyway song is captivated by iv of spades!

masterlist

ooh, my love.

heavy clattering resounded throughout the room you currently situated in, the rain outside was pouring densely and each drop that slid down the window gave you a sense of comfort. you were huddled in bed, waiting for steven to return from his trip to the kitchen. he offered to make a cup of hot chocolate for the two of you, and obviously, you accepted. the song that was currently playing in the background to occupy the silence was starting to get repetitive─ so you groggily got up to change the record that was playing on the turntable and glanced at the vast collection of vinyls you had that sat beside it. you chose the song ‘a big hunk o’ love’ by elvis presley and removed it out of the sleeve to play it. you really loved this particular song of elvis, not only because the tunes were catchy, but if you really listened to the lyrics closely, it’s composed of sweet verses that sometimes get overlooked because everyone is too busy grooving to the music, and you weren’t an exception.

you could hear feet approaching the room you were in while you were grooving to the tunes the turntables was playing. it was steven, he was holding two mugs of hot chocolate and an equally warm smile on his face.

“sorry i took so long, i forgot i put the stove on low.” he placed down his mug on the bed side table and handed you yours, to which you gratefully accepted.

you sipped onto the mug with a thankful smile and looked out the window, taking notice that the rain outside has mellowed down.

“aw, the rain’s about to go away.” a glum sigh escaped your lips as you took another sip. you loved the rainy weather, though the song you two were listening to right now doesn’t exactly match the atmosphere─ it still provided you with a sense of comfort that you’d always bask in without hesitation.

“that could be a good thing, we could visit the library once it's gone away." he suggested. a library date does sound nice, you missed the old scent of books, the quiet surroundings it came with, and the kind old lady you'd always see manning the front desk. you might just take him up on his offer.

but the conflicting thoughts that reverberated in your brain didn't want to stop, just like how you wished the same for the rain. you whined as you flopped down on the bed after steven comfortably sat down, now you laid there beside him. "but the rainnn, you know?"

you don't have to listen to a word i say.

his laugh mixed in with the music that was booming from the turntable, but you were able to discern his voice amidst elvis'. steven understood where you were coming from, since he too also loved the rain and all the glory it came with. he looked out the window and brashly gave you a grin, an idea popping into his mind.

"you wanna try dancing in the rain?"

"dancing in the rain?" your face twisted in mild confusion. you understood what he was saying, but you couldn’t quite comprehend each word. dancing in the rain? it was about time he asked you to waltz with him during a storm.

"yeah. come on, it'll be amazing! the weather right now is just perfect." he pointed a finger outside, the rain wasn't pouring as hard as it was a few minutes ago, but at just the right amount. it seemed like even the weather liked the idea.

"we better go outside now before it fully stops!" you hurriedly hopped out of bed, almost tripping over the blankets that tangled your feet but luckily steven was there to swoop in a steady you before you were able to kiss the floor, briskly following suit to your rapid speed-walking.

you opened the front door and marveled at the scenery in front of you─ the sun was ever so slightly peeking from the clouds and shined it's brightly-hued rays while the rain drops continued to delicately fall from the sky, everything was so pristine, you loved it. steven, who was admiring the view from behind you, took a hold of your hand and led you to the front of your house, not bothering to put on a coat because it wouldn't be as fun to dance without it. as you touched the pavement and left the front porch that was protecting you from the rain, you felt the rainfall make contact with your skin. instantly making you feel cooled off.

cause all that really matters is that i love you,

"may i have this dance?" steven bowed as he politely offered his hand towards you and with a glowing grin. it felt like everything right now was fresh out of a movie. if only you knew earlier that the love of your life would ask you to dance with him in the rain, you would've hired a photographer to catch the moment forever.

you giggled at his gesture and gladly held his hand, mirroring his movement and bowed yourself. "i'm not really good at dancing."

he drew you closer by taking both your hands and instead of the gracious motion you were expecting him to do, he instead lively shuffled about as water splashed onto the both of you. his dancing reminded you of the song you were listening to previously, both electrifying and energetic. "you don't need to know how to dance, just have fun!" he ended with a laugh.

you smiled, matching his actions as best as you can. now there were two idiots dancing in the rain, it was romantic. both of you flailing your arms into the air as you held onto one another, the downpour continuing to cascade onto the both of you. the feeling of droplets running down your arms and legs felt amazing. he was amazing. his smile that was on par with the sun's luminosity, his dancing skills that radiated delight. it all made you happy. and in the next few days, it also made you sick. it's a good thing you have steven to take care of you.

i really do.

© sorencd . 2023 ─ do not copy, repost, translate or claim any of my works as your own.

[alastorsshade]

The lights to the living room flicker on just as the front door creaks open. The shadows fleeing away to reveal a slender, tall man shrouded in a muted brown cloak. His pointed, slightly upturned nose scrunches up in mild surprise as he stands red handed in the doorway. His hands still tinged with red from his latest kill despite his best attempt at cleaning them off in the bayou water.

“Where were you?” A similarly built women sits petitely in her favored arm chair. Arms crossed and eyes narrowed disapprovingly. She lets the silence speak for her as she watches her dear friend skirm underneath her gaze.

Like always Alastor manages to micromanage his expression, keeping up his smile while his eyebrows adopt a concerned tilt to them. “Why Helen, what could you possibly be doing up at this ungodly hour. I simply must insist you go to bed.” He clicks his tongue in admonishment as if he had any ground to stand on.

“Funny. Seeing as you have work in about” Her eyes flicker over to the clock, moving far too quickly to actually read it. She had already been staring at it for the past few hours, willing it to tick faster while she waited for his return.

“Oh three hours give or take.” With a look of a women on a mission, she rouses from her seat, stalking towards her housemate like the devil himself.

Alastor for his part stands still, his mind racing for an excuse she would find acceptable. Already knowing there was none. He has always admired her wit but now it was putting him in a rather difficult spot. At the last minute, he attempts to rebuild the distance between them only for her hand to snatch his wrist.

The sudden movement almost causes him to lash out on reflex, but at the last moment he aborts the action, freezing up instead like a deer caught in the headlights.

His mama had raised a gentlemen.

“Alastor. Look at me.” Her voice- surprisingly gentle- startles him out of whatever trance he was in. When he first comes back to his senses, he realizes his hands were shaking. He can’t seem to stop them.

The second thing he notices is how Helen is gripping his hands tightly. There was no possible way she didn’t feel the remaining tackiness from the leftover blood now. Why she hadn’t already ran off to the fuzz was beyond him.

Once again Helen’s voice cuts through his thoughts. This time sounding a bit more strained. “Is this your blood?”

He doesn’t bother to ask her for clarification already knowing what she was referring to. His response nearly automatic. “No.” Later on he would vehemently deny how meek he sounded.

“Good.” A simple one word answer had never sounded more sweet yet he found himself reeling from it all the same.

His brows scrunching up as his smile dims in his befuddlement. “Good? Aren’t you going to ask who it belongs to?” He didn’t actually want her to, but none of the scenarios running through his head lined up with what was happening now.

Helen for her part opened her mouth, but asked a different question entirely. Completely throwing off the script. “Did they deserve it?”

He wasn’t used to being the one left speechless but in that moment he could only utter, “Yes.” The part of him that wasn’t still reeling from this sudden turn of events, fully invested in seeing where this was going.

She nodded as if this was all just a socially acceptable conversation and they weren’t discussing murder. “Did anyone see you?”

“No.” He once again answers without hesitation.

“And did you take care of the evidence?” She added a tad bit more urgent, looking fully ready to hide the body of Alastor’s latest kill.

“Yes.” He would never be so sloppy.

For once she forgoes etiquette and shrugs unladylike. “Then, I don’t care. Go get cleaned and I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”

His legs moved without him noticing with him trailing up the stairs before Helen called out to him softly as if her voice was whispered by the shadows scaling up the walls and wasn’t projected from her own vocal cords. “Oh and Alastor…”

He stilled, waiting for her to continue. Expecting her to finally have come to her senses and tell him to get out.

The house was under his name, but he would leave if that’s what she wanted. It would be far more ideal then having her report him.

“We’re going tk have to discuss this if it’s going to become a habit.” Yet again her words surprise him, keeping him on his toes. Although he was sure he would grow fond of these instances if he was given the chance to.

“Of course, dear.”

~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~*~**~*~**~*~*~*~*

Fun fact: I wrote this while wearing my new light up hello kitty headphones, it really fit the mood lol

Fuzz - slang for police

Yes, Helen is supposed to be the name of Alastor shadow when they were human because I couldn’t help myself with the irony considering the name means light and it was a popular name in the 1920’s.

Yes, I already have a whole backstory in my mind for Alastor’s shadow even though canonly the shadow probably doesn’t have one or was never human to begin with but the idea still lives rent free in my mind.

Yes, if you read my other drabbles the shadow only uses he/they pronouns, but in this drabble they still only go by she/her pronouns. It isn’t until after they die and go to hell that they start to go by their current pronouns.

[voreboy]

30) Do your preds every now and then see that one person or tyke, that they want to consume badly? Like go out their way to find them? Like a vamp smelling the sweetest blood of one particular human the dwarfs all other humans by comparison.

[Trigger Warning: Ageplay/Youth Prey]

For T-Bone (both Fatal and Safe versions), its little brats that give him any kind of shit or disrespect. Once a tyke shows him attitude, he'll do anything to track them down and put them in their place (which happens to be his gut).

Evan is at the opposite end of the spectrum: the more mild mannered, kind-hearted and meek the tyke is, the sweeter they are to him. It triggers his primal yet protective nature and he wants them in his belly to ensure their safety. He won't necessarily hunt them down in a literal sense like T-Bone does, but it make cause him to impulsively swallow one right in front of him (such as in a supermarket isle or by a gas station pump). At that point, he usually has some awkward interactions with their guardians. :P

If they are unaware of his special skill, he'll try to convince them their little one scampered off (probably with a friend), or if they're in the know, he'll apologize profusely for swallowing them without asking first.

Vien, being a complete narcissist, loves being idolized. Any tyke who become infatuated with him (in an innocent way) he'll playfully dominate by making sure they experience the wonders of his stomach.

Rigo, being objectively handsome and quite the narcissist, likes to hunt down women who reject his advances. Women who do willingly fuck him still typically find themselves sliding down his gullet, so those who don't are simply prey for the hunt.

Mason likes to eat the rude and (akin to Evan) will leave the mild-mannered alone in most cases. The more of a dick you are, the more likely you are to end up in his gut. If you're particularly skilled at getting away though, he won't play detective and track you across the globe (he's too apathetic for that). The easier it is to find you, the better likelihood of him pursuing you until he catches you.

[Trigger warning: Suicide]

The only exception are those who are suicidal, in which case he'll play a role in assisted suicide, giving those who have given up a final kindness by making their passing as swift and painless as possible. This isn't done out of malice; in fact, (in his warped, nihilist thinking) its one of the few ways he believes he can do a good deed.

deviantART | RP Guide (24+ ONLY/STR8 Guys Welcome) | Ageplay Guide | Diet Plan | Vore Multiverse Guide | Send Me Anons (But State Your Age) | Meet Me (40+ ONLY/STR8)

[I've dealt with suicide ideation for decades. If you're in crisis, you're not alone - please seek help]

[tears-and-smiles-ao3]

Dancing Around his feelings

Jaskier x Countess de Stael, rated M, oral sex, unhealthy coping mechanisms, open relationships, implied polyarmory

The ballroom was grand and luxurious, as it always was when Jaskier found himself invited to stay with the Countess de Stael.

The bright yellow silk curtains lined each window, gently illuminated by the early morning winter sun.

They lay in stark contrast to the pale grey decor of the humongous crystal chandeliers that dominated the room.

Incredibly showy, just like the Countess herself.

Jaskier walked over to the mirror at the end of the room, his footsteps echoing loudly.

Having grown up in a large manor, he was used to such things, but it just felt odd.

His footsteps were quieter on the dirt floor of a small town tavern. Jaskier could prance around, singing to his heart's content, and never make as much noise as he was now.

The vase in front of the mirror was empty of flowers. Presumably, the Count was out of town.

Like himself, Vincent loved flowers. It's why Jaskier had chosen his moniker after leaving his wretched family home many years ago.

Jaskier was a bright flower, yellow like these curtains. It popped up everywhere, out in the wild. It was hardy and strong, things Jaskier very much wanted to be.

He wasn't delicate, thank you very much. Geralt and his concerns could fuck right off.

A sudden pang clenched around his heart and Jaskier leaned over, bracing his arms on the slim table.

His eyes flickered up to the mirror and there it was: the tears he had been trying not to shed.

Fuck, he'd swore he wouldn't think of him.

Closing his eyes, Jaskier inhaled sharply as he tried to take a deep breath.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. The sharp pain is certainly a welcome distraction.

Focus, Jaskier. Feel the physical pain. Ignore everything else.

Slowly, the world shifted. A feeling of release coursed through him, wiping away his turbulent emotions.

It left him numb, which is hardly how he wanted to begin this tryst.

Fuck.

Still, there was nothing he could do about it. He just needed to make himself look presentable.

Looking up into the mirror, Jaskier dabbed at his red rimmed eyes, spreading some of the kohl he'd put on more faintly around his eyes.

Cursing himself, Jaskier reached into his pouch and drew a thicker line underneath both eyes.

It didn't make him look much better.

Sighing, he instead pinched his cheeks, watching as a pink glow spread across them.

It had an effect. He still looked upset, but also a little turned on.

He was just about to try fussing with his hair when a servant came into the room.

"The Countess is ready for you now," the young girl stated. She stood holding the door, one arm pointing loosely towards the next room.

Standing up, Jaskier gave himself a little shake, then raised his head proudly and walked towards her.

"Thank you, my dear," Jaskier said, bowing deeply before her.

The girl tittered, and Jaskier beamed as his eyes met hers when he rose.

If Jaskier remembered correctly, she was the daughter of Mildred, the cook.

He hoped she liked working here. There was nothing worse than having to work for an awful master or mistress.

Yet, the Countess was not his parents. She was something else entirely.

Virginia liked things her own way, yes, but she seemed to cherish those around her.

She was forthright and had her husband right where she wanted him: meek, mild and silent.

Truth be told, Jaskier often wondered how the Countess put up with him and his insistent rambling when she demanded obedience from her husband.

Virginia never scolded Jaskier. Instead, she seemed fond of his witterings.

Much more appreciative than Geralt.

Fuck, there he was again thinking of him.

He couldn't. Not here.

He needed to be at the Countess beck and call. That's what they'd agreed, after all.

They climbed the stairs, the girl leading the way. Not that Jaskier didn't know the way, he'd been here more than anywhere else at this point.

When they reached the Countess' chambers, the girl bade him farewell.

Fixing his doublet, Jaskier opens the door and steps in.

Virginia was lying draped across the bed, her face partially hidden by the bed's heavy curtains.

"Darling," she crooned, pushing up to look at him. "Come here."

Putting on his best smile, Jaskier strutted over and crawled onto the bed.

Immediately, Virginia's eyes darkened.

"It's been a long time," she said, lying back down.

Jaskier hummed. "Too long."

He crawled over her, slotting his body between her legs, his arms bracketing her head.

Leaning down, he let his lips met hers tenderly. The moan Virginia let out delighted him, so he deepened the kiss, pushing their lips harder together.

Suddenly, though not unexpected, Jaskier found himself flipped onto his back underneath the Countess.

He let out a small gasp, then pulled the pillow down and placed it under his head, anticipating what's coming next.

"I do adore you, Jaskier," Virginia said as she crawled up his body to straddle his face.

"I'm ever eager, my lady," Jaskier said impatiently, helping the Countess to pull up her skirts.

There, underneath, she was bare and she descended, sitting on Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier loved using his tongue. He loved to talk and sing, but most of all he loved this.

The Countess' cunt covered his mouth and Jaskier's hands gripped her hips, forcing her down harder as he knew she liked.

The air stole from his lungs but he didn't care. All he cared about was his tongue inside her, his nose rubbing against her clit, and her loud moans of pleasure.

They gave him life, urging him to lick deeper, push against her.

It was heaven as only Jaskier could know.

In all his years as a paid escort, the Countess was his favourite because she never kept their encounters secret.

The Count knew all about it. Sometimes he was there in the room, kneeling in the corner and watching.

He liked being ignored the way Jaskier loved being the centre of attention.

Like now, the Countess was only thinking about what his mouth was doing.

Jaskier suckled on her folds tenderly, eliciting another soft groan from Virginia.

In truth, sex work was an easy thing for Jaskier to fall into. He loved giving people pleasure, so why not make money from it at the same time.

No one seemed to mind, either.

Well, that's not true. Geralt hated it for reasons Jaskier couldn't understand.

Dammit. There he was thinking about him again.

His body tensed, his shoulders scrunched up and his breath, the little that he had, caught in his throat.

The Countess lifted herself off him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, concerned.

Wiping his mouth, Jaskier coughed and forced his body to relax.

Smiling, he said, "Fine, darling. Now, where were we?"

Obliging, the Countess let herself be coaxed down.

It didn't take much more to get her to come for the first time.

With shaky legs, she collapsed beside him. A hand came up to stroke across his cheeks.

"I do adore you, Jaskier," she confessed almost breathlessly. "Why on the continent did I let you leave me last winter?"

Jaskier closed his eyes before he spoke, even though he knew his voice would betray him.

"Geralt," he croaked out, coughing to cover himself.

The Countess didn't seem to mind.

"Ah, yes. And will you be running away again come spring?"

"Not this time, my lady," Jaskier said weakly. "This time it will be you chucking me out when you get sick of me."

"Right now, I'd say that's not likely," Virginia snorted. She looked down on him with such soft eyes.

Her hand moved towards his lips and Jaskier let his bottom lip be moved by her thumb.

"No, I think it will be you who will be sick of me by the time I'm done with you."

"Is that a promise?" Jaskier asked breathlessly.

"Oh, yes."

The Count had stayed away all winter, something that Jaskier hadn't expected him to do.

As the weeks dragged by, Jaskier realised how much he would miss the man's obsession with flowers.

It just wasn't the same without the place surrounded with the most precious of blooms, and the Countess scoffing.

Yet, one spring morning, the Count arrived back, bringing with him an array of flowers to brighten up the place.

"They're beautiful," Jaskier said to him as they walked into the ballroom. The afternoon sun shone gently on the yellow silk curtains.

"Only the best for my beloved," Vincent said.

Jaskier hummed in agreement, his mind wandering to places they shouldn't.

Instead, he turned to Vincent and asked.

"Shall we dance?"

"Yes," Vincent said, taking Jaskier's hand.

Perhaps his stay just got better, Jaskier mused as he swung the Count around the ballroom, bursts of yellow flowers everywhere he looked.

Yes, Jaskier agreed with himself, this will do for now.

[ohanahoku-ao3]

Whumptober 2023 Day 25

Still working on getting these out, so enjoy some Stiles whump! :D

Teen & Up - Gen, F/M (Minor) - Teen Wolf

Grave Danger

     Beacon Hills had gotten too weird for Stiles. Werewolves were one thing, and he dealt just fine with the kanima. But he drew the line at zombies. Zombies were a step too far for Stiles, and as far as he was concerned, Beacon Hills could go to hell if it wasn’t there already. Of course, abandoning his hometown would be a lot easier when he wasn’t being marched toward the cemetery by said zombies.

     Stiles glanced around at them, shivering at the cold emanating from their pale corpses. He didn’t know why he was still alive. From what they’d seen, these zombies weren’t like the ones in the movies. They couldn’t transform others with a bite, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. Undead people who could keep moving even after being shot or mutilated could do a lot of damage with their blunt teeth and long nails. Stiles shuddered at the memory of what those poor people in town had looked like after the first attack. Humans could do such horrible things when their humanity and souls were taken from them.

     Which begs the question: Why is he alive and not in pieces?

     The only answer he could come up with could have been a better one. Because if they weren’t hurting him, that meant they had to be controlled by someone. And that meant that whoever was controlling them wanted Stiles alive. That thought was as relieving as it was terrifying for what it could mean.

     The grass was damp from the night air as Stiles was marched into the cemetery, the dew seeping into his sneakers. The smell of freshly overturned dirt soon reached him as they rounded a few sculpted bushes, and Stiles’ stomach dropped as he saw the slender pit in front of him. It was a newly dug grave, and in the low lighting of the cemetery, Stiles could see a name emblazoned on the headstone above it. ’Mieczyslaw Stlinski.’

     His feet felt rooted to the spot as he stopped short, a zombie bumping into him and grunting before it stilled.

     Beside the grave, a man stood half-turned away from him, his face obscured by shadows. “So nice of you to join me, Miecyzslaw.” The man said, and Stiles started at the sound of his given name being perfectly pronounced.

     “Who are you?” Stiles asked, a slight waver in his voice as his eyes helplessly trailed back to the gravestone and read the rest of the inscription. ‘Born April 8th, 1995, Died September 17th, 2011.’  

     A match flared, catching the stretch of the man’s grin as he lit a cigarette, taking a puff before releasing smoke into the air. “Let’s just say I’m an old friend of your father.”

     “Yeah, I’m not buying that,” Stiles said, glancing at the zombies that flanked him. Their cold hands were gripping his arms, the touch sending shivers up and down his spine from more than just the cool temperature of their fingertips. He didn’t want to think about the rot and mold that composed a significant amount of their bodies.

     The man laughed, shaking his head as he lifted his cigarette to his lips once more, the tip flaring red as he turned to face Stiles, pale light catching on his face.

     Stiles’ eyes slowly widened in recognition of the man, the killer in front of him. “I remember your face. My dad busted you.”

     “Heh, good memory, kid. Yeah, he got me dead to rights, put me behind bars.” Vince Davies, a local known for killing his girlfriend and her brother some nine years previous when Stiles was only six years old, said. “Good old, gold-hearted Deputy Stilinski,” He sneered. “Guess he’s the sheriff now, though, ain’t he?”

     “He is. Busting your sorry mug definitely helped push him up the ladder to that promotion.” Stiles said, never one to play the meek and mild in such situations.

     The man’s eye twitched, and he scowled at the mocking tone. “Yeah, well, while he was profiting from my misfortune, I spent nine years rotting in a stinking cell.” Vince snarled, tossing his cigarette away. “Do you know what maximum security is like, kid? It’s like living in your grave, unable to do anything but sit there and rot.”

     “It’s what you deserve for what you did,” Stiles told him, clenching his fists angrily as he recalled the old police file about the case. He’d only gotten a glimpse of it before his mom found him, but the graphic pictures of mutilated bodies would linger in his mind for years to come, perhaps forever.

     “Don’t preach to me about things that people deserve! They deserved to die!” The murderer shouted, striding forward a few steps and getting right into Stiles’ face. “Just like your father’s going to.”

     Stiles pulled his head back a bit, grimacing at the nicotine-filled breath that blew across his face. “If you want him dead, then where do I fit in on all of this? Answer me that. If you just wanted to kill me for revenge, shouldn’t he be here?”

     Vince grinned, a glint in his eyes that dripped terror down Stiles’ spine. The man pulled back, stepping to the side of the grave, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared into the pit. “I had a cellmate in jail. Crazy guy, he was. Most thought he wasn’t all there mentally, but he taught me things. I learned things about the outside world, this world that’s so much more than the idiot populace thinks it is. You’ve seen it. This world has werewolves and creatures that defy logic. It has mystical and magical elements that most can’t begin to fathom. Few ever learn of these things, but I did. Before he died, my cellmate taught me everything I needed to know about bringing the dead back to life.”

     Necromancy, the word sounded in Stiles’ mind, and he shuddered at the name of the unethical practice.

     “Now that I'm out, I'm going to get my revenge, and you're going to help me, Miecyzslaw. At first, I planned to use your dead mother for this.”

     Stiles’ anger flared at the thought of the man resurrecting his mother as one of the mindless zombies, and he struggled against the cold grip on his arms.

     “Too bad she was cremated.” Vince lamented. “It would have been brilliant to have your father killed by the woman he loved. But I suppose he'll be just as devastated when he sees your corpse come to kill him.”

     With a flick of his fingers, the deranged man called his zombie puppets into action. Stiles cried out as they started shoving him toward his grave. “Hey, wait, hold on! Come on, you don't want to deliver a perfect body like mine to the grave!”

     The undead paid him no mind, and as Vince laughed, Stiles was thrown into the hole. He landed on his stomach, getting a mouthful of dirt as the wind was knocked out of him. Something heavy dropped onto his legs, and as Stiles desperately started pushing himself up, another weight landed on his back, knocking him back down as he shouted in pain.

     His hands scrambled in the loose dirt, searching for purchase, for something to grab for leverage. But the ground was too soft, and the objects on top of him were too heavy, leaving him trapped in the bottom of the grave.

     “Sleep well, Miecyzslaw Stilinski. I’ll be seeing you soon.” Vince intoned above him, and Stiles screamed as dirt started to rain down on top of him.

     The dirt built up swiftly as multiple zombies worked to fill the grave, and soon, Stiles’ screams turned to gasps of air as he struggled to lift his head above the silt, hands trying to push the dirt away from his head. Eventually, he stopped making noise at all as he tilted his head forward and tried with his hands to block the dirt from reaching his mouth, holding his breath as he attempted to form a pocket of air around his face.

     Panic seized his chest, though, making it hard to think clearly and hold his breath for very long. There was no way out of this. No one knew Stiles had been taken, so no one was coming after him.

     He had no idea how long he’d been buried when his meager air supply ran out, and Stiles held his breath like he was drowning, heart pounding in his ears and his head feeling ready to explode. In the utter darkness of his grave, Stiles lost consciousness, surrendering against his will to the inevitable.

*************************

     Air forced its way into Stiles’ lungs, and he woke with a gasp of pain, rolling over and curling on his side as he coughed roughly before greedily inhaling oxygen-rich breaths. Beside him, someone let out a sound of relief, and when Stiles calmed slightly, he rolled back onto his back to blink up at Lydia and Peter kneeling next to him.

     “I felt you die,” Lydia whispered, staring at him with wide eyes. “I felt you die, Stiles.”

     “You brought me back.” Stiles rasped, staring up at her in shock, remembering the brief feel of soft lips against his right as he woke up. His chest ached as he breathed in, and his eyes drifted over to Peter and narrowed. “And you broke my ribs.”

     “Cracked, you'll live,” Peter said, extending his hand.

     Stiles grabbed the proffered hand and grunted as he was slowly pulled to his feet. He took in the sight around him as he stood, and his eyes widened. The cemetery was littered with corpses, most of them sans heads, and their puppeteer lay on the ground next to Stiles’ grave with deep slashes across his throat.

     As Stiles’ eyes wandered away from the body, they lit on his grave, noticing the shovels beside a mound of dirt and the tracks formed in the soil where shovels were exchanged for bare hands. He looked back at Peter and Lydia as the former helped the latter to her feet, eyes flicking down to their dirt-stained hands, the former's also stained with blood. “You really saved my life. You killed them and dug me back up, knowing I was already dead. And you brought me back.”

     Lydia straightened her skirt with shaky hands and exhaled before squaring her delicate shoulders. “Well, if there's one thing I know, it's that not all dead people stay dead.” She said, looking back at Peter.

     Peter looked away, huffing a slight laugh. “We got to you before Davies could start the ritual, so you won’t turn into a zombie.”

     Stiles nodded, some residual panic melting away at the reassurance. He gestured to the zombies on the ground. “What happened to them?” He asked, indicating their lack of heads and claw marks.

     “I screamed,” Lydia said, her lips pressing together. A haunted look lingered in her eyes as they met Stiles’ gaze. “I screamed, and their heads exploded.”

     Stiles blinked, glancing between her and Peter, his mouth opening and closing like a fish for a moment before his hands gently gripped her arms. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

     “I don't know.” She admitted, pressing her lips together and shaking her head slowly.

     “She'll be fine,” Peter told them, glancing toward the road. “Police are on their way. We shouldn't be here when they arrive.”

     The two teens nodded and fell into step behind him as he led them out of the cemetery, Stiles’ arm around Lydia.

     “I'm gonna have to tell my dad,” Stiles said as they left in Peter's car. “I'm not keeping this from him anymore.”

     Peter looked back at him but said nothing, and in the silence that followed Stiles’ statement, sirens filled the night air.