#she looks like a predator skull

[wispisstillverybored67]

I love how, since Cube's route is battle-less, his "battle theme" against OD-10, herself considered one of the most unnerving foes in the game, has an equally creepy track (Unseen Syndrome) to set the match.

[maskedbyghost]

Shadows of Obsession

TW: stalking, home invasion, emotional manipulation, obsessive behavior, Simon in his stalker era

The first bouquet of lilies appeared on her doorstep two months ago, crisp and white, with no note attached. At first, she thought it was a mistake. Maybe a neighbor’s anniversary or a delivery error. She even asked around, but no one claimed them.

The second bouquet arrived the following Friday, just as pristine and silent.

By the fifth, unease began to settle in.

Then came the notes.

The handwriting was precise, the words simple: “You looked beautiful today.” “The world doesn’t deserve your kindness.” “I see you.”

She told yourself it was harmless, a misguided admirer, nothing more. But deep down, she knew better. Each note felt like a pair of eyes on her back, a shadow stretching too close.

Simon was the last person she suspected.

She didn’t know him well—no one did. He was a phantom, his face always hidden beneath that mask. She’d worked with him a handful of times, enough to catch glimpses of a sharp mind and a colder demeanor. He was a man of few words, fewer smiles, and no visible vulnerabilities.

Yet somehow, he had decided she were his.

It started subtly: a fleeting glance that lingered too long, his voice softening when he spoke her name. Then the coincidences—running into him during her evening walks, finding him already at the café she frequented. Always nearby, always watching.

She tried to ignore it, brushing off the unease with excuses. But tonight, all those excuses evaporated.

She woke to silence, the kind that presses down on her chest and suffocates. Something was wrong. Her apartment, usually filled with the ambient hum of life, felt still.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, scanning the room. The shadows were where they should be, the clutter untouched. Yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

And then she heard it: a faint creak of a floorboard, too deliberate to be a trick of the wind.

Her pulse surged as she reached under her pillow, fingers brushing against the knife she’d started keeping there. She slipped out of bed, her movements careful, her breathing shallow.

The hallway stretched before her, the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. She followed the sound, each step a battle against the growing dread coiling in your stomach.

When she reached the living room, she froze.

Simon stood there, his skull mask catching the faint light. He was utterly still, a predator who had been waiting for his prey to notice him.

“Simon,” she breathed, the name heavy with disbelief and fear.

He turned slowly, his movements measured. His hands hung at his sides, empty, but his presence was suffocating.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he said, his voice low, almost regretful.

Her grip tightened on the knife. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

He took a step toward her, his head tilting as if she’d asked a question he didn’t quite understand. “Keeping you safe.”

“By breaking in?!” Her voice shook, anger and fear warring within you.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his tone soft. “You don’t see how exposed you are. How vulnerable. The world isn’t kind to people like you.”

Her stomach churned. “You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? The flowers, the notes—they were from you.”

Simon didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped closer, his gaze boring into her. “Everything I’ve done was to protect you.”

“Protect me?” you spat. “You’re the one I need protecting from!”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, something flickered behind the mask—hurt, maybe. “I’d never hurt you,” he said firmly.

“Then leave.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost pleading. “You don’t understand, love. I see what’s out there. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t have someone looking out for them. You need me.”

“No, I don’t!” Her voice cracked, but the knife in her hand didn’t waver.

Simon’s gaze dropped to the blade, then back to her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. She pressed herself against the wall, the cold seeping into her skin.

“You won’t use that,” he said. “You don’t need to. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“I don’t trust you.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her skin. “You will.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a shroud. She didn’t know whether to scream, fight, or collapse under the realization that Simon wasn’t going anywhere.

part 2

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what do we think babess??

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic

[fangdokja]

🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

❤︎ Synopsis. Caught in a web of lies, a spy's double life unravels when her mafia husband discovers her betrayal—turning their love into a merciless game of dominance, vengeance, and obsession. She was his wife, his possession, and now, his prisoner.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. The Enemy in His Bed - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 8,548

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, rape, blood play, forced oral, fear play, knife play, needle play, heavy bodily injury, slut shaming, objectification, psychological torment, actual torture methods, mature language, humiliation, degradation, forced orgasms, sadism, BDSM, groping, biting, bondage, nudity, fire play, gagging, physical assault and violence, choking / breath play

You are in a room that reeks of blood and mildew, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your lungs. The faint hum of a fluorescent bulb flickering above casts the space in a sickly yellow light, illuminating the cold, concrete walls streaked with rust-colored stains. You’re tied to a chair—no, anchored. The ropes around your wrists and ankles are so tight you can feel the pulse of your blood struggling beneath them, the fibers cutting deep into your flesh. Your breathing is shallow, ragged, your chest rising and falling as if every breath might be your last.

He stands in front of you, a towering figure cloaked in shadow. His silhouette is broad and unyielding, the kind of presence that fills every corner of the room with an oppressive weight. This man—the man who used to call you lyubov moya—is no longer the husband you once knew. The ruthless Russian mafia boss whose name is whispered like a curse. His eyes, dark as pitch, are fixed on you with a predator’s focus, glinting with something primal, something vile. He’s not here to forgive. He’s here to destroy.

“Do you feel it?” His voice is low, gravelly, but it carries the force of an earthquake. He steps closer, the sound of his boots hitting the floor like a countdown. “That crawling under your skin? That’s fear. That’s regret. And yet, you still sit there,” he hisses, his tone sharp enough to flay skin, “with that fucking look in your eyes.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your chin with bruising force. His thumb digs into the soft flesh just below your cheekbone, forcing your face upward. The light catches his features, and for a moment, you see the rage carved into every hard line of his face. But it’s his eyes that terrify you most. They’re dead things, black holes where love once flickered.

“You betrayed me,” he snarls, the words laced with venom. His grip tightens, and you hear the faint crackle of cartilage in your jaw. “My wife. My fucking wife. And all this time, you were a spy. An actress in my bed, a liar in my world.” He releases you with a violent shove, and your head snaps back, the base of your skull colliding with the chair’s hard frame. Pain blooms, hot and electric, as blood trickles from your nose, the metallic tang filling your mouth.

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, heavy and deliberate, like a beast stalking its prey. He circles you now, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, his voice quieter but infinitely more dangerous. He crouches down beside you, the leather of his gloves creaking as he pulls a blade from his belt. It’s thin, surgical, the kind of tool meant for precision rather than brute force. “Did you think I wouldn’t break you?”

The blade glides along your collarbone, its edge so sharp it almost feels cold. He presses just enough for the skin to part, a shallow cut that wells with blood and sends a sharp sting radiating through your nerves. “This is just the beginning,” he whispers, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the heat of his breath. “You don’t get to die yet. Not until I’ve carved every secret out of you. Not until you understand what betrayal costs.”

Your pulse is erratic, hammering in your chest as he stands again, looming over you like some ancient lord of vengeance. His fist connects with your cheek, and the world spins, your vision blurring as pain explodes across your face. Blood spatters across the floor in a violent arc, warm and sticky as it drips from the corner of your mouth.

“Where’s your defiance now?” he growls, his voice shaking with fury. He grabs a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back so your gaze meets his. “You want to look brave, milaya, but I know better. I can see it in your eyes. You’re already breaking.”

His lips curl into a cruel smile as he lets go, letting your head drop forward. The room seems to tilt, the edges of your vision darkening, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of your surrender. Not yet. Not while there’s still air in your lungs.

But he’s not done. He won’t be until every inch of you is stripped raw, every nerve exposed and screaming. He reaches for a switch on the wall, and with a flick, the room is bathed in red light. It casts his shadow on the walls, grotesque and distorted, like a demon looming over the damned.

────────────

The door creaks open, and a figure, one of his subordinates, enters the room, dragging a metal tray laden with an assortment of cruel instruments. Your heart races as the cold steel glints under the flickering lights, each tool designed for a specific kind of torment.

The Russian mafia boss nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours as the man sets the tray down with a clatter. "You're going to tell me everything," he says, his voice low and deadly.

"And then, I'm going to show you what it means to betray the one who gave you everything." He leans in, his hot breath on your neck, his grip on your chin painful.

"But first, I want you to remember what you used to be to me," he murmurs, the words a dark caress that sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand travels down, cupping your bruised cheek before sliding down to grasp your throat. You swallow hard, the fear rising like bile in your throat, but you refuse to show it. He squeezes, the pressure increasing until your eyes water, but you don't make a sound, not even a whimper.

His eyes narrow in frustration before he releases you, the hand moving to grip your jaw instead, forcing your mouth open.

With a sneer, he brings his face closer, his stubble scraping against your skin as he whispers, "You were once my sweet little bird, singing only for me. Now, you're a caged whore for the highest bidder." He slams his mouth down on yours, his kiss bruising and possessive.

You taste the rage and desperation in him, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a pang of pity.

But it's quickly replaced with a fiery resolve to survive, to somehow escape his clutches.

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, and you bite down, hard. He pulls back with a growl of annoyance, but instead of releasing you, he laughs, a dark, chilling sound. "Good girl," he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

"You still have some fight left in you." His eyes scan the tray, and he selects a pair of pliers. "Let's see how much you can take."

He reaches for your shirt, his fingers deftly unbuttoning it despite your struggling. The fabric tears away from your body, exposing your bruised and bound breasts. He squeezes them, watching the pain flicker in your eyes with a twisted pleasure. "These used to be mine," he says, his voice filled with a sadistic glee. He leans in again, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "But now, I'll make sure no one else ever touches them again."

The air in the dimly lit room reeked of sweat and copper, a metallic tang that coated your tongue as you gasped for breath. His shadow loomed large, an oppressive specter that seemed to drink in your pain. The pliers in his hand gleamed under the flickering light—a surgeon’s precision wrapped in a sadist’s grip.

His voice slithered through the silence, low and venomous. “Tell me,” he hissed, his words thick with cruelty, “whose touch you’ve dared to crave besides mine.”

Your chest rose and fell, trembling under his gaze. You held your tongue, the taste of defiance as bitter as bile. His jaw tightened. Then, without hesitation, he snapped the cold steel jaws of the pliers onto your right nipple.

The first twist came like lightning, sharp and blinding, a searing current that jolted through your body. The delicate tissues twisted under the unyielding bite of the metal, the nerve endings igniting like fireworks. You clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached, your scream lodged in your throat like a jagged stone.

He leaned in closer, his breath an unwanted warmth against your cheek. “Still stubborn, aren’t we?” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery and dark amusement. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The second twist was slower, deliberate—a calculated cruelty that made your skin crawl. He pulled, the pliers dragging the sensitive flesh in directions it was never meant to go. You could feel the tissue straining, tearing, fibers unraveling like the threads of a fragile tapestry.

Your vision swam, black spots blooming like ink blots against the edges of your sight. He laughed softly, the sound of a predator savoring its kill. “Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Even in pain, you’re mine. Always mine.”

The climax of his sadistic art came with a grotesque pop, the sound of tissue surrendering to force. The pain was an inferno, all-consuming, burning through every nerve as he wrenched the nipple free from your body. Warm blood spilled in rivulets, pooling on the filthy floor beneath you. The ruined flesh hung like a torn petal before he carelessly tossed it aside, letting it hit the ground with a wet slap.

He stepped back, his gaze fixed on your bloodied chest—a grotesque canvas of raw meat and trembling sinew. The shredded skin wept crimson tears, each droplet sliding down to trace the curve of your ribs. The room tilted; your body screamed for reprieve, but there was none to be had.

“You’re breathtaking like this,” he said softly, running a gloved hand over your mutilated breast. His touch was clinical, detached, as if admiring the precision of his own handiwork. “But we’re far from finished.”

The metal tray clattered as he reached for his next tool—a scalpel, gleaming with sterile menace. But before he could wield it, he paused, considering. With a dark smile, he reached instead for the salt.

The coarse grains glittered like tiny shards of glass as he grabbed a fistful. “Let’s ensure you remember this moment,” he whispered, and then he scattered the salt into the gaping wound.

It was as if the salt detonated on contact, each granule a fresh explosion of agony. Your body bucked involuntarily, the ropes digging into your wrists as you thrashed against your bindings. The scream that tore from your throat was raw and primal, reverberating off the walls like a wounded animal’s last cry.

His smile widened, a cruel crescent etched into his face. “Much better,” he said, almost soothingly. “Now we’re making progress.”

The pliers returned, their jaws still slick with blood as they moved to your remaining nipple. This time, you could see the shadow of his intent, the cold malice in his eyes as he clamped down. The pain came like a tidal wave, drowning you in its depths as he twisted, pulled, and twisted again.

The nipple tore loose with a sickening crunch, cartilage snapping, blood spurting in a violent arc. Your chest was no longer your own—it was a ravaged landscape of gore, a grotesque testament to his control. The raw, exposed tissue oozed and quivered, a mockery of what it once was.

He stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes drinking in the destruction he’d wrought. “You’re exquisite when you break,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “But don’t worry, little wife. There’s so much more of you left to ruin.”

You hung limp in the chair, your body trembling, every nerve ablaze. Your silence persisted, but his words lingered, curling around you like smoke, a promise of horrors yet to come.

────────────

The mafia boss steps back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes never leaving the destruction he's wrought upon your body. His hand reaches down to adjust his crotch, where a noticeable bulge has formed.

He's enjoying this, the sadist, getting off on your suffering.

"You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice low and filled with a primal hunger. "You're going to beg for me to stop. And when you do, I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He moves to stand in front of you, his pants tenting obscenely. He unbuckles his belt, the leather making a harsh sound as it's pulled from the loops, the anticipation in the air thick and suffocating. He unbuttons his pants, and his cock springs free, hard and angry. He strokes it, the motion taunting you, a silent challenge to see how much more you can endure.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a whip crack that slices through the pain.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction, keeping your eyes cast down, focusing on the puddle of blood forming around your chair.

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Look at what you've done to me," he snarls. "You've turned me into a monster."

He steps closer, pressing his cock against your bruised and bleeding chest, the heat from his arousal a stark contrast to the cold steel of the pliers still digging into your skin. He grinds against you, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"You're going to take this," he says, his voice a mix of anger and lust. "You're going to take every inch of me until you remember who you are."

With a brutal yank, he twists the pliers on your nipples even more so, and you feel your body convulse in a silent scream.

He takes the opportunity to force himself inside your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. "Suck it," he orders, his hand fisted in your hair, pushing your face closer to his crotch.

With a burst of defiance, you clamp down on his cock with your teeth, biting as hard as you can, feeling the warm flesh between your teeth, the taste of his pre-cum mixing with the coppery tang of your own blood.

He roars in a mix of pain and pleasure, his grip on your hair tightening as he thrusts deeper into your mouth.

The mafia boss’s eyes widen in shock, but the arousal in them doesn't waver. Instead, it seems to intensify, his pupils dilating with a dark excitement.

"Fuck, you little bitch," he growls, his voice a mix of anger and desire. "You're going to regret that." His hand moves from your hair to the back of your head, pushing down harder, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a sickening rhythm.

You refuse to give in, biting down again, the pain in your breasts and the metallic taste of blood only fueling your resolve to fight back.

He responds by slamming your head into the chair, stars exploding across your vision, but you don't let go. The pain radiates through your skull, but you hold on, biting even harder.

The Russian's hand trembles with a mix of rage and arousal as he pours an unmerciful amount of salt into the gaping wounds on your chest.

The agony is instant and overwhelming, your body arching off the chair as the salt sears into your flesh, setting every nerve ending alight with pain.

The scream that rips from your throat is muffled by his thick cock, still lodged in your mouth. His grip on the back of your head tightens even more, his hips jerking as your teeth graze his shaft, the scream vibrating along his length.

He watches your face contort in torment, his own expression a twisted blend of love and hatred. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Scream for me."

He pours more salt, the grains falling like a sadistic rain upon your ravaged breasts. Your teeth clench around his cock as you fight back the urge to pass out from the pain. Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears stream down your face, mixing with the blood and saliva that coats your chin. He seems to revel in your suffering, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breaths more ragged.

The henchman, his eyes wide and slightly horrified, watches from the corner, unsure of what to do. The Russian mafia boss, noticing his employee's discomfort, turns to him with a wicked smile. "You want a taste?" he asks, his voice a dark promise.

The man shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away from the macabre scene unfolding before him. The mafia boss laughs, a low, chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Then get the fuck out," he snaps. "I'll handle this one."

The henchman nods hastily, retreating from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You're alone with the monster you once called your husband.

The salt has stopped falling, but the pain remains, a constant reminder of your betrayal and his wrath.

He pulls back a bit, panting heavily, his cock still hard and slick with your saliva. He looks at your destroyed breasts with a twisted kind of fascination, the blood and salt creating a gruesome tableau. "You're so beautiful when you scream," he murmurs, his voice almost tender.

His hand reaches out to trace the edge of one of the wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos.

You flinch away, the slightest of movements, but it's enough to snap him out of his daze.

The mafia boss’s hand clamps down on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him again. His eyes are dark with lust and anger, a storm brewing in their depths. "You're going to pay for every lie," he says, his voice a promise of unspeakable torment.

He then pulls his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, the sound echoing through the room. You gasp for air, your throat raw from his rough treatment. He steps back, his gaze traveling down your body, taking in every bruise and tear. "But not before I make you feel everything I felt when I found out you were whoring around."

He grabs you by the hair, yanking you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles making you stumble. He pulls you to the tray of instruments, his eyes lingering on a long, thin knife.

The blade glitters in the light, a silent threat of the pain to come. He picks it up, his hand steady, his movements deliberate. "You're going to tell me who else has had you," he says, the knife hovering just above your skin. "Every name, every touch, every time you spread your legs for someone who wasn't me."

His grip tightens, his thumb tracing a line along your jaw. "And for every lie, I'll make sure you feel it here," he says, pressing the knife against your throat, the cold steel a stark reminder of the power he holds over you.

You stand before him, your body shaking with pain and fear, but you refuse to speak.

The Russian's eyes narrow, and he presses the knife harder, a thin line of blood welling up. "Tell me," he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

But you remain silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes locked on his.

He sighs, a sound filled with disappointment and resentment. "Very well," he says, moving the knife to your chest.

He slices through your shredded shirt, the fabric giving way easily to reveal your bruised and bloodied skin. "If you won't tell me willingly, I'll make you confess."

He starts to cut, the blade digging into your flesh, tracing patterns of agony across your stomach and ribs. You bite your lip, the pain a living entity consuming you, but you refuse to break.

He pauses, looking up at you with a mix of admiration and anger. "You're so stubborn," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I used to love that about you."

His hand moves lower, the knife grazing your navel, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You can feel your body responding despite the pain, a traitorous arousal building within you. He notices and smirks, the knife moving lower, hovering just above the fabric of your pants. "But now, it's just another reason to make you suffer."

With a quick movement, he slices through the fabric, exposing your nakedness to the cold room. He traces the edge of the knife along the line of your underwear, the threat of what's to come clear in his eyes. "You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a seductive whisper. "Or I'll start peeling you like a damn orange."

You force yourself to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

He leans in, his breath hot on your skin as he presses the knife against your inner thigh, the tip just barely breaking the surface. "Who else has been here?" he asks, his voice a dark caress.

You bite down on your tongue, tasting blood, but still you don't speak. The mafia boss’s eyes flash with anger, and he presses harder, the blade cutting through your skin. You grit your teeth, willing yourself not to scream, not to give in.

With a snarl of frustration, he slices through your underwear, the fabric falling away to reveal your most vulnerable areas. His hand moves to cup your pussy, his grip bruising. "So wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

"Do you get off on the pain I give you?" He strokes you roughly, the knife still pressing against your thigh, a constant reminder of the power he holds. "Or is it the fear?"

His thumb brushes against your clit, and despite the horror of the situation, you feel yourself respond. It's a traitorous betrayal of your own body, but you can't help it; his touch has always had this effect on you.

"You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl. "You'll always be mine." His hand moves from your pussy to your throat, squeezing tightly. You gasp for air, your eyes watering as he forces you to look at him.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

You refuse, the word 'no' lodged in your throat, unspoken but clear.

His grip tightens, your vision swimming, but you stand firm, your resolve unbroken. He laughs, the sound a chilling echo in the room. "Fine," he says, his voice a harsh whisper. "We'll do this the hard way."

The mafias boss’s patience is at an end, his rage and lust boiling over. He yanks the knife away from your throat, the sharp tip of the blade leaving a trail of fire across your skin as he moves it downward.

With a quick, violent thrust, he pushes the knife into your pussy, the cold steel parting your wet folds with ease.

You scream, the sound a mix of agony and despair, your body trembling as he uses the knife to fuck you.

He's merciless, his strokes deep and hard, the blade sliding in and out of your tight hole, the edges scraping against your inner walls with each brutal thrust. You can feel the warmth of your blood mingling with your arousal, the sensation making you want to gag.

"You like that, don't you?" he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. "You like it when I hurt you. Fucking masochist." His free hand snakes around your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you on the edge of consciousness.

"You're such a good little slut, taking it all." He continues to use the knife, his knife thrusts growing more erratic as he gets closer to climax.

"Tell me," he grunts, his voice strained. "Tell me who you've been fucking." But you remain silent, your teeth clenched in a silent snarl of defiance.

The room spins around you, the pain in your breasts and the invasion of the knife in your pussy making it difficult to think straight.

Yet, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The Russian's grip on the knife tightens, his strokes growing faster, harder. "I'll make you talk," he says, his voice a dark promise. "You can't hide from me forever."

The knife twists, hitting a particularly sensitive spot, and you can't help the scream that tears from your throat. He smiles, the sight of your pain seemingly pushing him closer to the edge.

As you feel the world fading around you, the older man’s grip on your throat tightens, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and arousal.

He slams the knife into your pussy one final time, the pain so intense you think you might actually pass out.

But just as the darkness begins to claim you, he pulls the knife out, the absence of the cold steel leaving you feeling violated and empty.

He throws the knife aside, his own breaths ragged and desperate, his cock pulsing with need.

"Fine," he snarls, his voice a harsh rasp. "We'll do it the old-fashioned way."

With a quick movement, he unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. He grabs your hips, spinning you around so that you face the chair, your destroyed breasts pressed against the cold metal. He kicks your legs apart, and you feel the tip of his cock nudge against your bruised and bloodied entrance.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his breath hot against your neck. "You're going to tell me every name, every face, every cock that's been inside you."

His hand moves to the back of your head, pushing down until you're bent over the chair, your ass in the air. "And when you do, I'll make it all better. I'll make you forget them all."

His cock slams into you without warning, the pain so intense you can't help but cry out.

He's rough, his movements punishing, his anger and pain manifesting in every thrust. You can feel him stretching you, filling you completely, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

The Russian's cock slams into you with the force of a battering ram, the pain so intense it steals your breath away. He's not gentle; every thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a punishment for your silence.

Your body shakes with the impact, your bruised breasts smacking against the cold metal chair, the pain from the fresh wounds sending jolts of agony through your system. His hands are like iron bars, holding your hips in place as he uses you, his grip bruising your skin.

Each time he pulls out, you feel the warm gush of your blood and arousal, mixing with the sticky mess he's creating inside you.

"Who else?" he snarls, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain is a white-hot brand, but you refuse to give him what he wants.

Instead, you spit in his face, the saliva mixing with the sweat and blood that coats his skin.

He rears back, his eyes flashing with fury, and then he slams into you again, his hips moving like pistons, his cock a weapon of torment. "You think you can resist me?" he growls, his voice a dark whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "I'll make you beg for mercy, cunt."

You bite back a scream as he hits your g-spot, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses your body for his own sadistic pleasure. You can feel him thickening inside you, his orgasm building with every punishing thrust. "Tell me!" he roars, his hand reaching around to squeeze your throat again, cutting off your air supply.

"Tell me who you've been fucking, and maybe I'll let you live." Your eyes bulge, your nails clawing at the chair as you fight the urge to pass out.

After a particularly brutal thrust, the mafia boss releases your throat, and you gasp for air, your lungs burning. "You're going to tell me," he whispers, his voice a promise of more pain to come. "You're going to tell me, or I'll make sure you never feel anything but pain again."

His grip on your hips tightens, and he starts to move faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. You feel your body betraying you, your walls clenching around his shaft despite the pain, the traitorous orgasm building within you.

"Never," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper.

It's all you can manage, but it's enough to fuel his rage. He slams into you again, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see white. "You're mine," he says, his voice a harsh rasp. "You've always been mine."

His hand moves from your hip to your clit, and he starts to rub it roughly, the friction sending sparks of pain through your body. "You're going to come for me," he says, his voice a dark command. "And then you're going to tell me everything."

Your body is pushed to its limits as the Russian's relentless assault continues. Each thrust feels like a hot iron rod being driven into your soul, the pain unbearable as your body is stretched and filled with his monstrous cock.

The sound of your flesh slapping against his is like a grim symphony of agony, echoing through the cold, sterile room. You can feel your insides tearing, the warmth of your blood mixing with his seed, a grim reminder of his ownership over you. His hand on your clit is a sadistic maestro's touch, forcing pleasure from your bruised and abused body despite the pain.

"Tell me!" he roars, his grip on your hips like vice. "Tell me who's been inside you, and maybe I'll stop." His voice is desperate now, a mix of anger and love warring within him, his need for control overshadowing any shred of humanity he might have once had.

But you remain silent, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a haze of torment. The only sound in the room is the harsh grunts of his exertion and your muffled whimpers.

The mafia boss’s sadistic stroking of your clit reaches a crescendo, and despite the agony of your injuries, your body responds to his command. You cum around his cock, your muscles clenching tightly, trying to push him out even as they pull him deeper.

He groans in victory, feeling your pussy pulse and spasm around him, his own orgasm building. He fucks you harder, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing down mercilessly on your clit, forcing wave after wave of unwanted pleasure through your trembling form. You scream, the sound a mix of pain and climax, your body shaking as you cum for the second time, blood and fluids painting the chair beneath you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're in pain."

He doesn't stop, his thrusts growing more frantic as he chases his own release. You feel his cock thicken, his grip on your hips tightening until it's almost painful. "Again," he says, his voice a dark whisper. "Cum for me again." And despite yourself, you do, your body responding to the twisted game he's playing with your emotions and your pain.

The mafia man’s orgasm hits like a freight train, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his seed. You feel the warmth of his cum mixing with your blood, the sensation making you want to retch.

But you stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your despair.

He pulls out, his cock slick with your blood and his cum, and you collapse onto the chair, your legs giving out beneath you. You're sobbing now, the pain and humiliation too much to hold in.

He stands over you, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. "Look at what you've done to yourself," he says, his voice a mix of anger and pity.

"This is what happens when you betray me." He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head up so you have to meet his gaze.

His eyes are wild, the love and hurt swirling together in a toxic brew. "But I can fix you," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I can make you mine again." He releases you, and you slump back down, your head hanging limply.

The mafia boss stares down at you, his chest heaving with his own release. The rage in his eyes hasn't dimmed, but there's something else there now. Something that looks almost like hope.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration. "You're still fighting." He steps closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw, his touch gentle despite the bruises he's left there.

"But you can't win, my love."

You spit in his face again, the defiance burning in your eyes like a dying ember.

It's all you have left, and you cling to it with everything you have.

He wipes the spit away with the back of his hand, his smile twisted. "Oh, how I've missed your fire," he says, his voice a low growl. He grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. "But it's time to put it out."

With a swift movement, he pulls you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles cutting into your skin as you stand. He yanks your torn shirt up, the fabric sticking to your blood-covered breasts.

His eyes travel over your body, a mix of hunger and disgust. "You're a mess," he says, his voice filled with contempt. "But I'll make you clean again."

He pulls you closer, his cock still hard against your stomach. "You're going to tell me," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "And when you do, I'll make you forget all about them."

The Russian's eyes gleam with a dark excitement as he takes in your bruised and bloodied form. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat.

His free hand reaches down to a specific part of his belt, unbuckling it with a sharp click that echoes through the room. He then pulls out a set of keys from it and unlocks a drawer in the desk, revealing an assortment of whips, chains, and other tools of torture. His hand lingers over them, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he selects a particularly vicious-looking whip.

The mafia boss selects the spiked whip, the leather crackling with anticipation. He takes a moment to appreciate the gleaming metal spikes, the sight of them making your stomach churn. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the same drawer, the clear liquid sloshing in the bottle as he brings it to your blood-soaked crotch.

You try to jerk away, but his grip on your hair is unyielding. With a cruel smirk, he pours the alcohol over your wounds, the stinging pain making your vision swim.

You scream as the liquid seeps into your freshly torn flesh, the coldness of the vodka a stark contrast to the heat of your blood.

He doesn't give you a chance to recover, instead bringing the whip down in a vicious arc that connects with your bruised and abused pussy with a wet slap.

The pain is a white-hot brand, searing through you as the spikes tear into your sensitive flesh.

You can feel the alcohol burning into your wounds, a fresh agony added to the symphony of pain already playing in your body.

He doesn't stop there, though; he brings the whip down again and again, each strike more precise and brutal than the last.

You thrash in his grip, trying to escape the torment, but he's too strong, too determined to break you. His strikes are methodical, a twisted dance of pain and power, the whip's spikes digging deeper with every hit.

The mafia boss then wraps the end of the whip around your throat, the spikes biting into your tender flesh as he squeezes, cutting off your air supply. You claw at his wrist, your nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin, but he only tightens his grip.

Your eyes bulge, your chest heaving for air that won't come, your vision swimming with stars.

He leans in, his breath hot against your face, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction as he watches the life drain from you. "Tell me," he whispers, his voice a dark promise of more pain if you don't.

But you refuse to give in, even as your lungs burn and your chest feels like it's going to explode.

Your hands fall to your sides, your body going limp in his grip, the only sound in the room the wet, gurgling noise of your struggles. He holds you there for a moment longer, watching you with a twisted fascination before finally letting go.

You gasp for air, your throat raw and burning, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. He smiles, a twisted parody of affection, and pulls out another tool from the drawer.

It's a metal rod, the end shaped into a cruel hook.

"This," he says, his voice a dark purr, "Is for when you decide to be more… cooperative."

He steps closer, the rod in his hand glinting in the harsh light of the room.

You can see your reflection in the gleaming surface, a broken doll covered in blood and sweat. He runs the hook over your skin, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch that's somehow more terrifying than the pain of the whip.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that's more unsettling than his previous roars. "And when you do, I'll make it all better."

You spit blood in his face again, your voice a harsh whisper. "Never."

The word is a declaration of war, a challenge he seems to relish.

He laughs, a sound devoid of humor, and brings the hook closer to your pussy.

"We'll see about that," he murmurs, the hook pressing against your bruised and swollen flesh.

You tense, expecting the worst, but he surprises you by sliding it along your slit, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your pain. The mafia boss uses the hook to spread your labia, exposing the raw, bloody mess he's made of your most intimate parts.

"Look at this," he says, his voice filled with a twisted admiration. "You're so beautiful when you're broken."

He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he runs the tip of the hook along your clit. The sensation is so intense, you almost pass out from the pain.

"But you're going to be even more beautiful when you're mine again."

He pushes the hook inside you, the spikes scraping along the inside of your pussy, and you scream hysterically, your body arching in agony.

The mafia boss’s smile widens as he watches you writhe in pain, the hook still embedded in your pussy. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork, and then reaches for a small, black case on the desk.

Inside, you see a collection of needles, glinting in the cold light of the room.

His eyes never leave yours as he selects one, long and thin, with a wicked curve at the end. You can feel your body tightening around the hook, your muscles spasming in a futile attempt to push it out.

"This is for when you're feeling particularly uncooperative," he says, his voice a dark purr. He takes the needle between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently.

"But I suspect you're going to be feeling quite cooperative very soon." He brings the needle closer to your pussy, the curve lining up with your clit.

You can feel the sharpness of the tip against your swollen flesh, and you fight the urge to beg him to stop.

But you won't give him that power.

With a swift, precise movement, he inserts the needle, the point piercing your clit and sliding deep into your pussy.

The pain is like nothing you've ever felt before, a searing agony that makes you want to pass out.

You scream, your body jerking against the chair, but he holds you steady, his grip unyielding. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal.

"Take it like the good little whore you are." He starts to move the needle, twisting it inside you, the curve scraping along your inner walls.

Each twist sends a fresh wave of pain through you, making you want to vomit.

The mafia boss steps back, admiring his work, as you sob and whimper in pain. "You see," he says, his voice almost gentle, "It doesn't have to be this way. Tell me what I want to know, and I can make this all stop."

But you stay silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes squeezed shut.

He sighs, the sound filled with disappointment. "Very well," he says, his voice cold again. "But you're going to wish you had talked sooner."

He selects another needle from the case, his eyes never leaving yours.

He brings it to your pussy, the tip hovering just above your clit. "I'll give you one more chance," he says, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me who's been fucking you, and maybe I'll go easy on you."

You remain silent, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back your screams.

With a shrug, he pushes the second needle in alongside the first, the sensation of the sharp points tearing through your tender flesh making you want to pass out.

The Russian's eyes darken as he watches your silent defiance.

He starts to play with the needles, twisting and moving them with a precision that speaks of practice and skill. You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing your pain.

"So stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and anger. "But you'll break eventually." He grabs another handful of needles, his eyes traveling over your body, considering where to insert them next. You can feel the cold sweat trickling down your back, the pain making your vision blur.

The mafia boss’s hand moves with the precision of a surgeon, inserting needle after needle into your pussy. Each one sinks into your flesh with a sickening pop, the pain so intense you feel like you're being torn apart from the inside.

You're a pincushion of pain, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body.

The needles are inserted at different angles, some going deep while others skim the surface, the varying depths creating a tapestry of torment that makes you want to scream.

Then the Russian's hand moves with a newfound fervor, the needles sliding into your flesh with an eerie grace.

The hook remains lodged deep inside you, the spikes scraping along your swollen walls as he twists it in a sickening rhythm that matches the insertion of the needles.

The pain is so intense, it feels like your entire body is on fire, your pussy a focal point of agony that threatens to consume you.

You feel the wetness of your blood mixing with the lubricant he's used, creating a macabre dance of red and clear fluids that dribble down your thighs.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "You've always been mine, and you always will be."

His words are a knife, twisting in the wound of your soul, as he adds another needle, the metal scraping against the hook with an almost musical sound. You can feel the sharp points digging in deeper, the pain an almost tangible presence in the room. "Tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that makes your skin crawl. "Tell me who's been fucking my wife."

The mafia boss slightly smirks, stepping back from you, as his eyes gleaming with a twisted excitement.

He reaches for a small, red canister on the desk, the label written in a language you don't recognize.

You know what it is, though; you've seen it used in interrogations before. It's a can of lighter fluid, and you know what he's planning.

He douses the needles and the hook with the fluid, the harsh smell of the gasoline-like substance filling the room.

Your heart races, fear mixing with the pain as he takes a step back and flicks open a lighter.

The flame dances in the air, the light flickering over the needles embedded in your pussy, making the metal glint ominously.

"This is your last chance," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me, and I'll make it quick."

The flame hovers near the needles, the heat making your skin crawl. You clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the unimaginable agony that's about to come. "Who have you been fucking?" he demands again.

But you stay silent, your resolve unbroken despite the hell you're enduring.

With a snarl of frustration, he brings the flame closer, the heat growing more intense until it's almost unbearable.

You can feel your skin blistering around the base of the needles, the smell of burning flesh making you gag.

The mafia boss’s hand hovers over the needles, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Fine," he says, his voice cold. "You want to play the martyr, I'll give you a performance to remember."

In one swift motion, he presses the lighter to the needles.

The fluid catches fire, the heat searing through your pussy in an explosion of agony that makes you arch off the chair.

You scream, the sound echoing through the room as the flames dance along the metal, the heat spreading through your insides like molten lava. The mafia boss watches you burn, his expression a twisted mix of anger and fascination.

The needles glow red-hot, the heat so intense it feels like your soul is being torn from your body. You can feel the flesh around the hook contracting, the spikes and needles digging deeper with each spasm of pain.

The flames lick at your tender flesh, the pain so intense that it's all you can focus on.

Your screams fill the room, a cacophony of agony and despair that seems to echo off the walls.

The mafia boss watches, his eyes alight with a perverse excitement as he sees you finally break.

Your body jerks and spasms against the chair, the ropes cutting into your skin as you struggle to escape the fire.

The needles are embedded so deeply now, the metal searing your insides as the flames dance around them.

The smell of your burning flesh fills the room, a sickeningly sweet aroma that makes your stomach churn.

────────────

The flames from the needles flicker and die out, leaving behind smoking metal embedded in your burnt flesh. The hook remains lodged deep inside you, a constant reminder of his dominance.

Your body is a wreck, a canvas of bruises, cuts, and burns, a testament to the extreme lengths he's willing to go to break you. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, each inhale a battle against the pain that threatens to swallow you whole.

The mafia boss’s smile fades as he watches you slip into unconsciousness, your body a broken doll in the chair.

He sighs, his frustration clear as he puts out the last of the flames with a damp cloth. He's impressed by your endurance, by the sheer force of your will to survive and not give him what he wants.

But he's not done with you yet.

He can't be.

You're his, and he won't let you die until you're his again.

The mafia boss leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, as he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your bruised and bloody lips.

The contrast between his gentle touch and the agony of your burnt flesh sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand moves to the hook, gripping it firmly as he slowly pulls it out of you, the spikes tearing through your raw, swollen pussy with a wet, squelching sound that makes you whimper despite being unconscious.

The hook comes out with a final, sickening pop, leaving a gaping wound in its place.

"You're so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress that seems to mock the pain he's inflicted on you. He carefully removes the needles one by one, his movements efficient and precise despite the anger that still lingers in his eyes.

Each removal sends a fresh wave of pain through your body, making you jerk and gasp even in your unconscious state. "But that's what I love about you," he says, his voice a mix of admiration and frustration.

The mafia boss sets aside the bloody needles and hook, reaching for a first aid kit that seems out of place in the room of torture.

He cleans your wounds with a gentle touch, his fingers deftly applying ointment and bandages to the burns and cuts. You can feel the coolness of the medical supplies against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the flames that had just been there.

He seems almost disappointed that you're not awake to see his 'care' for you, his eyes lingering on your bruised and broken form with a disturbing mix of love and anger.

"You're going to be okay," he whispers, his voice a strange blend of sweetness and malice. "I'll make sure of it."

He tapes the last bandage into place, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole where the hook had been. His thumb traces the edge of the wound, the pad of his finger coming away sticky with your blood.

He brings it to his lips, tasting you, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he opens them again, the anger in them burning like the embers of a dying fire.

You're vaguely aware of the pain as he tends to you, the fog of unconsciousness lifting slightly.

Each touch feels like a brand, a reminder of your submission to his will.

He wraps you in a blanket, lifting you with surprising gentleness from the chair, and carries you to a cot in the corner of the room.

He lays you down, his hand brushing through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender. "Rest," he says, his voice a command wrapped in a velvet glove. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

The mafia boss locks the door behind him with a final click, leaving you alone in the cold, sterile room.

The cot is hard and uncomfortable, but it's the closest thing to relief you've felt in what seems like an eternity.

Your eyes fully drift shut, the darkness behind your lids offering a temporary reprieve from the horrors you've endured.

But sleep doesn't come easy.

The pain keeps you on the edge of consciousness, a constant reminder of the hell you're in.

Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss

♡ Main Story. 🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

Headcanons 1 : The Bride of Blood (General)

To him, you're perfect. To you, he's just a mission.

🔞"I don't need your love, I need your submission."

Novella 1 : The Enemy In His Bed

⭐️🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

There is no safe word. There is no escape.

♡ If you think Reader is stupid or she should have done something else. If you believe that, then I recommend reading the second part, "There is no safe world. There is no escape." It'll answer and clarify a lot of your questions about the world building in this story.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology. Thank you.

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1 [you are here]. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

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

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

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

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

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

♡ Disclaimer. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution—these tales explore obsession, madness, and devotion in their rawest forms.

[florencebirdsong]

Wolf Hunt

Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: Rio needs to get out some of those animal instincts

Tags: primal play, biting, Rio has fangs and claws you’re welcome, strap on (r receiving), predator/play, wolf Rio, prey reader, 

Authors Note: I definitely didn’t make Rio a wolf because Death is a wolf in puss and boots. It was absolutely not a deciding factor. Ahem. Anyway, short and not so sweet

masterlist | ao3

You feel her before you see her. Her heady presence fills the small clearing and you eagerly look into the dark. The fire has ruined your ability to see far but the sound of shifting dirt points to where she’ll pop up. You resist the urge to get up when you can make out her silhouette. Being too eager means you’re more likely to get stuck away from the warmth of the fire.

You tilt your head curiously as she stops outside of the firelight. Her hood isn’t up and the flickering fire light shows that it’s not her skull face. She smiles and you smile back. It takes you a moment to notice the shine of her teeth. Of the fangs poking past her lips. 

You freeze. Her smile widens. Your eyes drop to her hands which are now tipped in claws. You bolt like a rabbit. Her deep laugh echoes behind you.

Branches claw at you and roots try to trip your feet as you run. You can’t tell how close she is and you don’t risk looking back. A wolf howling behind you turns your racing heart into a gallop. You take a wild turn and then another. There’s a river that, if you can get across it, you might be able to use to lose her.

You try and zigzag your way towards it. Unpredictable moves giving you an edge in your race against Death. But they’re also a risk. 

Another sharp pivot puts your foot into a tiny shrub. You crash to the ground but use your momentum to roll and shove yourself up again. The precious seconds cost you. Huffing growls fill the air behind you and you try to force down the panic. She’s gaining with every step. Your shoulder catches the trunk of a tree and you stumble. She’s so close you swear you can feel her breath. You prepare yourself to hit the ground. The shock is always what does you in. It comes a second later.

She tackles you but you’re quick enough to wriggle out of her grip before she can cage you in. You think you’re free until her claws wrap around your ankle and you slam into the ground. Her hands are quick to find your legs and hold them down.

You try to kick her off of you but it’s too late. She kneels where her hands were. She slams your shoulders onto the ground. Her claws dig into your skin. Trying to shove her off is useless so you go for her elbows. They don’t bend. She growls and moves one hand to push your head back, baring your neck to her. Your hands move to her shoulders to get some leverage as you try and buck her off. Then you try to unbalance her by shoving her chin up. She growls and bites your fingers. You yelp and pull back instinctively. She huffs a laugh. You bare your teeth at her but stop when she does it back. Her fangs are so much sharper than yours. 

You grip her wrist to try and free your head but she pushes until you feel a strain and you have to stop. Your hands hover, unsure what to do next as her eyes run over your captured form. You decide fuck it and jab at her throat. She chokes at the feeling but Death doesn’t need to breathe. Your hands are forced down beside your head and she growls in your face. 

You growl back, but it turns into a whimper when she sinks her sharp fangs into your throat. You don’t attempt to push her off, knowing ripping her teeth out of you will only hurt worse. Your body goes limp. She growls in satisfaction. 

Her hips grind against you and you whimper. She’s got her teeth into you. There’s no escape now.

She ruts against you and the sharp ache in your neck makes it take too long for you to notice the hard thing hiding in her pants.

She finally releases your throat and you whimper at the fresh sting. She tries to pull your pants down and growls in frustration, ripping them open with her claws instead. You flinch but they don’t snag you. She lines up her strap and fills you with one thrust before her hand returns to your wrist. You hadn’t even thought to move it. There’s no thoughts now.

Rio doesn’t give you time to adjust or work you up. She ruts into you like the animal she is. Grunting and growling as you whimper and mewl below her. Her nose in your neck constantly nudging the wound on your neck, her hot breath doing nothing to soothe it.

You sloppily meet her thrusts as the stretch turns from painful to delicious, breathing heavy as pleasure floods through you. She bottoms out every time, skin slapping yours as she chases her own high. 

She grunts and bites you again, right above the first mark. A sign she’s close to coming. You whine and struggle against her hold. You aren’t close enough yet. Her jaw clenches tighter, her nails dig into your skin and her thrusts turn punishing. One hand leaves your wrist and finds your clit, pinching harshly. A high-pitched sound leaves your throat and you arch into her, sharp pleasure crashing into you. Her hips do that stuttering thing that shows she’s coming and you fall over the edge together. She’s no nicer, taking what she wants, but you’re too full to care. 

She stills, still inside of you, before laying down on top of you and nuzzling your neck. The movements zing along the lingering pleasure.

Panting, you lay there as the waves ebb out of you. Rio nuzzles and licks over her new marks, knowing it takes you longer than her to come down. You whimper when she hits a particularly tender spot. You can feel her purr. 

Her tongue pokes and prods until you’re limp under her. Satisfaction rolls off of her in waves. You won’t be about to run again and she’s marked you for all to see. You’re hers until the next hunt, when she’ll need to prove her claim all over again.

[bbkoolkatz]

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　mama... I fucked a criminal! k. bakugo!

pairing: prisoner katsuki x prison guard reader!

cw: porn with plot? female reader, explicit adult content, strong sexual themes, profanity, power dynamics, imprisoned!katsuki!, verbal teasing and taunting, consensual sexual acts, embarrassment, spanking, groping, mentions of getting caught! reader discretion is advised.

2.3k+ words!

MDNI!!!

there was nothing that really got to you. you've grown used to the criminals in their cells telling you all the nasty things they'd do to you, if you let them out or if you came in. but it never hit your skull like the way his words did...

"oi, sweets, y' just gonna stand there all day, or y' gonna come in 'n keep me comp'ny?" him —the man behind the reinforced glass, infamous traitor, the explosive ex-hero Dynamight—

you didn't even glance at him, staring straight ahead at the blank wall across from you. you knew better than to feed into his games. yet, somehow... he always managed to get under your skin.

"silent treatment, huh?" he mocked, words rolling off his tongue oh so smoothly. " 's fine. I can talk enough fer both of us." it's like second nature to him with how often he taunted you, feeding off of every little reaction you gave.

you clenched your jaw, refusing to let his words phase you. It had been like this every shift since they assigned you to guard this cell where, the Dynamight, was locked away, and for reasons you couldn't fathom, it was your job to keep him in line.

"yer real cute when yer all serious, y'know that?" he drawled, the grin in his voice clear even if you refused to look. "bet yer just dyin' t' say somethin' t' me."

your grip on your firearm tightened. "shut up."

his laughter was low and raspy, echoing off the cell walls. "oh, there she isss. knew you couldn't resist me, sweets."

you turned your head slightly, glaring at him through the glass. his orange jumpsuit was tight on his arms, veins bulging from them, his blond spikes of hair messier than usual, hanging right above his crimson eyes, that sparkled with mischief. he was lounging on the narrow bed in his cell like he didn't have a care in the world, one arm draped behind his head as he smirked at you.

"don't call me that," you snapped.

"what, sweets?" he teased, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. "would ya' prefer somethin' else? Doll? Babe? Honey? y' gotta tell me what gets ya goin', princess."

your face burned, and you turned away quickly, cursing yourself for reacting, as you squeezed your thighs together. you could feel his gaze like a physical weight on your back, and you knew he was loving every second of it.

"aw don' be like that," he cooed, voice softer but no less taunting. "yer my only entertainment in this place. least y' could do is let me have some fun."

"this isn't fun," you muttered, trying to sound firm, but all he heard was, cute... "this is my job."

"n' yer real good at it, too," he goaded, standing and moving closer to the glass where you stood. "but yer not exactly subtle, y'know." he teased, "I see the way yer hands shake when I talk t' ya', the way yer cheeks get all red." and he glaced down your body, "n' the way those fuckin' thighs squeeze t'gether... y' like it, don'tcha?"

you spun around to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "I do not."

he grinned wider, pressing his palm flat against the glass. "yer a terrible liar, princess."

the way he said it, so smug and self-assured, made you want to scream. but you knew that's exactly what he wanted. he thrived on your frustration, on the little cracks in your composure, even if he only saw it for a split second.

"shift exchange." a voice crackled over the speaker, clipped and monotonous.

you exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, turning your gaze back to the glass. katsuki's smirk was nothing short of devilish as he leaned against the barrier, his perfectly crimson eyes locking onto yours like a predator savoring his prey.

"that's my cue," you muttered, hoping the tremor in your voice wasn't as obvious as it felt.

"aww, don' look so disappointed," he drawled, "yer playin' with my feelin's here." his tone was mocking but dangerously, dangerously smooth. "i'll be right here, waitin' for ya, sweets. same time, same place. maybe next time, i'll even sweeten the deal fer ya."

you rolled your eyes, stepping back as another guard arrived to relieve you. his eyes followed you as you left, grin widening when you hesitated at the door.

"don' forget about me, sweetcheeks," he rasped, voice dripping with amusement. "i'll be thinkin' of ya."

you didn't look back. how could you forget about him? you spent months guarding his ass... your boots echoed against the cold floor as you walked away, but his words followed you, curling around and suffocating you like smoke.

you rubbed your temples. katsuki had this uncanny ability to irritate you, to pick apart your defenses with precision. and it was maddening.

yet… there was a heat that refused to dissipate, a knot forming in your lower belly that you couldn't quite shake. the sound of his voice replaying in your mind like a broken record.

"get a grip," you muttered to yourself, but even as you said it, you knew it wouldn't be that simple. there was already an itch he created inside you... 'cause he was as far under your skin as he could get, and he wasn't leaving anytime soon...

the other day, they called you in early, for god knows what reason, and he hasn't shut his mouth from the moment he saw you, till now.

"why don'tcha just admit it?" he teased, in almost a purr as he leaned his head on the glass... "admit y' like the way I talk t' ya... the way I look at yer ass in those tight pants... admit y' thought about openin' this door and lettin' me—"

"that's enough." you cut him off, your voice sharper than you intended. and you took a deep breath, trying to ease the ache he made you feel in the pit of your stomach, "you're wasting your breath."

"am i?" he asked, tilting his head, leaning forward, and studying you like you were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.

you tilted your head in the opposite direction and subconsciously leaned closer... like you were leaning in for a kiss, "yes..." you whispered, fogging the glass with the heat of your breath.

-

"i've fucked ya' a hundred times over in my head," he leaned over and groaned in your ear, "watching yer uniform hug them pretty fuckin' thighs instead o' me..." he smacked your plump ass and smirked when it rippled under his palm, plowing himself into you, scratching that itch he embedded deep in your cunt.

"such a pretty fuckin' thing aren't ya," he prodded, landing another stinging smack on the reddened flesh that he couldn't stop grabbing at. his fingers dug into the curve of your waist, pressing you down on the soft material of the makeshift mattress he spent all day and night on, thinking about fucking you.

the sounds of your squelching cunt filled his cell as his hips thwacked mindlessly into yours. and the salty sting of tears pricked at your eyes, as he had you bent over the edge of the platform jutting out from the wall, that he'd called his bed.

"i needa know, sweetcheeks," he huffed, "di'ja fuck yerself t' me when y' left?" and the feeling of him pumping his fat cock inside you stopped...

you hesitantly nodded, whining under him, as a series of incoherent babbles fell through your lips. "use yer words, baby." he encouraged, grinding his hips against you.

you turned away from him, soft moans leaving your throat, "m-mhmm," you whimpered, hoping he'll take that answer... he didn't... smack!

"uh-uhh babe," he goaded, "words, not whimpers." he slowly pulled his length out of your drippy pussy, running two fingers up and down between your lips.

"ahh- y-yes, hah," you whispered, burying your face into his pillow, to hide your embarrassment.

" 'm not hearin' ya baby, louder." he slapped your puffy clit, rubbing his fingers harder and faster between your sloppy folds.

... how did you end up here? well...

"c'mon sweets, jus' confess. promise I won' tell anyone," he playfully pouted, leaning on the barrier between you both, with an arm over his head as he looked down at you.

"you're insufferable," you muttered, turning back to face the dirty white wall.

"maybe," he said, laughing softly. "but ya can't get enough of it."

you tried to focus on your breathing, on calming the rapid beating of your heart sending throbs between your legs, on anything but the man behind you. but then he spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

"y'know," he said, "y' should loosen up a little. let yerself have a bit o' fun. life's too short to be so uptight, sweets."

you refused to respond, refused to give him the satisfaction. but his words lingered and replayed in your brain.

after a long pause, he chuckled again, the sound softer but no less infuriating. "i'll break through that wall o' yers eventually. n' when I do, yer not gonna know what hit ya'."

"keep dreaming." you said, your voice steady despite the heat still burning in your cheeks.

"oh I will." he replied, and you could hear the grin behind his words. "n' guess what? yer always the star o' the show."

now you're here, a pretty little mess pressed up under him as the tip of cock prods at your sopping wet entrance. " 'm not hearin' ya dollface," he crooned, pushing just his fat tip in and out of you, "won' put it back in 'til ya say it loud and clear f'me."

"mh- yes! alright! hah~" you groaned, frustrated with yourself that you gave into him, that he had this kind of hold on you... that it felt sooo fucking good when his veiny cock was stretching your tight pussy out...

"yes what? baby?" he sinks himself into you, inch by painstaking inch, stretching you open again.

"ahg- yes, I touch myself -hngh- thinkin' 'bout you..." your whining was music to his ears, hearing those words fall through your saliva covered lips, only making him grow harder inside you. smack! if only you could see how fucking hot you were as you looked back at him while he thrusted into your aching cunt.

"atta girl~" he grunted, with sloppy thrusts, hands bruising your hips with the hot grip he had on them. you reached a hand back trying to pry them off, but he grabbed your wrist, holding it hostage, using it to plow deeper into you. "don' try t' get my hands off." smack! "been watchin' y' through that fuckin' glass -ugh- fer too fuckin' long fer me t' not leave a few marks."

"shift exchange." . . . fuck. . .

"oh this is gonna be fuckin' sweet." he drawled, dragging you over to the same glass wall that separated you from him, "how long d'ya think we got 'til someone comes in?" he teased, grabbing handfuls of your tits as he rammed you into the glass.

"m-'bout, 5 -hngh- minutes?" you moaned, "l-less?- ahh~" rubbing at your wet sensitive clit.

"want me to stop?" he purred, sucking on the soft of your neck, pinching your perky nipples, "y'could come back t'mo-"

"no!" you gasped, repeatedly shaking your head, desperation taking you over, "please... i-i'm close..."

"didn't take ya fer such a freak sweetcheeks," he mused, using your neck to pull you back, for him to lock his lips with yours, his tongue shoving past yours to explore every crevice of your mouth, and by fuck, you're sweet as hell... you were driving him more insane than he already was.

he didn't care if anyone came in and saw him fucking your brains out and apparently, neither did you... kinda... all he cared for, was making you cum, whining and crying on his throbbing dick. "if ya' beg nice enough maybe i'll let ya'."

"huh?" you groaned, hasn't he embarrassed you enough already? no. "i'm not gonna-"

"'pretty pretty pretty please', 's all y' gotta say princess," he whispered, slowing his thrusts. "n' I'll make sure you cum all over my cock."

you groaned, trying to shove yourself back into him, and he chuckled at your attempt, firmly holding you in place, "mmh- p-pretty, pretty, pretty please?" a single tear fell down your cheek. "please make me cum!" he lapped at your cheek savoring the salty taste of the tears that followed the first.

"good girl~" he cooed, picking up his pace once more, drinking in each moan he fucked out of you, throwing in some of his own grunts and growls. he snaked his hand down your body, to rub and pinch at your swollen pleasure button, bringing you closer to climax.

" 'm c-cumming! ffuck!~" you clenched around him, feeling each ridge and vein of his pulsing hot dick and your legs gave out from under you as he rode you through your high. the only thing keeping you from falling to the cold floor was his toned body pressing yours into the glass, with your tits squished between his pair of musclebound arms. his head dropped to rest in the crook of your neck, as he heaved a series of pleasure filled curses.

"on your feet," he rasped, finally pulling away and out of you, making you whine a little with how abrupt he was, "ya' needa put yer uniform back on," he grinned, picking it up off the floor to throw it at you. " 'm keepin' these." his hands held up the little fabric of your underwear as he shoved them into his jumpsuit.

"huh? i need those!" you complained, reaching to get them back only for him to pull you into another tongue hungry kiss, leaving a string of saliva when he pulled away.

he licked the plump surface of your now pink lips, "i need 'em more, sweetcheeks." and he left one last smack on your sore ass before you got dressed and your shift ended... ꨄ

didn't know how to end it... :/ mlist

[dckweed]

tiktok made me do it gf! vs tf141 bf (hurt/comfort edition)

i was spat on and essentially physically threatened by a man over a foot taller than me today, and if my husband was with me i know i would’ve been safe because NOBODY does shit to me and gets away with it when it comes to him and it got me thinking about how the tf141 boys would act in situations like this soooo I typed all of this with one hand (still in a splint) because I needed some fictional comfort even in the arms of my husband

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE: "A fuckin' death wish!"

He’s parked just across the lot, watching you through the windshield like always—cool, relaxed, unbothered—until he sees some lumbering fucker square up to you.

You don’t even get a word out. The guy spits on you.

And John is out of the truck like a shot.

Door doesn’t even fully close behind him. He’s marching, beard twitching, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the guy like a trained predator.

"Oi," he barks—sharp and low enough to stop everything in the lot. "You got a fuckin’ death wish?"

The guy barely turns before Price grabs him by the front of the shirt and slams him against the nearest wall. Calm. Efficient. Terrifying.

"You spit on her?" he asks. Real quiet. Real dangerous. "Call her that again. Go on. I dare you."

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until he’s at your side, big hand cradling the back of your neck, checking you over like he’s memorizing you from scratch.

"Y’alright, sweetheart?"

You nod, watery.

He kisses your forehead. "Get in the truck. I’ll be right behind you."

You don’t ask what he does next. And you don’t see that man in town again.

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK: "shitting enamel for a week!"

He’s in the truck FaceTiming Soap when he sees it—your walk, that cute little bounce in your step—and then?

Spit.

Your whole body flinches.

And Kyle goes silent.

Just disappears from the screen.

You don’t even see him until the man’s being yanked backwards and shoved hard into a parked car.

"You wanna say that shit again, bruv?" Kyle growls, barely keeping his voice low. "You think you're hard, spitting on a girl half your fuckin’ size?"

You’re frozen, arms crossed, tears stinging.

"Move," he snarls. "One more step near her and I'll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be shitting enamel for a week."

The guy stumbles off, humiliated.

Kyle turns to you, jaw tight, eyes scanning you top to bottom.

"You okay, love?"

"Y-yeah—"

"No," he murmurs, pulling you into his chest, hand on the back of your head. "You’re not. But you will be. I’ve got you."

And when you slide back into the truck, his hoodie ends up on you before you can even buckle in.

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY: "BURY YOU"

He’s in the driver’s seat, hood up, skull mask pulled down, watching the door like a hawk.

He sees the guy step in front of you. Hears the shout. Sees the spit.

He doesn’t even blink.

You try to sidestep and the man blocks you.

But then—

A voice. Right behind him.

"Back away from her."

Simon’s just there, looming, deadly, still as a statue. The man turns and sees death staring him in the face.

"Move. Now."

The guy scoffs.

Simon grabs him by the collar, yanks him off his feet, and slams him into the pavement so fast the air leaves your lungs.

"You ever even look at her again," he says, low and gritted, "I will bury you where you stand."

He turns to you like nothing happened. Gently takes your shaking hands, pulls you into him.

"You alright, lovie?"

You nod, but the sob breaks free anyway, and he just wraps you up in those massive arms, silent, safe.

You ride the rest of the way with your seat leaned into him and his hand on your thigh the entire time.

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH: "SHES FUCKIN' MINE!"

He’s parked up front, phone out, ready to record a stupid TikTok with you and Gaz about your sauce order, when he sees it go down.

Spit. Words. Your whole body freezing.

He’s already out the door and sprinting before your brain even catches up.

"Oi!" he roars. "You fuckin’ DAFT?!"

The guy has no time to react before Johnny’s got a fistful of his jacket and slams him into the side of the building.

"You touch her? You spit on her?!" His eyes are wild. Voice cracking. "She’s fuckin’ mine!"

It takes Gaz and a stranger to peel him off.

He’s still breathing heavy when he rushes to you, hands everywhere, checking your cheeks, your arms, your eyes.

"You okay, bonnie? Did he hurt you? Say the word and I’ll go back over there—"

You just shake your head and throw yourself at him, and he catches you like he was born for it.

His voice breaks a little when he whispers into your hair, "Nobody does that to you. Not ever. Not while I’m still breathin’."

He drives with one hand clenched so hard the wheel squeaks and the other holding yours like a lifeline.

[d-z20]

I'd Hit That (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: Being a professional wrestler means you're used to putting on an act, playing a part, and following a script. Surely, surely the tension you feel with Agatha is purely because you're rivals, right? Right??

-OR-

Staying at the same hotel after the fight can mean only one thing: it's time for a booty calllllll (but it's soft and sweet and stuff)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, switch Agatha, switch Reader, 'making love' sort of smut, very quick rivals to lovers if you squint, scissoring/tribbing, aftercare (from fight and sex), non accurate wrestling events

Words: 3.4k

A/N: Bruh the extent of my knowledge of wrestling before writing this fic was limited to the film 'Fighting with my family' and seeing people horny post about Rhea Ripley putting her opponents in a mating press 😅😂 Requested fic this request takes me back to one of the first I did :')

AO3 | Masterlist

The roar of the crowd was deafening, an electric pulse surging through the packed arena. The promo package had played moments ago, a dramatic montage of the months-long rivalry between you and Agatha—steel chair attacks, stolen victories, scathing words exchanged under the harsh glare of the cameras. Every segment, every promo, every carefully orchestrated brawl had led to this.

You stood in the ring, microphone in hand, pacing like a predator. The championship belt—your championship belt—rested snugly over your shoulder.

“Agatha Harkness,” you called out, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “You’ve spent months running your mouth, jumping me from behind, stacking the deck in your favour. But tonight? No more games. No more sneak attacks. Just you and me. And I promise you, when that bell rings, you’ll learn exactly why I’m the one holding this title.”

The crowd erupted, a symphony of cheers and jeers blending into a chaotic soundscape. Then, the familiar beat of Agatha’s entrance music thundered through the speakers, and the energy in the arena shifted.

She sauntered onto the stage, wrapped in a deep purple robe lined with silver, her signature smirk fixed firmly in place. She exuded confidence, but you knew her well enough to spot the flicker of something darker beneath it—excitement, hunger, the same fire that burnt in your own veins.

“Sweetheart,” she purred as she climbed into the ring, stepping dangerously close, “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. You may be carrying that belt now, but don’t get too attached. By the end of tonight, you’ll be looking up at the lights while the ref raises my hand.”

You scoffed, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. The fans screamed for a fight, for blood, for one last war before this feud reached its inevitable conclusion.

You wouldn’t let them down.

—

The moment the bell rang, Agatha struck first, catching you with a sharp elbow to the jaw. The impact rattled your skull, but you barely had time to register it before she followed up with a ruthless Irish whip, sending you crashing against the turnbuckle. The crowd gasped as she wasted no time, sprinting forward and driving her knee into your ribs with brutal precision.

Every strike and every manoeuvre was planned, but the force behind them was all too real. The pain was real. The sweat trickling down your spine, the adrenaline flooding your system—it was all real.

She hauled you up for a suplex, but you twisted mid-air, countering into a neckbreaker that sent her sprawling. The arena exploded with cheers as you pushed yourself to your feet, chest heaving.

“You’re slowing down mama,” you taunted, wiping the sweat from your brow.

Agatha smirked even as she winced, rolling her shoulders. “Keep talking, champ. Let’s see how cocky you are when I put you through that table.”

And she damn near did.

Minutes later, she lifted you onto her shoulders, positioning you dangerously close to the announcers table. The commentators shouted in alarm as she launched you forward, the wood splintering on impact as your body crashed through it.

White-hot pain exploded across your back, your breath leaving in a ragged gasp. Through blurry vision, you heard the count starting.

One…

Two…

Three…

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself onto your elbows. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you refused to stay down.

Four…

Five…

You dragged yourself toward the apron, using every ounce of strength left in your battered body.

Six…

Seven…

By eight, you were on your feet. By nine, you had slid under the ropes.

Agatha’s expression flickered with something dangerously close to admiration. You locked eyes across the ring. Both of you were battered, breathing hard, sweat slicking your bodies under the arena lights. The crowd was on their feet, screaming for the climax. Agatha grinned devilishly, wiping blood from her lip.

“Still standing?” she taunted.

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the bruises settle in. “You’re gonna wish I wasn’t.”

She stomped toward you, but this time, you were ready. You ducked her clothesline, spinning on your heel and catching her flush on the jaw with a devastating superkick. She crumpled, her head snapping back against the mat.

This was it. The moment the script demanded.

You climbed the ropes, every muscle burning, and launched yourself into the air. Your finisher connected squarely with her chest, driving the breath from her lungs.

The referee dropped to the mat.

One!

Two!

Three!

The bell rang, and the arena exploded.

You barely had the strength to lift your arms in victory, but the sight of Agatha sprawled beneath you, sent a different kind of thrill down your spine. She laid there, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, just a moment, you thought she might actually be mad. But then—she laughed. A deep, breathless chuckle that sent a thrill down your spine.

“Damn,” she muttered, rolling onto her side, looking at you with something unreadable in her dark eyes. “Guess I’ll have to hit harder next time.”

—

The energy backstage was calmer, but the electricity of the match still crackled in the air. You sat on the bench in the locker room, a towel draped over your shoulders, the sting of sweat and lingering adrenaline keeping you wired. Your championship belt rested beside you, proof of your victory, but your body ached with the price you’d paid for it.

The door creaked open.

Agatha stepped inside, still in her ring gear, damp strands of hair curling against her flushed skin. Bruises had already begun to bloom along her ribs, dark and angry, a testament to every hit you’d landed. But she carried them with the same confidence she always did, like they were just another part of the game.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over you in that slow, unreadable way of hers.

“Made me work for that one,” she finally said, voice even but laced with something heavier.

You smirked, tilting your head. “Would’ve been too easy otherwise.”

She huffed a laugh, pushing off the door and striding toward you. “You’re lucky I like a challenge,” she grumbled, reaching out and grabbing the edge of your towel. She didn’t pull it away, just toyed with the fabric between her fingers, staring at the ground, like she was debating something.

Your body stayed still, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering beneath your skin.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “The fans are losing their minds right now,” she mused, voice lower now. “They think we despise each other.”

You exhaled through your nose, smirking despite yourself. “Let them think what they want.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Just heavy breaths, aching muscles, and something simmering beneath the surface—something neither of you ever acknowledged for long.

Her grip on the towel tightened for just a second. Then she let go.

She took a step back, that smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “Get some rest, champ. Wouldn’t want you falling apart before our rematch.”

You watched as she turned, as she left without another word.

You should’ve let her go. Should’ve focused on your title, on the next fight.

But instead, an hour later, you found yourself standing outside her hotel room.

The hallway was quiet this late at night, save for the distant hum of vending machines and the muffled voices of a television from a nearby room. You knocked once.

You didn’t have to wait long.

Agatha opened the door, already changed into something looser, her damp hair pushed back from her face. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“Figured I’d find you nursing your pride with a drink, not answering your door,” you teased, arching a brow.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe, eyes dark and knowing. “Why would I need to nurse my pride when you’re here, proving I still have something you want?”

The air between you was thick. The kind of thick that came after months of fights, of near misses, of every time you almost let yourself give in but didn’t.

But there were no cameras here. No crowds. No script.

She didn’t invite you in. She didn’t have to.

She just stepped back, leaving the door open.

And you followed.

—

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both inside the quiet dimness of the hotel room. The air-conditioning hummed softly, a sharp contrast to the raw heat still lingering between you from the match—and everything else unspoken.

Agatha moved first, stepping past you toward the mini-fridge. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thick, charged. She pulled out a reusable ice pack, pressing it against her ribs with a small wince before tossing another onto the bed near you.

“You’re worse off than me,” she murmured, nodding toward the deepening bruise along your shoulder.

You scoffed. “You didn’t seem to feel that way when you were throwing me into barricades.”

Agatha smirked at that, but it was softer now—more knowing. She walked toward you, her fingers grazing the hem of your shirt. Not in invitation, not yet. Just testing.

You didn’t move, didn’t stop her when she carefully pushed the fabric upward. The motion was slow, almost methodical, revealing fresh bruises—some from the match, some from all the ones before.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat. Not quite regret, not quite apology. Just an acknowledgment.

Her fingers were warm, careful, as she traced the bruised skin along your ribs before pressing the ice pack against it. A sharp inhale left your lips. She didn’t tease you for it, just held it there, watching you.

“Sit,” she said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, perching on the edge of the bed as she grabbed the small first-aid kit from her bag. She knelt in front of you, flipping the lid open with practiced ease.

Your fingers twitched when she uncapped a tube of ointment. You should’ve done something—said something—to break the moment, but the way she looked at you, focused and unwavering, well, it kept you still.

“This might sting,” she muttered, smoothing a layer of the cool gel over a scrape near your collarbone.

You didn’t flinch. Just exhaled slowly as her touch lingered, fingertips brushing against your skin longer than necessary.

Your eyes met hers, and for a moment, the tension that had been simmering for months threatened to snap.

But instead of acting on it, you reached for the ice pack still clutched in her other hand.

“Your turn.”

She arched a brow, like she was going to argue, but she didn’t. Just sighed and sat back as you took her wrist, gently guiding her onto the bed beside you.

You peeled back her shirt, moving slower than necessary, your fingers skimming over the bruises that lined her ribs.

The ice pack met her skin, and she hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Your hand stayed steady, applying just enough pressure, your palm resting lightly against her side.

Neither of you dared to speak, afraid of breaking the moment.

Your fingers lingered against Agatha’s ribs, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch, the slight hitch in her breath as the ice pack warmed between you. The air between you was charged, and before you could stop yourself, you dipped your head and pressed a featherlight kiss to her bare shoulder.

It was soft. Fleeting almost.

But the way she inhaled sharply, the way her muscles tensed beneath your lips, made your stomach twist with something molten and dangerous.

You lifted your gaze, heart pounding, to find her already watching you.

Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise—she’d felt this tension between you just as much as you had. No, this was something else. A quiet challenge. A question.

And then, as if pulled by gravity itself, your lips found hers.

The first kiss was slow—uncertain in a way that sent heat curling low in your stomach. Her lips were warm, softer than you expected, moving against yours with a hesitant deliberation, like neither of you were ready to cross this line but neither of you could stop.

Your hands found her waist, fingertips pressing into bare skin, feeling the taut muscle beneath. She sighed into your mouth, tilting her head, deepening it just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then it shifted.

Hesitation gave way to hunger, slow to something deeper, something desperate. Agatha’s hands tangled in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp as she pulled you closer, as if the distance between you was unbearable.

Your breath stuttered as she pushed forward, guiding you onto your back against the mattress, her weight settling over yours in a way that made heat pool between your thighs.

You didn’t just let her take control. You met her movement for movement, rolling so you hovered over her instead, lips ghosting along her jaw, her throat. She arched into you, fingers gripping your hips, urging you closer, and the friction sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body.

You barely registered how your clothes disappeared or how you kept switching positions—only the feeling of her hands dragging fabric from your skin, the way your own fingers traced the newly exposed planes of her body, memorising every dip and curve.

She was breathtaking.

The air between you crackled with something electric as you moved together, lips seeking, hands exploring. Every touch was slow but deliberate, teasing but firm, each sensation unravelling the other piece by piece.

Agatha’s lips left yours, trailing a path of heat down your throat, each kiss softer, slower, as if savouring the way your breath hitched under her touch. Her mouth lingered at the base of your neck, a flicker of teeth sending a shiver down your spine before she continued lower.

She traced the curve of your collarbone, then lower still, her tongue flicking out just enough to tease. Her breath was warm against your skin, the contrast of her lips and the cool air leaving goosebumps in her wake.

When she reached just below your navel, she paused.

Your breath caught as she glanced up through dark lashes, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

Before you could say anything, before you could even think, Agatha shifted, her body aligning with yours in a way that sent anticipation buzzing through your veins.

One of her legs slid over yours, while the other slipped beneath, her hand gripping your thigh and pulling it over her hip. The shift brought you flush together, her clit pressing into yours, her warmth, her weight, surrounding you completely.

Then she moved.

The first slow roll of her hips sent a shockwave through you, the friction delicious and unbearable all at once. A gasp left your lips at the sensation, sharp and involuntary, swallowed by Agatha’s low moan.

She did it again.

A deliberate, languid grind that had your fingers curling into her back, nails digging in as heat coiled low in your stomach.

Agatha’s movements grew more desperate, each grind of her hips sending sparks of heat pulsing through you. The rhythm was intoxicating—a perfect push and pull that had your breath catching with every press of her body against yours.

The friction was exquisite, every brush of her soaked pussy against yours sending a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. Your nails pressed into her back, searching for an anchor as the slick warmth of your mixed arousal between you made every movement impossibly pleasurable.

A breathy moan spilled from your lips as she rolled her hips just right, the pressure hitting where you needed it most. Agatha’s own gasp followed, her grip on your thigh tightening as her rhythm stuttered for a fraction of a second before she found it again, more determined now.

“Fuck you feel so good,” she groaned, voice rough with pleasure. “So warm—so perfect against me.”

You couldn’t answer—at least not with words. So instead, you tilted your hips up to meet her, pushing harder into the delicious friction between you. The reaction was instant—a sharp inhale from Agatha, a shudder that ran down her spine and into you.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter, pleasure mounting with every slick roll of her hips against yours. It was maddening—teetering on the edge, neither of you willing to slow down, to let the other escape this unrelenting rhythm.

Agatha was unravelling just as much as you were. Her breaths turned ragged, her movements becoming more desperate, less controlled. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, her lips parting against your skin as a soft, broken moan escaped her.

The sound of it—the way she lost herself for just a moment—sent you spiralling.

Heat exploded through you, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your back arching as your body tightened around the feeling of your orgasm, chasing every last pulse of it. Your moan mixed with hers, tangled in the air between you, and Agatha wasn’t far behind—her rhythm stuttering, her breath shattering into something desperate as she ground into you one last time, biting harshly at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, before giving in completely.

The aftershocks left you both trembling, locked in each other’s arms, breathless and undone. Neither of you dared to speak again, but this time it was because a whole other reason, because this time you didn’t need to; not when every shiver, every lingering touch, said everything.

—

When the adrenaline had finally ebbed, leaving behind only exhaustion and the dull throb of bruises settling into your skin, the dim glow of the hotel room cast soft shadows over Agatha’s body as she stretched out beside you, her breathing still uneven, a quiet hiss slipping past her lips when she shifted the wrong way.

You smirked, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Still hurts, huh?”

Agatha huffed a laugh, rolling onto her side to face you. “Oh, don’t act like you’re any better, champ.” Her fingers ghosted over the mottled bruise forming along your ribs, her touch featherlight but knowing. “I’ll give you credit, though. You really made me work to cause each of these.”

You leaned into her touch, sighing as the tension in your muscles began to settle. “Oh please, it’s not like you could actually beat me anyway

Her smirk deepened. “Is that what you think?”

Before you could answer, she moved—quick as ever—rolling on top of you in one smooth motion. The sudden shift knocked the breath from your lungs, and before you could react, her hands found your wrists, pinning them against the mattress. The familiar press of her body against yours sent a thrill down your spine, though it was tempered by the playful glint in her eyes.

"One...” she purred, lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your skin.

You arched a brow, amusement flickering beneath your exhaustion. “Really?”

“Two…” Her voice was silk, dripping with satisfaction as she pressed you further into the bed, her grip firm but teasing.

You weren’t about to let her finish, you shifted your weight, using the last of your strength to twist your bodies. In a blink, she was beneath you, wrists trapped against the sheets, your knees bracketing her hips. Her breath hitched, a flash of surprise flickering across her face before it melted into something reminiscent of pleasure.

“Not this time, sweetheart.” You grinned, leaning in until your noses almost brushed.

Agatha let out a breathy chuckle, her eyes half-lidded as she relaxed beneath you. “Damn. Can’t even let me have this one, can you?”

You smirked, leaning down just enough that your noses brushed. “What kind of champion would I be if I did?”

Her breath hitched again, and then she closed the distance, her lips pressing softly against yours. 

The fight, the aches, the exhaustion—it all melted away for a moment, leaving only the warmth of her mouth against yours, the slow, deliberate way she kissed you.

You let yourself sink into her, into the quiet intimacy, knowing that whatever came next would always bring you right back to this.

-----

'author doesn't know fuck about wrestling' probably should probably be a warning for this 😭 I'm so sorry for any inaccuracies they are all entirely my fault :P

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[demonic0angel]

Part 2 of Phantom’s Royal Court (click for clarity)

Introducing Dani and Valerie!

Extra notes:

+ While Danny’s design was created by looking at actual portraits of kings and manhwa men, Valerie’s design was created by looking at portraits of queens and Victorian hunting dresses.

+ Valerie’s entire design is meant to be very practical and very cool. Most of everything is removable or easy to move in for maximum comfort since she is a fighter, examples: the pleated skirt, the loose cape, the detachable skirt. I hope she comes off as badass and spooky.

+ I hope you’re beginning to notice that the Phantom Family will all have skull motifs >:)

+ Dani’s design was the hardest to make because I struggled to find a combination of cool and cute with practicality. In the end, it’s still a little impractical, but it looks cute and cool enough that I’m satisfied.

+ Dani’s hawk motif is given to her because I hc that her special trait in the group is that she’s the fastest of everyone else and she is canonically flighty. Hawks are also birds of prey and are small, but deadly predators. Also, hawk skulls are surprisingly very cute, which I liked.

Part one

Part three

Part four

[gloomwitchwrites]

Task Force 141 Metal Band AU x Backup Singer Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, brief mention of alcohol

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: Part Two of Second Act

At the afterparty, Simon confronts you. You run to Lena for safety. During a game of pool, Simon makes you an offer.

Chapter One // Chapter Three

ao3 // main masterlist // second act masterlist

“Thought I recognized you.”

His voice is living memory, sending you down, down, down into a tangled web of barbed wire. You cannot shake it off or crawl out of it. The metal digs in. You’ll have to tear it from your flesh. Draw blood.

You were right to question why the drummer paused when exiting the stage. It was Simon, and he recognized you. The fact that you’re here only confirms whatever suspicion he had earlier.

But it’s not just him—not only him.

There are three others, watching at a distance, their gazes drilling into the back of your skull. Maybe it’s a small grace that you cannot see their expressions. Simon’s presence alone is already suffocating.

Signing those contracts to join Lechery on their North American tour was a new beginning. Now, you’re a trapped animal, realizing that it’s surrounded by predators. Simon is not a stranger. The other three band members are not strangers.

Worse yet, this is worst possible time for him to show up.

It’s not the right place. Not the right fucking situation.

But you cannot run from this. There is no retreat. The exit is on the far side of the room, and everyone in attendance would notice if you suddenly bolted.

Cruelty. Nothing else describes it.

Fate is playing a trick, circling back to the choices you made all those years ago, smashing your face into the door as it shoves you through it.

“This is—” Your voice catches in your throat, nearly choking you. Even your lungs betray you. “A surprise,” you manage.

A creeping numbness enters the tips of your fingers as if you’ve been standing outside in the cold for too long. With it comes an urge to shake out your hands, the muscles in your arms itching for release.

The corner of Simon’s mouth quirks with a hint of a smile. It’s such a familiar gesture that your heart momentarily flutters, remembering all the times he’d give you that one little look while never giving it to anyone else.

“That’s one way to put it,” he muses.

You inwardly flinch.

There’s too much meaning in his words, and yet not nearly enough. Years have separated the two of you, have separated you from the all of them. There’s little reason to hope that they’ll greet you like an old friend. If anything, they have the right to demand answers—to demand to know why you up and left.

With as much casualness as you can muster, you cross one leg over the other, resting your hands between your thighs. “It’s been a long time.”

It’s a stupid thing to say. Of course it’s been a long fucking time.

Simon’s mouth turns downward in a slight frown. His lips part, but instead of speaking, he inhales. As if changing his mind, Simon shifts his attention from you to Olivia.

“Am I interrupting?”

Now you ask.

“Yes,” you reply automatically just as Olivia says, “No.”

Your head snaps in her direction, eyes growing large. Olivia sheepishly brings her drink to her lips, taking a long sip.

It’s best to salvage this. And by salvage, you mean scrap it all together.

“Olivia and I were having a chat. I could come find you later?” you offer.

Take it, Simon. Fucking take it.

Olivia pops up off the sofa. “It’s fine,” she says brightly, some of that West Virginia accent seeping through. “You can take my seat.”

You want to strangle her. What the fuck is she doing?

“Thanks, love,” grins Simon as Olivia steps to the right to move out of his way.

As he slides by her, Olivia nods her head in Simon’s direction. “Talk to him,” she mouths. You give a little shake of your head. Olivia holds her cup up to her face, blocking her mouth from Simon’s view. “You’re welcome,” she says silently, slipping away to mingle.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

All the sound in the room suddenly becomes a roar, the lights far too bright. Your vision swims, and then it all narrows quickly as if you’re experiencing the world through the end of a straw.

It’s your name that snaps you back to reality.

Your name. From Simon’s lips.

He drapes an arm over the back of the sofa, body turned toward you with clear familiarity. This is not two strangers introducing themselves. Simon leans forward in an almost intimate manner, like he’s known you all your life.

But he does know you, doesn’t he?

The two of you may be separated by years but there was a time when your entire life revolved around him.

And not just him.

There was Johnny. Kyle. John.

Each of them an individual anchor. Then all together, changing you, shaping you until it became too much, and you dashed from them like a sprinting deer.

The mellow, overhead lights twinkle in Simon’s brown eyes. “You’re our backup singer.”

“One of three,” you correct.

Simon inclines his head. “Did you know?”

“That you were Lechery?” Simon nods and you shake your head. “Of course not. Think I’d accept if I did?”

“Don’t know, dove. Didn’t say much when you left.”

I didn’t say anything.

You exhale slowly, attempting to calm your nerves. “Congratulations by the way.” You gesture vaguely at the room. “On your success.”

“Thank you,” murmurs Simon. “It’s a change from when we first met.”

That’s an understatement. When you first met him, it was at a punk show in London. You were blitzed out on gin and tonics and Simon was just a masked stranger to you. A brooding, balaclava wearing beast of a man that you saddled up to and flirted with incessantly. The two of you went to his flat, and once there, you pounced on him. And when his bandmate, Johnny, came home, he joined in. The three of you went at it until the sun came up.

That was before you met the other two housemates. When they arrived, they wormed their way in, and suddenly it was no longer just you, Johnny, and Simon.

Three months of the four of them. Of the five of you.

Years have spawned since. Of course things have changed.

“Still living in that little flat in South London?”

“No. Building is gone.”

“Oh?”

Simon cocks his head. “They built a hospital.” He shrugs. “The area needed it.”

The two of you lapse into a stretching quiet. Conversation is difficult, and it’s not just because you’re a goddamn nervous wreck. The Simon you knew then was tall and muscular, but still had a boyish air to him. This Simon is a man. He almost appears taller somehow. His chest and shoulders are broader, taking up far too much space. You feel eclipsed by him. Smaller. Fragile.

Which is silly. Absurd.

You’ve never felt like that around him, nor any of them. Vulnerable, yes. But never insignificant.

He oozes darkness. Danger. Temptation.

When you first met him at that punk show all those years ago, you felt it then, too, but there was something more chaotic about it. Like a Molotov cocktail sort of frenzy, where now it’s large and looming and suffocating like pure darkness.

If you were to let him in again, Simon would swallow you whole.

“With all the money you have now, I’m sure you’re in something much nicer.”

Simon chuckles. “I have reliable heat now. That’s something.”

“Because the heat actually works? Or because you can afford it?”

This time Simon’s chuckle is a hearty laugh. “Got me there.”

A hesitation rises in your throat. Speaking with Simon again, having him near you like this, is warming parts of you that long went cold. Keeping him on this sofa might be the thing you need—but it will also lead toward a conversation you have no interest in having.

“I shouldn’t keep you,” you murmur. “You’ve only just got here. I’m sure there are people who want to talk to you.”

“They can wait,” he says automatically.

From his tone, there is little room for discussion.

“I’m not important. In fact, I was invited here out of kindness.” This party isn’t for you. It’s for Lechery, and for everyone who made the European tour a success. “You should…mingle.”

It’s a meager rebuttal, and Simon knows this.

He leans forward a bit, closing the space between you. His gaze is so piercing, so primal, you’re pinned to the cushion, unable to move or think or speak.

“We’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting. Years. Fucking years. Not a word. Not even a glimpse of where you’d gone or what happened to you.”

“Simon—”

“Don’t,” he says sharply. “I should be angry.” His gaze drops to your lips. “But all I want to do is kiss you.”

Your lips involuntarily part, and Simon groans lowly, his brow softening as he leans in a bit more.

“I have to go,” you whisper, drawing back at the last second. “Promised Lena a round of pool.”

As you scoot back, Simon’s arm darts out, his large hand grasping your bare thigh. It is a brand against your skin—a reminder of his touch, and that only sparks a fire in your core. His hand slides inward toward your pussy, moving higher up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress up until it bunches tightly over your lap. He drags you right back to him.

“And you promised us you’d never leave,” he replies, that assertive darkness returning. “But you did.” A crease forms in the middle of his brow. “You did.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you hiss.

Glancing over Simon’s shoulder, you observe the rest of the room. Most people aren’t paying you any attention, but a few nearby partygoers keep looking your way. But as your gaze sweeps over the crowd, you find them.

Johnny and Kyle are no longer near the bar. They’ve moved closer to you and Simon, and it’s clear that Johnny wants in on whatever’s being said, but Kyle is holding him back. John is still at the bar, a full glass of whiskey in hand, staring off into space like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Why not?” he asks, and there is genuine concern in that question.

I can’t tell you. It hurts too much.

“Let me go, Simon,” you whisper, knowing that you don’t sound strong. Only broken.

Simon’s hand remains on your thigh. He glances down at it. Easing up on his grip, Simon lightly caresses your skin with his thumb. You shiver, pussy clenching. Like a snake encircling its prey, the desire for him slithers around and between your bones.

“Just say it. And we’ll go.”

Simon gently squeezes your thigh again, and this time, you have to stifle a moan.

“I can’t,” you breathe.

The words hurt. They’re a daggered edge. As much as your body and mind crave him, your heart isn’t in it.

Simon’s grip eases, and you scoot away from him, smoothing your dress as you stand. He stares up at you, mouth a thin line, face grim. You can’t even gather enough strength to say goodbye.

Moving around the other side of the sofa, you aim right for Lena. She’s chatting up Rudy, the man Alejandro spoke to earlier when he couldn’t find his phone.

“Sorry to cut in,” you say with forced cheeriness. “But I need to borrow Lena. We were going to play a round of pool together.”

“Were we?” she asks slowly, side-eyeing you.

You turn your fake smile on her. “Yes,” you emphasize through gritted teeth.

Rudy beams. “Course.” He winks at Lena. “I’ll find you later.”

As Rudy starts to walk away, you link your arm in Lena’s, pulling her tightly against your side. Your gaze darts everywhere, scanning the room to make sure the members of Lechery don’t appear from thin air.

“Bitch, you better be joking,” she deadpans.

“We’re playing pool.”

Lena rolls her eyes. “I suck at pool. And why are you looking around like that?” Lena glances around too, her mouth turned downward in a frown. When she finds nothing of interest, she turns her attention back to you. “You look neurotic.”

“It’s Simon,” you whisper.

“And?” she prompts.

“And what?” Lena lifts her hand and waves it in a “go on” gesture. “We talked.”

“Very helpful,” she retorts. “And what did you and Simon talk about?” Her slightly annoyed expression becomes devious. “I saw the way he was looking at you.”

She waggles her eyebrows and you groan. “If we don’t start playing pool right now, he’ll know I lied.”

Lena bursts out laughing. “Was the conversation that bad?”

“Not…exactly,” you mutter, tugging on her arm, trying to herd Lena toward one of the pool tables.

“I don’t understand. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good either?”

“Yep,” you reply, tugging a little harder.

“Okay, ow. Girl, chill.” Lena comes to a dead stop and you nearly topple forward. “What did he say?”

You give the room another once-over. At first, you think you’re in the clear, and then you spot Simon just a few feet away deep in conversation with Johnny.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “They’re right there.”

Lena holds up a hand. “Stop. You’re acting weird.” When you don’t answer right away, her concern becomes rage. “What the fuck did he do?”

“Lena—”

“I will beat his ass.” You give her a bland look, and Lena sighs loudly, her rage melting away to bemused irritation. “Fine. I won’t fight him.” Her lips purse. “But I might accidentally spill a drink on him.”

“The conversation was fine. Just—” You chew on your bottom lip. “Not one I was expecting.”

Lena’s brow softens. “You haven’t seen him in years. And it’s not like you knew.”

She knows parts of what happened that summer, but she doesn’t have all the pieces. Of what she does, your reasons for fleeing isn’t one.

“No,” you agree. “I didn’t.”

You should consider the information a blow. Like a punch to the face, you’ve been thrown into a fight headfirst without any prior warning. Simon might have been the one to approach you tonight, but the others eventually will. There is an entire tour ahead of you. They will have every opportunity to bring it up.

Tour aside, you’ve signed on with 141 Music Group. There is little room for you to suddenly back out and turn tail. The ink is dried. The contracts signed and finalized. Breaking contracts isn’t unheard of, but you’d be screwing yourself financially. You’d also be putting Lena and Olivia in a tight spot. While each of you signed your own individual contracts, the three of you also signed one together as a trio.

You can’t just up and leave.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” you admit, voice deflating like a popped balloon.

Lena’s face falls. She unlinks her arm from yours only to go in for a hug. “It’ll be fine. You have me. You have Olivia.” Drawing back, she places her hands on your shoulders. “All you need to do is be professional and do your job.”

“I know.”

“Fuck them,” she smiles, and then, with a sultry purr, “or fuck them.”

“Lena, I swear,” you mutter as she cackles.

Draping her arm over your shoulder, she turns toward the pool table. “Let’s play this god-awful game.”

It isn’t long before one of the tables opens up. Lena takes the lead, jumping in and taking the offered cue sticks. She hands one to you, and takes the other. Leaning yours against the pool table, you remove the billiard balls and set them on the tabletop.

As you start to straighten your spine, mind elsewhere, you don’t realize Simon is standing next to you until you nearly knock into him. You stagger backwards, but Simon is lightning quick, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep you on your feet.

“Don’t fall,” he chides with a cheeky grin.

The back of your neck flares hot. A snarky retort simmers on your tongue but you swallow it back.

“Thank you,” you reply, tone cool.

Simon’s arm lingers a few seconds longer before slowly retreating. It’s incredibly languid. Nothing hurried about it. All of these people around and Simon has zero shame. Is he doing this on purpose? Does he want you uncomfortable?

Lena saddles up beside you. She leans against her cue stick, one eyebrow arched at Simon. “We’re about to start. Need something?” Her tone sends a clear message.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m playing winner.”

Damn it.

The winner will be you. Lena couldn’t play pool to save her life.

She makes a little sound of disapproval in the back of her throat. “Are you good with that?” she asks you, turning slightly in your direction.

No. It’s not fine.

“Perfectly,” you lie.

It’s the only answer you can give. A small crowd is forming, and the last thing you want to do is cause a scene.

As Lena shrugs and starts placing the billiard balls into the triangle rack, Simon’s hand lightly brushes over your lower back as he passes behind you. When you turn toward him, he doesn’t glance in your direction. He heads for Johnny, the two men taking up post against the wall.

Johnny’s gaze is intense—hardened. You’re not sure what he’s thinking. Which is so strange because he’s always been the most open of the four. He never could hide anything from you, and yet, you could never hide anything from him.

Lena grabs the sides of the triangle rack. She rocks it back and forth, bringing it to a stop. Removing the rack, she sets it aside, placing the cue ball in its starting point.

As you line up to make the first shot, your gaze flicks over to Simon and Johnny. Kyle has joined them, and he’s watching you right back.

Glancing away quickly, you go for it, striking the cue ball and sending it into the billiard balls. They scatter. You move into position again, sending your intended ball toward the pocket. It strikes the side just shy of the opening, moving away from the pocket and in the opposite direction.

“Your turn,” you say to Lena, stepping away.

You don’t dare glance in their direction. Sure, you could botch the game, play so poorly that Lena has to play Simon, but it would be obvious to everyone that you did. That’s how bad Lena is.

A few more turns and you completely have this in the bag. It’s not even negotiable at this point. Every time Lena strikes the cue ball and it misses her intended target, she winces. It’s followed by her giving you a sympathetic expression. She knows. She understands. At least, in some part.

It isn’t much longer before it’s called. Lena didn’t hit a single ball.

“Sorry,” she whispers just as Simon approaches.

He holds out his hand and Lena places the cue stick in his open palm. As she walks away, Lena glances over her shoulder, offering you a look of reassurance. She might not be beside you, but she has your back.

“Think we should up the stakes,” says Simon casually.

“How so?” you ask, pointedly looking away from him to fuss with the billiard balls.

Using his cue stick as a support, Simon leans in. “A bet, if you will.”

“Do enlighten me.”

Simon licks his lips. “If you win, I’ll let the matter rest.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“And if I win,” he continues, that wicked smile of his returning. “You’re mine for the next three days.”

You drop the billiard ball you’re holding. It hits the tabletop with a loud thwack.

“I’m—” A nervous laugh escapes you. “What?”

“Three days,” he repeats. “For three days, you belong to me.”

You glance over his shoulder. Lena is staring, open-mouthed at the back of Simon’s head. Kyle and Johnny are listening intently, both of them slightly pushed off from the wall like they want to come over and join the conversation. John is still nowhere in sight, but you don’t look for him. Simon’s presence is far too consuming, and you won’t back down.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Three days. And then what?”

Simon’s voice shifts to a sultry swagger. “You’ll do what I tell you. Without question.”

You snort. “Not interested.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, love,” he croons. “I felt you shiver when I touched you. Heard the groan you made.”

You hear Lena choke on her drink, spluttering slightly as she clears her throat.

“Simon,” you warn.

“Don’t deny yourself,” he growls.

An insistent voice within you begs you to take it, to accept and lose on purpose because deep down, you’ve missed him all these years.

Don’t deny yourself.

For three days, you belong to me.

“Three days?” you ask.

“Three,” he confirms. “And it starts when I win.”

“If you win,” you correct.

Simon’s smile is cocky. “We have a deal then.”

You nod and back away. Simon allows his gaze to linger on your body. It roams up and down, soaking in every inch. The look is devouring. Primal. You’ve seen that look on him before. Countless times in fact, and always just before he fucked you.

Simon sets the table, adding the billiard balls to the triangle rack. He rolls them, removes the rack, and takes one solid step back, observing his work.

“You break,” he says, nodding toward the pool table.

“Sure about that?”

“I insist.”

You line up your shot, striking the cue ball. It shoots forward, cracking against the billiard balls, sending them in all directions.

You slowly straighten your spine, giving Simon a silent dare. He’s not looking at the balls at all, but at you, and there is something lingering behind that stare. A bit of your confidence chips away, and then it shatters completely when Simon takes position.

With one shot, he knocks three balls into the pocket. Fucking three.

This time, you’re not smiling. Simon is going to win this. Easily. It’s funny that you thought you even had the chance. Which is fucking insane. Sure, you’ve seen Simon play but he was never this good.

It takes no more than a few turns. Simon sweeps the floor with you, never giving you a fair chance.

He knew he’d win. He fucking knew.

The bastard.

You want to rage, to feel frustration and anger in equal measure, to lash out at him for clearly tricking you.

But there is no animosity. The two of you made a deal. You agreed to this.

As the final ball rolls into the pocket, your gaze sweeps across the pool table. Simon is still bent forward from his shot. He’s not watching the ball at all. He’s watching you.

Simon grins, victorious.

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[whereserpentswalk]

Like to give your creature a pat on the head. Reblog to get them to come to you. Tag your friends to increase their power. Look under the cut to see what it's like to meet your creature.

The vampire: She first comes to you as a shadow entering your room but takes fleshy form as she comes to the seat of your bed, wearing men's clothes from centuries ago. Though she is not of this world anymore you can tell that she once was human, even if such humanity is long forgotten. Her mouth shifts, from something massive and monstrous, with many fangs and moving parts, to something more humanoid, though still with sharp steel fangs in place of teeth. She sings to you and old forgotten song, of gods only spoken about by humans in taboo whispers, and fleshes you look of her ever-young bright red eyes. You begin to harmonize, your voices meeting as equals, as she begins to rest on your lap, and let herself be pet like a cat. You feel the shape of her body, it's so cold. She begs for your blood in song, and you give it to her as you pet her head, her mouth opens up to its monstrous size again, but she's so loyal and submissive as she drinks from your hand, like a bird eating right out of your palm.

The ghost: The room fills with red, as red and a blood moon, and red as a fresh beating heart. Spirits rise and you see something ancient lash towards you, hir hands like a mantis's claws, hir face like a skull yet featureless save for two dark eyes, hir red body covered in bug like limbs and tentacles and shimming egg cases. Sie turns hir head to look at you and sie rushes at you like a deadly predator but passes through you, eldritch ghostly wires wrapping around hir like chains to pull hir back to you as sie bows, defeated, begging with only a look not to be banished. You're not sure if sie is terrifying, pathetic, or honorable, but as you put your hand out sie seems somewhat honored to be allowed to stand up. You wonder what sie's thinking but you don't think to ask, it's only barely dawned on you that such an inhuman creature has a mind like yours, that sie is sentient, that hir race was much like yours when they were still alive. You just look at each other for a good amount of time, not sure who is more powerful.

The angel: They first come to you in an empty subway station, the ruins on the ground barely keeping you safe from them. Yet they look forlorn, like they would not have the energy to hurt you. Their form is pale and ghostly, white and colorless, the only mark of brightness being the blood that stains their hands, and wings. Chains weight down their slender body, as a veil hides their face. For a small moment they spread their six great wings, showing you their true size and power even in their cursed state. Eye sockets open for you for a brief moment, all over their body, all of them empty. Terrifying as they are none would deny that they are in great pain. You reach your hand out and gently whisper "it's ok" as they slow down and look at you as if they have not seen such sympathy from a creature in a long time. They extend a hand for you to hold, and you grab it, pet it for a slight moment, and you can feel a long dead fire seep through your veins. "It's ok." "It's ok."

The faceless woman: Deep beyond the city limits, where no light shines save for the stars, you see her, spiderwebs and shadows her friends, and faeries and dead gods her masters. She looks like a human at first, tall and long haired, in a ragged suit that covers her flesh. But then you see her head, and where her face could have been there is only a black pick, a hole that no normal human could survive to have. It looks at first like the void is of pure darkness, but inside it you have catch a glimpse of countless teeth like a lamprey's. She seems to laugh though she has no mouth, amused that a human would think to approach her, but you approach her even more, wondering what she even is. She suddenly gets excited as she sees something in your eyes, sees that you won't back down. You offer her some raw meat, a sign of good will, as you put it in her hands, she consumes it by causing it to melt into dust in her hands. She looks at you, as an ally, an accomplice, if she could, she would have smiled.

Paladin: She stands before you, bowing strangely, so submissively, though she's so obviously strong enough to rip you apart. It's strange to think this creature is actually in your room, that she's actually yours, that she was once a human like you. You can see where the plate and chain is fused to her neck, her hands eternally attached to her sword and flintlock, her eyes looking up at you wish a strange sadness. There's blood on her face and hair that will never wash out. As you come closer she seems afraid of you, like you could ruin her in ways that she could never hope to ruin you, despite her power and prowess. You ask if you can pet her head and she nods, you aren't sure yet if she could speak to you if she wanted. When you so gently pet and stroke her face and hair, she seems so happy, so happy to have someone treat her in such a way. You tell her that she's doing well, that she did a good job, it seems like she needed to hear that.

Autumn faerie: He looks down at you from the tome that he walked out of the world around them blackened until he's all that you're able to see. A smiling mask rests on his face, and far more cover his body, the only clothing on his strange body, almost human, almost extremely not human, bright wings sprouting from the flesh of his back. He looks at you, studying you, like he already knows so much about you but now he finally gets to see you. Is he impressed? He at the very least seems as if he's satisfied. He hands you a mask, you don't know how, but it looks like you, not literally, it looks more like an animal then a human, but it looks like your true face, like just as you summoned and bound him with his true name, he gets this from you in his return. You put on the mask, the deal is signed at it rings with pleasure, you'll never be the same again.

Harpy: You first see zir on a fire escape, the lights of the buildings around zir shining like stars against the starless night sky. You can only see zir eyes at first, shining gold against the darkness of zir body. But you call zir into your apartment with a forgotten tongue and watch a ze lands near you, so very alien but so very close. Zir body is marked by feathered wings, and zir form are like a bird's from the waist down, blue and white and gold as if they were painted, you can tell zir body was crafted directly by the gods themselves. You call upon zir with a song long forgotten and wondered what the look in zir eyes means. Though ze is beautiful ze has taken lives, and though ze is humanlike in some regards to zir shape, zir movements are so alien. You let zir carry you, and it feels strangely good to be held, and let zir fly with you, above the city streets, looking down at things most will never see, at birds and clouds flying past you, and at the world below, so many people, and somehow you feel safe with the wind rushing past your hair.

Incubus: You see him, sitting in an empty office building. His humanoid form is slender and short and more pretty than he is handsome, the only reason you think of him as male being his flat chest. You can he's now human from the raven's wings and scorpion's tail on his back, the branching horns and snakes for hair on his head, his sharp teeth and the stars shaped pupils. The clothing he wears is loose and comfortable, as if it was chosen in a state of depression. You expected more confidence when you summoned him. He backs away from you afraid, afraid of what you'll do to him. It looks like monster hunters got to him before you had a chance to, he's lucky to even be alive. You set out some rat's souls for him to eat so he'll trust you more, and you assure him that it's ok, that he's safe. He starts crying a bit as he looks at you, and after he finishes eating you offer to hug him. He lets you and you feel his body be surrounded by your arms. He's afraid but enjoying the affection so much as you assure him again that you won't hurt him.

Golem: They sit by you in abandoned mall, displaying so much power as they move steel pipes to the side to get closer to you. Their strength mired by the way even the smallest rip seems to be something them need to avoid. You look at them, their body so perfectly created, like human sized origami, the letter of life on their head being the only thing that marks their pure white paper body. You ask them to follow you, but they won't follow, a single puddle blocks their path, no obstacle for you, but even a being of their power has weaknesses. You slowly clear it, putting objects you can find over the puddle until finally they can follow you out into the light, still afraid of the sky you hand them an umbrella, just in case...

Undead: You first see him in a dark alleyway that the sun cannot meet him in. You wonder how many dimensions he's been to, how many dimensions he's been from, before he got here. He looks at you with three eyes of different colors. Skin stitched together across him, of different colors and textures and levels of rot, clothing resting on him from several different lives. He chatters, first in one voice asking where he is, where he could be. Then another voice questions you, wondering who you are, why you'd want to see him. Another voice looks at his own face in a piece of shattered glass and screams in terror. For a moment you think he'd attack, you're not sure if the spell would protect you. But he doesn't, he just looks at you for a while, confused perhaps. You ask him if he wants to follow you, and he seems to. Within his storm of countless voices, he decides to ask you, almost with all at once, "who am I." After thinking for a while you decide to answer, "You're you."

Demon: You stand in a closed down amusement part, the sea beside you shining like in the moonlight as he rises out of the water. He's massive; larger than you expected. His body a pale white as he rises out of the newly boiling water, his three heads eat long and sharp toothed like an alligator's, his eyes as red freshly cut meat, seven tattered wings on his back expanding to nearly cover the sky. He laughs, you're not sure how sadistic or how genuine it is considering the unreadable expressions of his reptilian heads. He charges at you with his teeth gnashing and blood pouring out of each of his mouths. But the spell blocks him like a shield made out of the air. As he fails to attack you more, he becomes frustrated, then tired, and rests on a rollercoaster. He seems to respect you knowing you were able to bind him like that, and regardless of if he likes it or not, he's yours now.

Shapeshifter: She slowly walks towards you out from the tunnel, she experiments with forms to see how you react; a small white kitten, a robotic humanoid woman, a long-haired demoness, a woman made out of blue slime. You can tell she's seen a lot of creatures before, that you're not her first master, she's known vampires, and werewolves, and demons in her time. It doesn't seem like many of them have been kind to her. You call to her and bring her closer with your magic. Slowly you watch her, you just wait as she changes her form, getting more experimental with the bodies she's willing to take. You just look at her, letting her be herself, letting her show you her art. Eventually she settles on something that feels like herself, something that she can be comfortable following you home with.

[maskedbyghost]

The grand ballroom was a sea of glittering chandeliers and tuxedos. You smoothed your hand down the fabric of your gown, which felt like a flowing masterpiece of midnight blue that shimmered under the light. The dress hugged your figure in all the right places, its elegance hiding the concealed weapons strapped to your thigh.

Beside you, Simon was the picture of a professional. In a tailored black suit, he looked like he belonged among the wealth and power of the room, but his skull mask remained, cleverly disguised as a sleek masquerade accessory. His dark eyes scanned the crowd with precision, but occasionally, they flickered toward you.

Simon hated this kind of mission: the pretense, the crowds, the constant surveillance. But tonight, something else had him on edge—you. The way that dress clung to you, the confident tilt of your chin, the shimmer of light catching in your eyes—it was undoing him. He told himself it was just the mission, the need to stay close, to protect you. But the ache low in his gut told a different story.

“Stop staring,” you muttered under your breath as you sipped from a champagne flute, keeping up the appearance of a carefree socialite.

“I’m not staring,” he replied, voice low and gruff.

“You’re practically burning holes into me,” you teased, glancing at him.

His jaw tightened, and he forced his gaze back to the crowd. She has no idea, he thought, frustrated with himself. No bloody idea what she’s doing to me.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “You two need to find the ledger in the office upstairs,” Price’s voice ordered.

“Copy that,” you said softly, setting your glass down on a passing tray.

Simon nodded once, his fingers brushing the small of your back as he guided you toward the exit. The contact sent a shiver up your spine. Focus, Riley, he told himself, but the way your skin felt under his touch made it nearly impossible.

The room was dimly lit, the scent of old books and polished wood filling the air. You scanned the shelves and drawers, looking for the incriminating ledger. Simon stood guard by the door, his hand resting on the concealed weapon at his hip.

He tried to focus on the mission, but his gaze kept straying back to you. The way the gown shifted with your movements, the determined set of your jaw, the faint curve of your smile when you found something interesting—it was maddening. He shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts. Pull it together. You’re here to do a job, not... whatever this is.

“You find anything?” he asked.

“Not yet,” you replied, pulling open another drawer.

Suddenly, you saw Simon freeze, his head tilting slightly like a predator catching a scent. “They’re coming,” he said.

You stiffened. “What do we do?”

What do we do? The real question was, What do I want to do? He knew the footsteps he’d heard were faint and retreating—no real threat. But the opportunity was there, and Simon had never been the type to hesitate.

Without hesitation, he crossed the room in two long strides, his hands gripping your waist as he lifted you onto the desk. Before you could protest, his lips crashed against yours, stealing your breath.

It was fire and chaos, a kiss that silenced your thoughts and left you clinging to his shoulders. His hands slid to your hips, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. Your gown bunched slightly, but you didn’t care; all that mattered was the heat of his mouth and the possessive way he held you.

Finally. The thought hit him like a punch to the chest. He’d wanted this—you—for so long, and now that he had a taste, he knew he was a goner.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. Your heart was pounding, and it wasn’t from the supposed threat outside.

“Are they gone?” you whispered, your voice shaky.

Simon smirked, a rare expression that sent a thrill through you. “No one’s coming.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“I lied,” he admitted. “Wanted to kiss you.”

You stared at him, your lips still tingling from the kiss. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re stunning,” he shot back without hesitation, his eyes roaming over you with a hunger that made your pulse race.

She’s going to kill me for this later, he thought, but he didn’t care. He’d tasted heaven, and he wasn’t about to regret it.

Before you could respond, the earpiece crackled again. “Status update?” Price’s voice cut through the tension.

Simon smirked, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We’re... handling it,” he said, his tone completely unbothered.

--------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @blackhawkfanatic @spicyspicyliving

[yaut-jaknowit]

hihi !!

I don't know if you've already been asked of this, so like... Sorry if you have lol, but pretty please can we have a part 2 of Blood in the Water? Thank you writer person 🙏

— : 🥀 anon

Blood In The Water Part 2

Character: T'a'yta (Male Yautja) x Mom!Reader

Word Count: 4736

Summary: Those three days fly by quickly. Everyday, you overthink the whole dinner. Your children try to help in their own oblivious ways, but you can't help it. Before long, the day arrives and you aren't prepared.

Author Note: This is one of the couple times I've been asked multiple times to write a part 2. AND I LOVE IT! I love to write guys. Love it. It's a passion. Never apologize for asking me to write. It may take me a month to get it down but I'll do it!

Part 1

Masterlist

Ao3

Over the course of those three days, you were able to get your car back from the middle of nowhere. Thankful to have your father pay for the tow and major issue. All it was the distributor cap that can completely fried itself. The worse place for it to do that. Like an angel sent to protect you, T’a’yta was there to pick you up and save you. One of the few people in your life who’s done something out of the kindness of their heart.

Now, you had been freaking out what to make him for a dinner. It was your own stupidity who hadn’t thought about asking him what he likes. You had just let him leave. Not even a way to message him to make up for your mistake. So, you had to fall on what were probably stereotypes.

Meat.

T’a’yta looked like a predator. The fangs, claws, the muscle his body is corded with. He reminded you of some hunters from ancient civilizations with what he was adorn with. Basic metal armor that’s decorated with skulls and bones. One skull had been used as a pouch for something on his side. You never got the chance to fully look at everything he carried in that moment. The most important thought was to get your children home safely. T’a’yta allowed for that to happen.

On the last day, you had gotten home from a stressful day of work. Not a second had gone by as you tried your best to think of a dish that may entertain T’a’yta. You didn’t think he would truly care about what you feed him but it was your conscious that drove you like this. To prove to yourself you can take care of yourself, of your children, of a family.

Blame it all on that scum of a husband you had. It was all his fault for the way you feel currently. Not once were you good enough for him. No amount of food or flavor of food. No amount of love. No amount of bedroom time made him love you the same way after you gotten pregnant.

This was all his fault.

Wasn’t it?

Your knuckles turned white while gripping the counter. A cook book sat freely in front of you, opened to a random page. Yet, your eyes never took in a word.

“Mama okay?” Shawn called out to you and pulled on your pant leg. Instantly, you were snapped out of your thoughts. A façade of happiness plastered to your face before you pivoted and knelt down to pick him up. Shawn giggled and gripped onto your shirt.

“Of course, baby boy. Mama is perfectly okay. She’s just thinking about what to make for T’a’yta.” It was a lie. But, you didn’t want them to worry about you. You had to be the strong one here. The only one that stayed behind to take care of them. All they had was you in their lives.

“Pancakes!” Simon screamed from the living room before unsteadily sprinting into the kitchen. He stopped on a dime, nearly pushing himself head over heel. His eyes were on you with a crazed smile on his face. “Pancakes!” Your shoulders sagged. The tension leaving them.

Shawn was set back down on the ground. “Simon, sweetie, I don’t think T’a’yta will like Pancakes. He seems like the one to eat meat,” you explained to both of your children. Simon’s face twisted with his classic thinking face. It was dangerous for either of them to think so hard. They are trouble makers.

The second eldest, Simon, pumped his fists into the air. “Pancakes with ham…buger!” Even in your darkest times, your children knew how to make you smile. You snorted with a shake of your head. “Yeah, he eat that.”

Oh sweet child. You pet the top of Simon’s head. “Sweetheart, that’s not…” you trailed off when an idea hit you. Burgers. Maybe that was a fix to all of this. T’a’yta doesn’t seem like the one to have eaten much of human food. He wasn’t from around here. Anything you feed him would be new and hopefully exciting. God, why didn’t you think of that earlier instead of overthinking the entire situation?

With a sigh, you glanced towards the door. If that’s the case, you would need to run to the store. Money was a bit short at the moment, but it was the least you could do for T’a’yta. Treat him to a special meal for all of the trouble you had put him through. After thinking about it, you were craving a good burger. One of the things you could cook deliciously.

“Alright you two. We need to go to the store for some food, okay?” you told the two of them before preparing for going outside. This included getting your children ready and in their car seats.

This may get you weird looks but you placed both children inside the cart. Simon loves to wander off on his own and get into trouble. A lesson well learned. Shawn liked to stay pinned to your hip if he could. Unless Simon coaxes him to run off each other. It was safer this way for the two of them to have them in the cart. Neither could they knock things over and grab items they didn’t need.

The cart pushed around the isles of the store. Both of your children were enticed by the selection of bread and kept trying to say the names of them. They decided to make it a challenge to see who can saw the word the best, roping you into the game. You were able to multiple task with playing the game and grabbing the cheapest hamburger bread you could find.

Off to the next item on your mental list you had made. Of course, you had forgotten to write a list or even bring a pen or paper to make said list while here.

“Mama, look! Look,” Simon shouted and pointed at something on the end of the shelving units. It was multi colored gold fish. Ah, shit. “Want. I want!” Those are his favorite snack.

You pulled out the mom look both children know so well. “We have some at home. You can have some when we are done here.” Your voice turned stone cold. The last thing you wanted was a crabby child before having a dinner with T’a’yta.

Simon’s face twisted with a pout as he looked at you. His arms folded. Any other moment, you would’ve taken a picture because he looked so cute. Yet, the crowd of people made you want to snuff this issue as quickly as possible.

“Do not give me that face, mister. I will not tell you again.” The toddler age was the worst you’ve dealt with. The had big emotions and didn’t know how to deal with it. Neither did you. You were just trying to survive with your head above the water.

But, the child didn’t relent.

“You seem to fail at every step you take. Can’t even make a child listen to you.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You felt the way your chest seized as that familiar voice washed over you. You wanted nothing more than for the floor to spilt and swallow you whole.

There was no need to turn around and see those eyes you once were in love with. The same love that was reflected back onto you. Until the moment, he found out you were pregnant. All because of him.

Your knuckles turned white on the handle bar of the cart. Simon instantly read off of your energy and calmed down. Both of your children looked at the man standing behind you with their tiny eyebrows furrowed.

You slowly turned around and had to force yourself to still at the sight. There, in all of his glory was the man you never wanted to see again. Never wanted to speak with. A reason why you never wanted child support from him. Not that he would pay.

“Robert. Hi.” It sounded so force. The small smile on your face just a façade for the storm of emotions building inside of you. “Funny seeing you here.” Out of two years, to run into him after so long was a miracle. His job never worked with your schedule so it was impossible. That you thought of.

There she was. His new wife, pinned to his side like a trophy shank. No way were you jealous but you were disgusted he had decided to choose someone so young and fake at the same time. Freshly eighteen years old. Like the day she turned eighteen they got married. That poor thing.

His eyes roam over your form, taking note of basic clothes you were wearing. Disgust evident in his eyes. “You’ve changed,” he stated with hidden mockery. You knew he was thinking ‘not for the best’ after that. If only you could smack him so hard for his words.

“Kind of happens when the scum of a father dips on his children, leaving the mother to take care of twins,” you snarked back with venom in your voice. No one around was the wiser. Neither were your children as they stared dumbfounded at your change of energy.

The wife sneers at you. “Can’t blame a man when the woman can’t find the gym. He needs beauty in his life,” she retorts. You gritted your teeth, fists shaking at your sides. It took everything in your power not to leap across the space between the two of you and rip her apart. She doesn’t know the scum she had decided to marry. How he’ll leave her the same if she becomes pregnant. You almost felt bad.

“She could find the pantry just fine though,” Robert laughs then kisses his wife on the temple. “Any time I would look at her, she always would have some sort of snack.”

If only he knew the troubles of recovering from twin births. How defeated you were afterwards. How exhausted without the aid of your husband who was supposed to be there.

Knives pierced your heart. After all this time, it shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t bother you. No amount of time can heal the wounds that ooze from your open heart.

How could the man you loved be so cruel?

Nothing could keep you here. There was no winning this two verses one. They would knock you down if you stayed until you had nothing to stand on. You decided to be the bigger person. You spun around and pushed the cart away. They cackled something else at you but the fuzziness in your ears made it hard to hear.

Darkness suddenly took over your vision. You skidded to a stop. Many other patrons were voicing their confusion and asking if anyone knew what happened. There was a shrieking scream before it cut off behind you. Your heart instantly pounded hard against it bony cage. You whipped around but all you could see was black.

Lights flashed back to life. You squinted through the pain. Only to notice that Robert and his wife weren’t where you last saw them. An uneasy feeling boiled in the pit of your stomach.

For the rest of the trip, you hurried along and got home in record time. Safely. Always safely with your children in the car. You tasked each kid with a small item they could carry up to the apartment. Simon was ecstatic. You carried the rest of the bags up the stairs and entered after both of your children.

All of the bags were placed down on the counters. Simon and Shawn looked up at you before holding out the tomato and onion your gave them. You thanked them with a sweet smile and took the items from them.

The earlier events still haunted you like it had happened a second ago. Their nasty words biting into your heart, tearing it into pieces all over again. All because you were the parent that stayed, the parent that took care of the children. Who cares that you gained weight. Who cares if your body wasn’t as tight as before. Yeah, your boobs hang. You’ve got too many stretch marks to count. But… gods, you do care. It does hurt to know you weren’t pleasing to anyone. That the person you’ve become, despite how strong you were, wasn’t good enough for anyone.

Tears pooled in your eyes. It took everything in your power not to break down sobbing in front of your children. They were your strength. They held you up. They made you strong. They made you into the person you were today.

With that strength, you sucked down the tears and stood back up. Only to jump when a hand lands on your shoulder. You whipped around with a fist flying. It was caught mid air in a firm but gentle hold.

“Ta-ta!” both of your children screamed and launched themselves at his legs. Each one taking space on their own respected leg and held on for dear life.

T’a’yta stood there, maskless, with a sheepish look to his older features. The Yautja cleared his throat and scratched at the back of neck. “I am sorry. I did not mean to scare you,” he apologized genuinely. Your racing heart started to ease up after realizing it was just him.

Then, what your children had said finally hit you. Oh shit. Okay, they need a new nickname for him besides what sounds like them trying to say boobies.

“Simon, Shawn… let’s not use that name.” Quick something easy for two, two years old to say. “Why not Tay-Tay? Yeah, that sounds much better!” Easy to say and for them to remember. Even you are struggling on saying his name.

Instead of using the first nickname, they listened to you and started to calling him that. Okay, one thing had gone right today. You smiled up at him and finally greeted him. Yet, a coppery scent caught you off guard. T’a’yta said your name again and brought you from your stupor. “Shit, sorry. What were you saying?” Today had been so weird and horrible. You were probably all messed up in the head.

The alien had paused for a moment to stare deeply into your eyes. Heat flushed to your cheeks when you noticed. You cleared your throat and turned your head away. T’a’yta blinked then leaned down and picked up each child. They were set off to the side. You spotted out of the corner of your eye his muscles tensing, as if he was ready to move closer to you.

“I got some food today,” you distracted him and moved around the counter towards the fridge, taking a bag with you. “I didn’t know what to really cook for you. Since our pallets may be different. But, I chose hamburgers. They’re really good, I promise.”

He stopped from advancing into your space and picked up his head to stand a little taller. “They sound good,” he agreed and eyed you carefully from his spot. You hadn’t missed the way his eyes narrowed on you. Were you wearing your heart on your sleeve or something?

You had to force the smile on your face to ease his nerves. Not that it worked. Just fake it until you make it. Or die trying.

“Yeah,” you agreed with a nod of your head. “They are. Plus, you can add so many different types of condiments and toppings to a burger. It’s the best.”

All of the non-dinner foods you picked up at the store were placed into a dinky fridge you had in the apartment. For once, your refrigerator looked somewhat full despite what a drain it was on your bank account. You pushed those dark thoughts to the back of your mind. Today has sucked enough. There’s no point in wallowing in it. Better to enjoy the rest of the day.

Before long, you had gotten well into cooking. Both of your children know when you’re in the kitchen, cooking not to step foot in there. That was one of your big rules you had to establish for them. They could ask for a snack or water. But it was meant to keep them from getting underfoot. There had been a time when you had accidentally kicked Simon into the cabinets. You felt terrible for so long after that. Even to this day.

Best thing about having someone else over, they could entertain Shawn and Simon for you. Every time you would glance over your shoulder, there was T’a’yta. He would be on the ground, even on his belly, playing with toys. Both of your boys were happy to have him join, more like beg for him to play with them.

There wasn’t even time for you to say he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to. One look at you, T’a’yta was in the living room, immersed in their world.

And that pulled at your heartstrings without you realizing it. Would your life look like this if Robert had stayed with you? Stayed through the thick of it? Not in this poor apartment. In a real house. With a father in their life that loved them.

Instantly, you scolded yourself for going down that dark path again and returned to finishing off the burgers and getting everything prepped. The condiments and sliced vegetables were set out for you and T’a’yta to use. You first made up the plates for Simon and Shawn, remembering what each child likes and doesn’t like.

Those plates were set down at the table where there booster chairs were. “Simon, Shawn, dinner is ready!” In union, they whined and gave you a pout. All to prolong their play time. One look at them had them coming towards the table. You swiftly put them in their chairs and strapped them in, letting them go to town on their cut up burger pieces and sauces.

T’a’yta entered afterwards. For such a towering beast who could barely stand at full height in your kitchen, he was silent. Even on the squeaky, old floorboards. His blue eyes were calming. You motioned for him to make his pick first. “Go right ahead. Eat, take all what you want. It’s the least I can do for you,” you urged the alien to take what he wanted. Not that you could pay him or cook for him well. But you still at least did something to show your gratitude.

His brown brows furrowed. He shook his massive head. The grey-blue tresses swayed at the movement. “No, you are to go first,” he retorted and refused to move from his spot.

“What? No,” you denied and crossed your arms. “You are a guest in my house. You deserve to go first.” It’s etiquette for an average person housing another.

The alien was unmoved and unbothered. “You brought the dinner home and made it. You deserve to eat first.” There was something in his eyes that solidified the knowledge that he wasn’t going to budge.

As much as you are stubborn to the bone, today had drained of the fight. The last thing you wanted to do was chase him away. Maybe this would encourage him to come by, stay for a while. Maybe enjoy a drink or two with you. Talk, be friends. He was nice and kind. You didn’t want to lose that.

With a reluctant sigh, you picked up a plate and prepared a burger in a way you loved. This was your only day in months you were able to indulge in yourself. Why not treat yourself the way you deserved? After the events today, you deserved it more than ever.

In the corner of your eye, you didn’t miss the slight quirk of his upper mandible. You pursed your lips before sitting down at the dinner table with the plate. This burger looked absolutely delicious.

Clearly, Simon and Shawn felt the same way. Half of their burger had been consumed so far. You snorted with a shake of your head at their antics.

To the right of you, T’a’yta took up the last remaining seat available in your small dinning room area. His size easily ate up all the space there, making you feel crowded to the wall behind you. Not that you minded.

Until that coppery smell in the air returned. It was clouded with T’a’yta’s natural musk. But that solidified the idea it was coming from him. He smelled like blood. What was he doing before he got here?

You tense up instinctively, due to your human nature as prey in the presence of a predator. You faced the burger on the plate and used it to distract yourself from what was coming off of him. It unnerved you with good reason. Without any good evidence, you decided to brush it off and under the rug until there was an opportunity to bring up. Plus, you didn’t want to ruin the moment.

The brown Yautja stared down at the burger before picking up and bringing up to his mouth. This had to be the first time he’d ever had a burger. This time, you spent the extra money to get the good patties. The flavor was in the meat and seasoning you had put on them.

Both of your children had nearly finished their own food by the time T’a’yta brought the food to his mouth. You reached to the side and wiped off some sauce on Simon’s face. T’a’yta bit into it and chewed. The way he ate wasn’t exactly what you had thought. Not that you had thought about it actually. Seeing it happen right in front of you was different though.

When he made no looks of disgust, you were relieved. Actually he looked pleased and quickly took a second bit. Your shoulders released all of the tension they were holding onto. You finally start to consume your own when Simon and Shawn whine to be let down.

T’a’yta was on his feet before you could even will the thought into existence. Despite the size difference between his hands and the plastic buckles, he made quick work of them. Each child was carefully taken out of the seat and onto the ground. You stared at him, lips slightly parted. He had done that… without you asking.

Fuck, why was your heart racing?

“You, you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve,” you explained to him, now feeling a little guilty the guest had to do that for you.

“No. You eat your food. I have it right here,” he argued and left no room for butting back at him. He had shut you down so quickly in a polite manner that you didn’t know what to do. You flapped your jaw a little before clearing your throat and returning to your meal.

Once dinner was finished, you were ready to get up and clean up the rest of the dishes when the plate was stolen. Right from underneath your nose. You tried to grab it but T’a’yta only had to lift it up slightly higher and step away. “Hey! What are you doing?”

The plates were set down in the sink. Then, his massive form came back over to you. You didn’t have a chance to complain when his arms scooped you from underneath and lifted you up. The wooden chair left your bottom. T’a’yta carried out of the dining room and into the living room where your children were playing.

He set you down on the couch and pointed a sharpened finger. “Stay.” He pivoted on his heel and marched back into the kitchen. You sat there. You kept blinking blankly multiple times and moving your lips.

“Huh?!” you absolutely flabbergasted at his stern but kind actions. Why in the world was the guest doing this? And why was is working?! Your confusion aided T’a’yta. He was already in the kitchen and scrubbing away at the dishes when you got to your feet and raced after him.

“Hold up, mister. This isn’t how this wor-ack!” you attempted to scold him when he picks you back up and tosses you onto the couch.

A finger was pointed at you. “I said stay.” T’a’yta spun on his heel gracefully and marched back into the kitchen. You played the same game and earned the same results. Until, finally, you got the point after the four attempt. Fine, if he wants to do them, then be your guest. You huffed and crossed your arms, sinking further into the couch.

In their own world, your children played with their toys in the middle of the living room. You decided to turn on the T.V. to distract yourself from T’a’yta doing the dishes. That little… If your boys weren’t present, you would’ve said some choice words. Because he was the guest. It was your duty as the host to care for him. The least he deserved.

It didn’t take him long before the dishes were cleaned and set on the drying rack. God, he even cleaned them instead of filling up the dishwasher. T’a’yta wiped his hands dry and walked back into the living room.

“You didn’t have to do that… thank you,” you voiced your gratitude to him. A small, genuine smile graced your features.

T’a’yta stood up a little taller. “You made the food. I clean up. It’s a fair deal.” Though, in a way, he was right about that. You still felt guilty for just letting him clean the dishes. Even if you put up a massive fit about it. The alien was standing directly in front of you and looked down at your form curled up on the couch.

Nervous under his intense gaze, you played with the edge of a blanket while looking down in your lap. “Was it good?” you asked him with a timid voice. T’a’yta knelt down to your level and used a hand to tilt your chin back up. His blue eyes bored into yours.

A soft purr started in the back of his throat. “Very.”

With him being this close to you, the coppery tang in the air came back. Your brows furrowed. It felt like you were missing pieces of a puzzle. “Why do you smell like blood?”

Despite being asked such an insane question, the alien acted no different. His mandibles twitched a little. “I took care of an issue that was bothering you,” he stated anonymously. Your confusion only deepened. What did he mean by that? What problems were you were having? He hasn’t been around to know if you were struggling much besides your car.

“At the store. Those worthless oomans were bothering you.”

Freezing cold water washed over you. Robert and his wife. The blackout. The scream. You tried to move back, deeper into the couch but it was pointless.

“The names they called you. Such a disgrace of a donor. That is no father.” Of course, everything he said was right. Everything Robert had put you through. But you weren’t expecting for T’a’yta to outright say it. “He isn’t worth your tears, your sorrow.” You hadn’t even noticed the tears that pool in your eyes.

“Y-you killed them?” you gasped and looked at his with terror. T’a’yta simply nodded his head. The entirety of your body should’ve froze. Yet, there was a small part in the back of your mind that consumed the knowledge. T’a’yta had killed Robert and the scum. They were gone. You wouldn’t have to worry about seeing them ever again. They would never be in your life again.

Maybe, you were a little happier than you had originally let on.

His thumb stroked your cheek. You knew you should’ve pushed him away, ran, called the cops. But… there was that small part of your brain that whispered to you. The voice only grew louder and louder too. He had killed them. For you.

Strangely, this is the greatest thing someone has ever done for you.

“Do you want to stay around for awhile?” you blurted out, trying to overcome your anxious thoughts.

T’a’yta grinned and glanced over at the clueless children. That’s when you realized what position you could ask him to take. They do need a father in their life.

“Yes, I will.”

Special Tags: @justanaveragenerd and @sweatymusictree

[lordprettyflackotara]

Hitchhiker || Chapter Nineteen || The Proxies

tw: depression, gore descriptions, WHEW smut 18+ minors dni, foursome, gangbang, poundtown, breeding, double penetration (triple if you consider suckin dick in that equation)

a/n: the next chapter will take a lot of time to come out. i plan on releasing it along with the canon ending and an alternative ending at the same time so you guys can choose. i promise i am locked in but that will be a lengthy ass project for me. anyways, enjoy this smutty ass shit!

<— previous chapter

“Nova!”

The scream left your lips before you could process it, your jaw dropping so low it could hit the floor. Your voice echoed through out your apartment, your eyes glued to the gruesome sight before you.

You had never seen anything like it. Her body, still completely intact, hung limp from the noose. Her face however was a completely different story. You felt Toby grab you from behind, your body too paralyzed to process the stream of endless tears that strolled down your cheeks. “D-don’t look,” Toby ushered. He tried to pull you out of the apartment, your sorrow holding you in place. You couldn’t look away from the gruesome sight, your eyes glued on what used to be your best friends face.

Her face appeared to be smashed in, as if someone stomped on it until it cracked and then kept going. Her skull was hardly identifiable, her brain a pile of bloody mush that threatened to fall out of the remnants of her head. You felt your stomach churn, Toby holding you back from flinging yourself towards your best friend’s corpse. You’d recognize her bouncy curls from a mile away, her outfit the same one she was wearing the last time you had saw her. Leaning forward you thought you were going to be sick, nausea consuming your senses as you gripped at the floorboards. You couldn’t move from the doorway of your apartment, your body stuck in a hypnotic trance of despair.

You hardly processed Jack stepping over you, slowly approaching Nova’s corpse. He gained your attention when he began to undo the rope. “What- what are you doing?” You choked out in between sobs. Jack was silent for a moment, his hands continuing to move. “She doesn’t deserve to be left like this,” Jack huffed out. Toby tried to convince you to not look again, pulling you closer to him. You stayed in his arms, watching as Jack set Nova’s body on the ground. You stared aimlessly at the sight, Toby’s grip suddenly loosening. You hadn’t noticed Masky or Hoodie’s arrival, their presence surprising you just as much as Toby.

“Y/n-” Toby began, attempting to reach out towards you. Masky stopped him, firmly putting his hand to his chest. “Let her go,” He said quietly. Masky firmly believed you needed to see how terrible The Operator truly was. How demonic and cruel he was. There was no sugar coating the situation anymore, you were prey for the world’s most dangerous predator. You stumbled over your feet as you sat on the right side of her body, Jack on her left. You wished you could’ve seen her sweet face one last time. You’d spend those last moments memorizing every freckle on her caramel skin. Yet you couldn’t even have that, her face hollowed in and horrific to look at. Your eyes couldn’t stop producing tears, your body frozen as you stared down at her.

Your hand was shaky as you tucked some stray hairs behind her ear, her curls just as soft as you remembered them. Jack was huffing under his mask, causing you to glance at him. He lifted it up briefly, exposing his nose and lips. He leaned down, Hoodie stepping forward to stop him. “Don’t. He’s not going to do that,” Masky grumbled. Your eyebrows furrowed as you watched the demon lean down, nuzzling his face into Nova’s shoulder. Curiously you watched him sniff her, causing your eyes to widened. Jack exhaled loudly, before leaning away from her corpse. “This isn’t Nova,” He announced. You felt your heart skip a beat, your widened eyes centered on Jack. “What?” You hissed. You glanced back down at your best friend’s corpse, before glaring at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?” You snapped. You could feel your face getting hot, your emotions unhinged.

“I have a superior sense of smell and her scent isn’t Novas,” Jack said with a shrug. He seemed so nonchalant, so unfazed. Masky sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Now Jack-” He began, your venom laced words interrupting him.

“What exactly are you proposing? I think i’d know my best friend’s corpse you demonic moron,” You growled. There was a brief moment of silence, one that Jack sliced in half with his next words, “Clearly not, considering that’s not her.”

Your body sprung into action for you, carrying you off of the ground and lunging yourself at Jack. You pushed him to the floor, pinning him and grabbing handfuls of his hoodie. “Dont you ever disrespect her like this again! She’s fucking dead. Dont you understand? She’s gone!” You seethed. Your voice cracked at the realization of her being gone, your anger now subsiding and being replaced with sorrow. Releasing your grip on Jacks hoodie you slumped beside him, curling up into a ball. You put your hands over your ears, screwing your eyes shut as you sobbed. Your head was pounding, memories of you and Nova swirling around your head. This was all your fault. This was all your fault. This was all your fault.

You felt a large set of hands pick you up, tucking you into the owners chest. You couldn’t get that image out of your head. The broken pieces of her skull and brain mushed together that sat where her beautiful face used to be. Inhaling you recognized the scent of cigarettes, letting you know that Masky was the one holding you. Faintly you could hear talking, the words muffled but the sound still audible. You signed into Masky’s chest, your eyes fluttering shut, your body slumping from exhaustion.

That was the last time you slept peacefully.

Your mind refused to let you sleep much after that, every time your eyes managed to close you’d see Nova’s face. The smiles she’d give you. The way she’d hold your hand. Then the memories would settle in. The ones of her taking you out for drinks after a stressful shift at work. Or the late nights you’d stay up together binge watching shameless. As the days dragged on her voice was beginning to grow more faint in your memory. This forced you to think of her every moment you spent awake. Jack had concluded you had never experienced such a deep loss before, thus leading to your depression. It concerned your lovers when he truthfully told them there was no guarantee you’d ever mentally recover.

You were a zombie to Toby. When you did walk around, it was only when your bladder threatened to make you urinate on yourself. You only ate when forced to, your nutrition intake Toby’s sole responsibility. He dedicated his time to cooking, gathering old cookbooks that had gathered dust on Jack’s shelves. Toby figured he wouldn’t mind, considering he didn’t eat human food anyways. Whether it was actually good or not Toby could never tell, your face empty and eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He concluded it was at least edible, your jaw slowly crunching whatever it was he had managed to feed you.

To Brian, you were a hollow shell of who you used to be. It was his responsibility to bathe you, ensuring you were always clean. Brian was a bit of a clean freak contrary to everyone around him. He had no issue bathing you, of course. You’d sit in the tub, knees tucked to your chest as you blankly stared at the faucet. Brian was always tender and gentle with you, massaging your scalp with shampoo and washing you as if you were made of delicate glass. It was during this time he discovered your tramp stamp, something he attempted to joke about. He wanted to see it. He wanted to see a glimpse of the old you, the one he fell in love with. His attempt failed utterly, your silence almost deafening to his ears.

As for Tim, he didn’t consider you to be there at all. It was his responsibility to ensure you didn’t sleepwalk or fall under The Operators influence. At night he’d watch you toss and turn, hopelessly trying to fall asleep. Once you did eventually, that’s when the nightmares came. You’d wake up screaming, your vocal cords becoming sore from doing it so frequently. It led you to avoid sleeping all together, your eyes blood shot with dark bags hanging underneath them. The guilt of Nova’s death was eating you alive. You felt solely responsible. That the weight of her death fell on your shoulders and yours alone. You wished you could beg her for forgiveness. To have mercy on your crushed soul. But it was too late for that. It was too late for you to tell her how much she truly meant to you. She was gone. Forever.

Staring aimlessly at the wall, your mind soaring with daydreams filled with Nova, Tim entered the room. It was a typical routine now, him sitting in a rocking chair by your bedside. Except this time he brought something with him. Something he thought may lighten your mood. “Hey princess. Brought you something,” He said. Now truthfully the cigarettes were more for him than for you, but he remembered the way your eyes lit up when he offered you one. Tim strolled over to the rocking chair, sitting down in it. He dug out the cigarette box, your eyes finally flickering away from the wall. Tim tried to hide his grin, afraid a reaction might shy you away into your shell again.

He ripped off the plastic, opening the box up. As nonchalantly as he could he handed you a cigarette, watching you take it with shaky fingers. He brought his own to his lips, fishing a lighter out of his jeans. You forced yourself to sit up, propping yourself up on one elbow as you leaned forward. Tim picked up on your hint to help light the cigarette, flicking the lighter and holding the flame at its end. You inhaled deeply, watching the tobacco burn a bright orange as it swirled around your lungs. Tim allowed himself to smile this time, watching you exhale into the cold night air. Your eyes finally flickered to his, one of your eyebrows raising, “What?”

Oh your voice. The sweet sweet sound of your voice. “Nothing princess,” Tim shrugged, leaning back in his hair. He lit his own cigarette, the smoke along with you uttering a single word making him extremely happy. But much like he would treat a cautious deer, he pretended to not be. He didn’t want to scare you away. Not now. Not after a month of seeing a doll version of you take your place. So instead he rocked back and forth in his rocking chair, inhaling and exhaling the precious tobacco stick. Unsurely you forced yourself to sit up, the cold winters breeze hitting you from the window. Your eyes fluttered closed. When was the last time you had allowed yourself to enjoy the wind? Or anything for that matter?

You smoked alongside Tim, the bedroom door opening. Brian and Toby both stumbled inside. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be sleeping?” Tim asked. Brian and Toby tried to hide their guilty looks, failing under Tim’s stern gaze. “Yeah but Jacks out hunting so we needed to protect the house, obviously,” Brian said. Toby nodded along frantically, his neck slightly twitching at the sight of you sitting up. Both boys joined you on the bed, Toby by your side and Brian lying on his stomach at the end. You handed Toby your cigarette, while Tim handed Brian his own. "I-it's nice to see y-you up," Toby said softly. His comment on your behavior alarmed Tim and Brian, who feared you'd curl up back into a ball. You delivered him a small smile. Although Nova's death weighed heavy on your heart and soul, your boys needed you.

You were their soul reason for breaking away. For trying to find freedom away from The Operator. Despair had clouded their lives for so long, the existential dread of being a homicidal slave daunting on their mental states. But you were like a ray of hope for them. Just as they were becoming a ray of hope for you in your darkest hour. "I'm sorry, about mentally clocking out," You apologized, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. Brian rolled over on his back, blowing the cigarette smoke into the air. "Don't sweat it, we'll always be here for you," The blonde informed you. Toby handed you back your cigarette, your lips feigning for a hit. As you stared over the stick and studied the three men, you had a realization you should've had ages ago.

You loved them.

With all of your body, mind, and soul. You truly adored each of them, including Masky and Hoodie. Pin pointing exactly when you fell in love with each of them individually was impossible. Maybe the truth was you had loved them all along, from the moment you picked them up in your car on Halloween.

"C'mere. All three of you," You whimpered lowly. Tim flicked his cigarette out of the window, Brian following suit. They surrounded you like hungry wolves, Tim's pupils blown with lust once he realized what you wanted. "Are you sure about this?" He asked slowly. You slid your shirt over your head, your breast bouncing out and on display. "I just wanna feel something. Something good. You three make me feel good," You admitted. Brian and Toby's concern was completely faded at the sight of your breast, your nipples perky from the cool night air. "I want you. All of you. Right now," You whispered. Tim's lips were on you in a flash, while Toby and Brian each took one of your breast into their mouths. You groaned into Tim's mouth, which he eagerly swallowed. The taste of cigarettes and mint danced across your taste buds, Brian nudging you to open your legs. Your hands slithered to Toby's and Tim's crotches, their cocks growing harder by the minute.

Individually they were addicting as lovers, but all together, they were truthfully intoxicating. Toby teasingly grazed your nipple with his teeth, while Brian’s tongue swirled around the other sensitive bud. You recognized Brian’s slender fingers palming at your clothed cunt, your slick drenching your panties. He released your nipple with a pop, kissing down your stomach before reaching the waistband of your shorts. You lifted your hips, helping him pull them down along with your panties in a swift motion. He ran two fingers up your folds, grinning at the sight of your arousal. “Look at that. So fuckin wet for us,” Brian purred, before beginning to lap at your folds. His lips attached themselves to your clit, the sensation causing you to moan loudly.

Tim couldn’t get enough of your sounds, shoving his shirt over his head. “Wanna feel the both of you, take these off,” You panted, tugging at his and Toby’s jeans. The men undressed quickly, your sinful noises uncontrollable as Brian devoured your pussy. As soon as you saw Tim and Toby’s cocks you wrapped your hands around them, jerking them off. Toby’s whimpers were loud and audible, while Tim bit the inside of his cheek to hold back his own. You struggled to remain coherent as Brian’s tongue teased your entrance, before he abruptly shoved two fingers inside of you instead. “There we go. You can take it princess,” Tim praised, brushing some of your hair off of your face. Brian curled his fingers inside of you, abusing your g spot. You briefly got lost in the pleasure, your hands coming to a slow halt as you explored euphoria.

Brian’s fingers stopping brought you back to reality, both of your boyfriend’s cocks hard in your hands. “Don’t stop showing them love, or else i’ll stop,” Brian said sternly. You gulped as you continued pumping Tim and Toby’s cocks, Brian’s finger fucking resuming. "F-fuck i'm gonna destroy that pretty throat of yours," Toby moaned, his cheeks a visible shade of pink. Tim's face was turning red, his groans now audible as you jerked him off. You could feel yourself getting closer to your first orgasm, your thighs trembling. "Fuck, i'm gonna fucking cum, fuck- please make me cum," You babbled, your hand straying from Tim's cock and gripping Brian's wrist. Tim took the opportunity to lean down close to your face, planting sloppy kisses on the side of your head. "Go on princess, cum on his face like the good girl I know you are," He huffed, nibbling at your earlobe. His words broke you, the cord inside of you snapping as you came on Brian's relentless fingers.

Dazed, the boys rearranged you, ensuring you were comfortable as you propped yourself up on all fours. Tim laid beneath you, his chocolate orbs full of comfort. Toby was to your left, while Brian was behind you. "I-i've n-never," You sputtered, your unexplored hole clenching from fear and arousal. Tim was quick to wash away your worry. "We're gonna go nice and slow, aren't we Brian?" He asked, his question coming out as more of an order. Brian's large hands cupped your ass, gripping the flesh as gently as he could muster. "Don't worry beautiful, we're gonna take good care of you," He agreed. Tim was first, slowly rubbing his tip up and down your drenched folds. Toby watched silently, teasingly rubbing his hand up and down his shaft as Tim pushed himself inside of you. Bracing yourself you grabbed onto Tim's shoulders, grunts escaping his lips as your gummy walls gushed around his cock. "Such a perfect little cunt," He groaned, biting his bottom lip.

You tensed up as you felt Brian spit on your puckered hole, your eyes widening. Tim had fully bottomed out inside of you, his cock brushing against your g spot. You buried your head into Tim's shoulder as Brian slowly pushed a finger inside of your asshole. "So fuckin tight, holy fuck," He muttered. Toby was fine waiting, but was eager for a show while he did so. "I-it would probably h-h-help if you fucked her Tim,” He advised. The older brunette caved to his desires, Toby's suggestion only adding fuel to the flame. He slowly pulled his cock out of you, before ramming back into you. You whined as his thrust picked up the pace, Toby's hand guiding you to jack off his cock. "Taking me so well princess, does it feel good?" Tim asked teasingly, your whimpers and unholy noises vibrating against his neck. Your noises were incoherent, a gasp escaping your lips as Brian added a second finger. A rough hand yanked you away from the comfort of Tim's neck, Toby's brown eyes boring down into yours.

"H-he asked you a question princess," Toby spat mockingly, enjoying the sight of your face temporarily scrunching up in pain. Tim could feel your walls squeeze around him as Toby gripped your hair. "Be as rough as you want with her kid, she likes it," He chuckled darkly. It became hard to focus, your tongue flattening out across your bottom lip. You were practically drooling at the sight of Toby's cock and you couldn't help but want to suck him dry. You were so distracted you didn't notice Brian's fingers leaving your unexplored hole. He regained your attention when you felt Tim's thrust come to a halt as Brian slowly pushed himself inside of you. For a moment you thought you were going to split in half, your fingernails digging into Tim's shoulders. Tim's rough hands reached around your waist, holding the mounds of your ass apart as Brian sank in deeper. Your noises were strangled bits of pain mixed with pleasure, Tim's lips planting sloppy kisses against your neck.

"Doing so well for us," Brian panted, attempting to contain himself as your walls pulled him in closer. Once he fully bottomed out the four of you were panting in unison, your body struggling with the feeling of being so full. "Sorry princess, need to move," Tim hissed through his teeth. Both boys began moving their hips, your head spinning from pain slowly fading into pleasure. You didn't have time to think too much, Toby guiding your mouth onto his cock. Your noises created blissful vibrations around his shaft, your eyes watering as he began to sink deeper into your throat. All three of your holes were stuffed, the pain fully fading into euphoric pleasure as the boys abused your holes as they pleased. It was just the right distraction, your body in a state of bliss as they fucked you senseless. You gagged on Toby's cock as he used your throat, your thighs beginning to shake as you neared your second orgasm.

You had never felt such intense pleasure before, the four of you lost in a trance. Toby knew he was going to cum first, his hips stuttering as his hips thrusted into you. He combed his fingers through your scalp, tugging at your roots. "G-gonna cum down t-that pretty throat of yours," He panted. You struggled to comprehend his words as Tim and Brian pounded into you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Toby moaned your name as he came, his warm cum flooding down your throat. You gagged at the sensation, his slender fingers securing your head in place. “Swallow every last drop,” He ordered, a sadistic grin crossing his lips as he watched you struggle to do so. He finally removed his cock from your throat, your tongue rolling out to proudly showed him you listened. He kneeled down, cupping your chin. Your lips puckered out like a fish as Toby gave you devilish gaze.

“C-cum on their c-cocks. Go on. I’m w-waiting,” Toby spat, his neck twitching as he stared deeply into your eyes. You felt Brian’s hands roughly grab your ass, your body shaking. Your vision went white as you came, your euphoria sending you upwards towards the stars. You could vaguely still feel Brian and Tim pounding you, your body spent. You were held up by three strong sets of hands, Brian’s orgasm following closely after yours. His warm seed splattered across your ass cheeks, painting your skin. Tim was still rutting into you, his orgasm close. “Please cum in me Tim, please, I need it,” You whined, your thighs trembling. Your pleas sent him over the edge, his mind full of pure filth about breeding you.

He painted your insides white, flooding your cunt. Exhausted you collapsed on top of him, panting as he slowly pulled out of you. In a dream like state you could feel the boys carrying you over to the bathroom for a bath. You snuggled against Toby’s chest, your eyes blissfully fluttering shut. For the first time since Novas death you felt content. Who would’ve thought three hitchhikers could make you feel so loved.

—> next chapter

[wearylaurels]

Not sure if this has already been said but I was going through the illustrations for the Illustrated hunger games and I can’t stop thinking of the depiction the artist took for Thresh.

In the original book, Katniss describes Thresh as powerful and intimidating—a build on par with the Careers, strong and silent, a mysterious threat lurking on the edges of the arena that is able to hold out until the very last days of the 74th games. And you can see how this interpretation informed the casting choices made for him in the live action adaptations. For years, the only image we’ve had of Thresh is of this strong, unstoppable guy who had to be taken out by either the physically strongest guy in the Games, or by monsters designed by the Capitol itself.

And then, you see Thresh as he’s illustrated.

The low angle. The backlight throwing almost his entire figure into shadow. The way he holds aloft the rock he just killed Clove with—the fact that you can *see* Clove’s corpse in the background. Everything about this image is designed to paint Thresh as this hulking berserker, moments away from beating in your skull.

But then you see his face. Those eyes, welling with tears. The look of disbelief. The way his mouth is opened—what is he saying? Is he asking Katniss if she’s the one who killed Rue? The little girl who would sing when it was time to go home from the fields? Or is he stunned into silence as Katniss recounts how she buried Rue in flowers, how she sang to her in her final moments? In the books it’s mentioned that he never talked to anyone—was he preparing, like Katniss, to see everyone in that arena as a threat? How shocked must he have been that this random girl he never even spoke to, whose name he’s probably forgotten, go to such lengths to show kindness to someone who wasn’t from her district?

More than anything, he looks so *young.* His eyes are large and expressive—his face is soft, still retaining a little baby fat. Throughout the book, Katniss categorizes her fellow tributes as potential threats first and foremost—she often describes Thresh as a stoic, unflinching powerhouse, but then you see this and you’re taken aback. Because this? This isn’t the calculating, powerful predator we’ve been expecting. This is very clearly a *child.* A *boy*, who’s been ripped from his home to fight to the death in an arena for the entertainment of the ruling class. Who probably got his strength from climbing trees, hauling sacks of grain, collecting food. Who was so deeply impacted by the death of his district partner that just the suggestion from another girl’s mouth that she had killed her sent him into a rage. Who, in the books, refused to interact with or fight any of his fellow tributes until he heard Clove talking at the feast.

You start wondering—did he ever want to kill anyone? Like Peeta, did the idea of the Capitol turning him into a killer make him sick? Like Reaper, was it a refusal to play into the hands of the Capitol? Like Katniss, did the fact alone that he had killed leave its own horrible mark? Did he spend his final nights jumping awake as he relived Clove’s skull caving under the rock? When the mutts finally came for him, do you think he hesitated when he saw the tributes’ eyes staring back?

This is a *kid.* They’re all just *kids.* And that’s what fucks me up so much about this picture of Thresh—that it’s not just a depiction of him, but of all the tributes who have ever competed in the Hunger games. That no matter how they are reframed as victors and monsters and killers and spectacles, at the end of the day they were all children. Boys and girls forced to fight each other to the death, while their true enemies watched on, laughing.

[dusterbishop]

we can go forever until you wanna sit it out

summary. || you are an amplifier gifted with the ability to strengthen the power of other mutants, a skill that earns you a place on team x. learning to work with them is a sharp curve, especially with the lonesome newest member, logan.

pairing. || logan x f!reader (slow burn)

count. || 2.1k

notes. || warning for character death and violence. this is my first time writing for logan, but i have been bewitched by the tiktok edits.

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

You meet Logan when you are young, but he is far older than you initially assume.

Stryker takes point in the introductions, as usual. You linger patiently at his back, just a pace behind, idly scuffing the dirt with the toe of your boot. The air is sour with the stench of stale blood and decay. War isn’t new to you. Neither is recruitment for new soldiers.

“Who’s your little friend?” One of the men jeers, a sharp smile edging the curve of his mouth. This one is Victor Creed, you think, and it’s confirmed when you glance to the other side of the cell and see the other brother sitting back, unimpressed. That one is surely Logan.

From the files that Stryker let you and Zero parse through, you expected more… reaction. He has been tracing their movements for the past two months, and you have seen the bullet list of their service history and grim achievements. They are deadly predators, mutated to efficiently slaughter their prey. Animals, Zero had remarked, and you had silently conceded to that point. Not that you haven’t killed, but you also have human hands that do not morph to tear apart flesh.

“Less who she is, and more what she can do for you both,” Stryker says. On cue, you wander a step closer and set your amplifier alight with a flick of your wrist. You’ve mastered the range just enough to brush the soles of their feet, a fleeting-faint taste of your ability. The hand movement is still an instinct you can’t quash despite the disapproving look Stryker gives you when he sees it.

Victor sucks in a deep, rumbling breath, twitching with a suppressed lunge. Logan doesn’t make a noise, but merely closes his eyes as if a weight has been lifted. Your own body tingles with rippling electricity, every nerve set alight with adrenaline. Like a caffeine rush, you’ll feel the impact of the fall later, but for now you neatly dim your amplifier to a low buzz and shuffle back a half-step to escape their range. The pair slumps against the wall the moment it escapes them. Victor bares his teeth in a grin, and Logan gazes at Stryker with half-lidded eyes. It’s a dark, calculating gaze. Weighing the competition, you think.

“Now that I have your attention,” Stryker says, but you can’t help but notice that both the brothers are looking at you, instead. Their mistake.

Three months later, the brothers once again leave you pinned behind metal-gilded crates with enough gunfire to rattle your teeth in your skull.

“Good God,” you spit out, hauling yourself back behind cover. “Can you stop the self-sacrificial antics for a moment?”

“Sacrifice?” Victor laughs. His skin ripples with regeneration, leaving merely a smear of blood behind as proof of the healed bullet hole. His clawed hand flexes at his side, the elongated tips of his fingers scratching lightly against the floor. “I’m not the one dying, Star.”

You pull a face at the name, but you don’t have the time to argue it. Bullets spray in patterned bursts against your cover, and you have to hunch in on yourself to protect your extremities. The perk of your power is that you can keep your team from burning out and improve their reflexes. The downside is that your power does absolutely nothing in terms of protecting you; your protection is your team.

So you draw in a slow breath, flick your wrist, and summon a surging wave of amplification. Victor surges to his feet with a giddy-mad laugh and delves into the fray. Logan follows in close pursuit behind him, though he takes more care to skirt the edges of the bloodbath, cleaning up the loose ends.

The brothers are an odd addition to this mismatched army of mutant soldiers, though Stryker is pleased with their formidable prowess in battle. In the three months you’ve worked with them, you can see why, and there is a foreboding sense of dread that wells inside you as you listen to the choked-off screams of the enemy ahead. You clench your fists and hold the amplifier steady, silently grateful that for the moment, the only mutants in the room are the ones less likely to tear you apart. No doubt Victor would revel in slicing the flesh from your bones to expose what lies beneath your skin. Logan would be less inclined, perhaps, but you know he follows his brother above all else.

Yes, of course Stryker values their addition to Team X. They are nothing but monsters.

Nothing but monsters, and you have a leash on every one of them.

Stryker has a keen interest in your power, or rather what your power does for the team. You aren’t invulnerable, and you don’t have hyper senses. You don’t teleport or shoot with terrifying accuracy. On the surface, you appear nothing more than a young woman with military training and a nervous tic in your hand.

Underneath the surface, you burn bright.

Your father had been an amateur astronomer. When you were growing up, he would sneak you out to the backyard past your bedtime and the two of you would watch the sky and plot the path of constellations. He was the one that taught you about the sun, the moon, and the stars. My girl, he would say, you are made of the cosmos.

He must be partially right. There’s a staggering core of cosmic energy stored in the cradle of your ribcage. You have spent long moments staring at your own bare reflection in the mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of it. How do you look so ordinary when there is a blazing sun in your chest?

Yet you do. Stryker had been skeptical of your ability when you first met him, but by that point he had recruited Zero and Bradley, so it only took a little wave of your hand to boost their abilities and prove your silent mutation. Proving it had sealed your fate: under the codename Cosmic, you were an infinite battery pack to the newly forged Team X.

Yet it’s moments like this, when you’re stranded in a rare week of downtime, that you feel like an outsider looking in.

It’s been four days since the job that got you shot at, the same job that let Victor unleash utter havoc, and you’re all going a little stir-crazy while you wait for things to cool down. John Wraith has somehow secured a deck of cards, and he’s managed to wrangle Bradley, Victor, and Wade in a game you don’t follow. The rules seem to change the more they drink and bicker over the play, so you toy with your own can of half-drunk beer and stare out the living room window of your temporary housing. There are stray stars speckled in the night sky, and you feel such a deep-ridden surge of grief at the sight of them.

The arguing gets louder around the kitchen table, and none of them notice when you slip out the front door. The night is hushed when you close the door behind you, and some unknown tension eases from your shoulders with the sky exposed high above. It takes some wandering to properly immerse yourself in the pitch dark, but you find a patch of grass cleared of undergrowth and sprawl out on your back, tucking your hands beneath your head. The safe house that Stryker has your team staying in is hours from the nearest large city, and the sky is clear of light pollution. You can see a scattered sea of stars, all of them twinkling in familiar greeting.

My girl, you are made of the cosmos.

You have to swallow back the sudden swell of emotion in your throat. It’s quiet this far from the house. Without any heightened senses, you can’t hear anything other than the soft rustle of the wildlife shuffling through the trees. It’s lonely, but not in the way that you felt lonely sitting in that room with the rest of the team. Their abilities serve them; your ability just makes them more.

You’re reminded of that fact in a fierce strike of terror when a figure appears at the edge of the clearing, moving too quiet for your human hearing to pick up. You bolt upright, curling your hands into fists, all too aware of your pitiful human strength and basic military training. It would do nothing against a mutant intent on rending you apart.

“Thought you were asleep,” Logan grunts, rubbing a hand over his chest in discomfort. The adrenaline from his sudden appearance spiked your amplifier, and you have to focus on leveling your breathing as you slowly retract your power back to your core. “Took you too long to notice me.”

“You were in your room,” you accuse. It’s mostly the fear driving the annoyance in your tone, but you don’t have the patience for an apology. “I wasn’t expecting to see you lurking in the woods.”

The clearing is half-lit by the light of the moon, though Logan lingers near the edges. He’s wearing a short-sleeve white shirt that clings to the curve of his torso, the muscled tone of his arms flexing as he crosses them over his chest. You can barely make out the way he raises a brow at your choice of words, his profile half-shadowed.

“Lurking,” he repeats, almost amused. “Says the stargazer.”

“Cosmic,” you remind him. “Comes with the territory.”

“What, you charge them, too?” You don’t expect him to step closer, but he does. In the moonlight, the tousled curl of his hair softens the incredulous look he’s giving you. There isn’t the same degree of mocking like the kind you would expect from Victor, but then again, you haven’t spoken to Logan much. He’s content to focus on the work rather than the idle play. Unlike Zero, however, there isn’t the same air of arrogant distaste.

He almost seems… ordinary.

“Funny,” you say dryly. You shuffle your weight and lay back down in the grass, pointedly ignoring the low chuckle he gives at your exasperation. There’s a kernel of truth stuck in your throat, so you blurt out, “I think they charge me.”

“Right,” Logan says, his tone decidedly skeptical. “And I get my claws charged up by sunshine and rainbows.”

You shoot him a glare. “I’m serious.”

“So I am, bub.”

He takes another step from the edge of the clearing. He’s closer now, enough that he looms over you. The stars speckle the sky above his head in a crown of twinkling light, and you flex your fingers, silently summoning the rush of energy that the sight of the sky gives you. Logan shivers, cursing under his breath, though he doesn’t back away.

He takes a step closer, nudging your hip with the toe of his boot. His posture doesn’t change, but he’s flexing his fingers into a fist, almost subconsciously. You wonder how it feels for him, to have his bones shift and extend into claw-like weapons. The first time you watched him kill, you grimaced at the sight of his hands. The sharpened claws of Victor’s nails were tame in comparison to the mutation that rearranged Logan’s skeleton.

You’ve never seen any indication that his ability hurts him, yet the way he flexes his hands now makes you wonder. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, only staring down at you with that unapproachable expression. You wonder, too, if he’s out here for the same reason that you are. Surely not; you’ve seen the way he follows Victor, and the way Victor turns to him, expectant in battle. They are tied together in a way that reminds you of a hangman’s noose.

“Sunshine, huh?” You say. “Suits your happy personality.”

“Like you know a fucking thing about me,” he says, and the laugh trailing the end of that sentence is far from amused. When he steps back, you almost miss the warmth of his presence filling the sky above. “Pay attention before you get yourself killed.”

“I’ve seen enough,” you shoot back, stung by the sudden seethe of his tone. You sit up to properly glare at him, but he’s already turned and heading back into the darkness of the woods. You call to his retreating back, “You and that brother of yours are gonna get the wrong people hurt.”

“Save the altruism for someone else,” he calls over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You glare up at the sky instead. The yawning black abyss above you feels lonelier than ever.

[darkmarkmarauder]

How to tell if your ex is the antichrist - S.S.

!warning!minorsdni, psychological torture/manipulation, heavy BDSM, dubcon, read at your own risk

word count: 2.8k

Pairing: ex!Sebastian Sallow x you

“Somebody’s watching me, it’s my anxiety.”

You know he’s watching.

You tried to act normal.

Sat through breakfast. Ignored the way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Smiled and laughed when Imelda cracked a joke.

But then it started.

The intrusive thoughts. They weren’t yours.

"You should kill her."

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice.

"Just a quick flick of your wand. You know the curse. She’s in the way."

You flinched. Your stomach twisted violently as you slammed your goblet onto the table, eyes darting across the Great Hall. Where was he?

"Nowhere you can find me, darling."

You felt sick.

No.

No, no, no. This was impossible.

"Poor thing."

You squeezed your eyes shut. Block him out. You know how to block him out.

"You really thought you could keep me out? After all our years together? After I’ve had my hands inside your mind? Inside your body?"

You shoved up from the table, chair scraping against the stone floor. Imelda’s eyes flicked up. “You okay?”

You could barely swallow. “I—I’m fine.”

"Liar."

You stumbled from the Great Hall, gasping for air. You made it halfway to the courtyard before the world tilted. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your vision swimming. The whispers hadn’t stopped. If anything, they grew louder, wrapping around your skull like a vice.

"Don’t run from me, darling. You know I’ll find you."

You pressed a trembling hand to your forehead, trying to push him out, trying to regain control. But the weight of his presence was suffocating. You could feel him, feel his amusement, his patience—like a predator toying with its prey.

A voice cut through the fog. “Hey!”

Ominis.

Your head snapped up, heart hammering. He was standing near the entrance to the courtyard, concern etched across his usually impassive face. “What’s wrong?”

You opened your mouth—then stopped. What were you supposed to say? That Sebastian, who had been missing for weeks, had somehow infiltrated his way inside your mind? That you could hear him, feel him, even when he wasn’t there?

Ominis took a cautious step forward. “You don’t sound well.”

You swallowed hard. “I just— I need some air.”

Ominis didn’t look convinced. “Let me walk with you.” The thought should have reassured you. It didn’t.

"He won’t be able to save you."

You shook your head violently. “No, I—I just need a moment.” Before Ominis could protest, you turned on your heel and walked away, fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms.

You spent the rest of the day in a haze.

Class lectures faded into the background, voices blending into meaningless static. Every shadow felt like it held something more. Every whisper carried the weight of his voice.

You stopped responding when people spoke to you.

You didn’t trust yourself to answer.

Because what if it wasn’t really you speaking?

By the time the sun dipped below the castle walls, you were exhausted, mentally drained from keeping him out. From resisting the pull of his voice. You curled beneath your blankets, pressing your face into the pillow, willing yourself to sleep.

But sleep never came peacefully anymore.

You thought you were losing your mind.

Until the hallucinations started. Sebastian standing over you, eyes black with hunger. His hands roaming your skin, his voice dripping with venomous affection. You’d wake up gasping, sheets tangled around your legs, your skin damp with sweat. You’d wake up with bruises around your throat, shaped exactly like his fingers. You’d find love bites on your thighs, his touch still burning against your skin.

At first, you told yourself you were imagining it. That the stress was getting to you.

Then one night, you saw him.

Not a hallucination.

Not a dream.

Him. Standing in the shadows of your dorm, watching you sleep.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as your breath stuttered, throat tightening with terror. You blinked, willing the vision to disappear.

It didn’t.

The dim light caught the sharp angles of his face, the unreadable expression in his eyes. He was there. He was real.

And then, just as quickly as he appeared—he was gone. Shaking your head, eyes shut tightly trying to rid the anxiety running through you.

What the hell was wrong with you? This was the fifth time this week, you were losing too much sleep. You were up now anyways might as well go for a walk to try to clear your mind. Getting up, you dressed yourself quickly throwing on the closest pair of shorts and his old shirt you’d wear when you missed him. Grabbing your wand before you slipped into your running shoes.

The Forbidden Forest was the only place that felt safe. The darkness was suffocating, but at least it was real. At least here, the only things watching you were creatures with sharp teeth and glowing eyes—not the ghost of a man who refused to let you go.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palms against the rough bark of a tree, trying to ground yourself.

“Breathe,” you whispered. “Just breathe.”

“You always were so stubborn.”

The voice came from inside your mind. You froze.

No.

Are you fucking kidding m—

and suddenly he was there, behind you, close enough that you could feel his warmth against your back. Your breath hitched, terror crawling up your spine.

You turned, slowly, and found him watching you.

Sebastian.

His face was calm—too calm. Like he hadn’t just fucking violated your mind. Like he hadn’t just spent the last week breaking you from the inside out.

“What—” Your voice cracked. “What the hell did you do to me?”

His lips twitched, a mockery of a smile.

“You know exactly what I did.”

Your stomach churned.

Legilimency.

He had used Legilimency on you. And you—you—hadn’t even felt it.

That was impossible. You had mastered Occlumency. You had spent years learning how to keep people like him out of your head. And yet, he had walked through your mind like he owned the fucking place.

Your fingers curled into fists. “How?”

A slow smile. “Did you really think Occlumency would keep me out?”Your mind started racing—there was no way. No. That wasn’t possible.

“You can’t—”

“I can.”

His other hand skimmed your waist, pressing you back against the rough bark.

“I built a home inside your mind, sweetheart. I know your deepest fears. Your darkest desires.” His lips brushed your ear. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Get out,” you breathed, voice shaking. “Get the fuck out of my head.”

He tilted his head, considering.

“No.” His lips curled into a smirk. “I’m having fun.”

You clenched your jaw. “Get. out. of. my. fucking. head.”

His eyes darkened.

Fuck you knew exactly what was coming. Pain shooting through your mind shattering. It struck without warning, tearing through your skull like a knife through flesh. Your knees buckled, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as you crumpled against a tree.

Your vision blurring as your body convulsed.

His voice—inside, inside, inside—

"I never left."

You choked, clawing at your own temples, as if you could rip him out.

His footsteps were slow. Unhurried. And when he crouched in front of you, those dark eyes gleaming with something fucking insane, you knew—he owned you.

Your breath hitched.

Memories you didn’t want to relive flooded forward—him between your legs, hands fisted in your hair, voice dark and commanding as he made you beg.

The searing agony returned, a slow and twisting pressure curling around your mind, your thoughts, your emotions, like a cut throat barbed wire slicing through. They weren’t your own anymore. They bled together, dripping down the walls of your consciousness, smearing into a grotesque display of everything you feared.

He wasn’t just reading your mind, thoughts and emotions. He was controlling them. Controlling your soul.

You didn’t remember how you got here.

Your head was spinning and your body ached, ankles were raw—ropes biting into your legs, binding you tight, keeping you from running.

You were stripped down to everything but your panties and you weren’t alone.

Sebastian.

Standing in front of you, sleeves rolled up, eyes filled with something terrifying.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Where—” Your voice cracked. “Where am I?”

He tilted his head. “You don’t remember?”

You swallowed hard as he slowly stepped closer. Ran a finger down your bare stomach. Soft. Gentle. Almost tender. It made you shiver.

Before you could catch your breath, a sharp, stinging slap across your thigh came. You gasped, jerking against the restraints.

Sebastian exhaled, slow and measured, fingers tracing the red mark he’d left behind.

“You were never very good at listening,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

“Let me go.”

His lips twitched.

“Say it again.”

“I said let me—”

Another slap. This time against your hip, hard enough to make you bite back a cry.

Sebastian’s pupils blew wide. “There she is,” he whispered. “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

Your stomach twisted making you feel sick. This wasn’t happening.

This wasn’t real.

Except—It was. You could feel it. The sting. The heat. The ropes digging into your skin.

Sebastian stepped behind you. You tensed, but there was nowhere to go. He pressed his lips to your shoulder, slow, lingering. His teeth grazed your skin, just barely—

Then he bit down.

Hard.

You gasped, body shaking as your legs trembled beneath you.

He sucked at the mark he left, tongue laving over the wounded flesh, soothing and punishing all at once.

“Still think you can fight me?” he whispered against your skin.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“Fuck you,” you spat, trying to push him away.

Sebastian laughed as he caught your wrist, pinning it against the stone wall above your head. "You already have," he murmured, pressing against you. You could feel him—hard, wanting. "And you will again."

Your mind screamed at you to fight, to run. But when his lips crushed against yours, hungry and punishing, your resolve shattered. His grip was bruising, his tongue tasting of possession and madness. His free hand slid under you, fingers pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties.

"Merlin, you’re not just wet princess," he whispered against your lips. "you’re fucking soaked."

Tears burned at the edges of your vision, frustration, arousal, and rage tangling together in a toxic, intoxicating mess. "Sebastian—"

He yanked you against him, fingers slipping beneath the lace, finding you aching and needy despite yourself. "Tell me you don’t want this. Look me in the eyes and fucking say it."

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, riding his hand as he fingers your dripped cunt. Running his lips down your throat. “Can you take a third?” Three fingers slipping in and out of you with ease against your slick folds.

Your body arched, back hitting the cold stone, a whimper escaping your lips.

“You take what I give you,�� he murmured, pressing a bruising kiss to your jaw, his fingers working you open, the slick sounds obscene in the silence. “And you’ll fucking thank me for it.”

Your vision blurred, heat pooling in your stomach as he pushed you closer, closer, until—he pulled away.

A whine of frustration tore from your throat, but he only grinned, licking his fingers, savoring your taste.

“Patience, princess,” he mocked, dragging his lips over your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “I’m not done playing with you yet.”

He gripped your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I own you,” Sebastian whispered, his lips brushing over yours. “Mind, body, fucking soul.”

Your vision blurred, then sharpened, fractured images flickering through your mind—your body arching beneath him, screaming his name; the way you rode, fucked and came for him. The memories weren’t yours. They were his. He was forcing them onto you, making you feel every moment the way he had.

You gasped, trying to shake it, but it was useless. His grip tightened, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip.

“You see now, don’t you?” he mused, voice dripping with satisfaction. “How fucking perfect you are for me? How no one else will ever know you like I do? How you are mine?”

A cruel smile twisted his lips as he spun you around, pressing your chest to the stone wall. His fingers dragged down your spine, teasing, toying with you, until he gripped your hips and pulled you back against him. “You drive me fucking insane,” he growled, his cock pressing against you, hot and demanding. “Can’t fucking contain myself when it comes to you.”

He dragged his fingers through your folds again, groaning at how wet you were. “So ready for me,”with no further warning, he thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt. Gasping, a choked moan, your fingers clawing against the cold stone as he set a demanding rhythm. A slow, deep drag, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in, forcing a cry from your lips. again. and again.

“Say it,” he demanded, his palm coming down on your ass, the sting making your knees buckle. “Say you belong to me.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came, only broken moans as he fucked you harder, his movements erratic. His hand snaked around your throat, tilting your head back,his lips right over your ear. “I said, say it.”

“I-I belong to you,” you choked out, tears burning your eyes.

He hummed in approval, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder, tongue laving over the fresh marks he’d left. “That’s my girl.”

“Gonna cum for me, sweetheart?” he teased, fingers slipping between your legs, rubbing tight circles over your clit. “Gonna make a fucking mess all over my cock?”

Your body trembled beneath him, the pleasure mounting, unbearable, overwhelming. He knew. Of course, he fucking knew. He could feel it, sense it, the way the euphoria came over you as your orgasm coursed through you. His arms gripping your hips even harder, snapping himself into you harder, deeper.

Sebastian cursed, but he didn’t stop, fucking you through it, dragging out every last wave until you were gasping, shaking, barely able to stand. He followed moments later, burying himself deep inside you with a ragged groan, the familiar warmth from his cum filling you.

Sebastian exhaled against your skin, he didn't move, didn't let you go, just stayed buried inside you, like he could keep you there, trapped, claimed. His hand skimmed over your stomach, fingers ghosting down to where he was still inside you. "Still so fucking full of me," he muttered, pressing down, making you whimper. "Feels good, doesn’t it princess?”

You knew you shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t give him the satisfaction, but your body betrayed you, back arching as another pathetic moan left your lips. His laugh was quiet as he kissed up your jaw. "I think you like this more than you let on," he murmured. "The way you take me.” He groaned, deep and raw, as he pulled out, his hands sliding possessively over your hips as if grounding himself before he turned you over, your back hitting the cold stone wall.

The silence was heavy before he broke it. “You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, his voice low but sure, as if it was the most obvious truth in the world. His eyes, dark and unwavering, roamed over you like he was trying to memorize every inch, as if he needed to. "You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are to me."

The way he said it—so unguarded, so completely vulnerable—made your heart stutter. Because for all his arrogance, his sharp edges, and dangerous charm, Sebastian Sallow was, at his core, a boy who had only ever been taught how to destroy. Love was something foreign to him. Uncharted territory. And yet, here he was, trying.

Your lips curled slightly, teasing. "Getting sentimental on me, Sallow?" He scoffed playfully, his grip on your waist pulling you in closer to him. "Don't get used to it,"

His other hand curled around the back of your neck, possessive, firm. “You're mine,” he muttered under his breath, like a vow, like a prayer.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Wow,” you drawled, “you really can’t just ask me to be your girlfriend again, can you? You have to own me instead?”

Sebastian paused, lips parting slightly before he huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. Then, he let out the most exaggerated, dramatic sigh, bringing a hand to his chest as if you had gravely wounded him.

“My darling princess,” he drawled, voice laced with mockery and affection all at once. “Will you do me the great honor of being my girlfriend again?”

He extended his hand toward you, palm up, an amused smirk played on his face.

You tried—really tried—not to smile, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. You let out a small laugh, cheeks heating as you slipped your hand into his. “Yes,” you whispered, watching as his fingers curl around yours.

He then lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against your knuckles. Without another word, he pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you, holding you against him like he never intended to let go. You melted into him, burying your face against his chest, breathing him in.

He held you there, his face buried in your hair, inhaling deeply as if he couldn’t get enough, as if you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

And maybe to him, somewhere in his fucked up mind, you were.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: is this too fucked lmao. im sorry ts would’ve worked on me sadly like i can fix him…

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

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