#they crave violence and tarts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elysiaheaven2 · 3 days ago

Text

𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝗠𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧!-𝐑𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥-(Part 1)

Words:7000

Genre: Dark Horror, Psychological Thriller, Gore, Obsession & Obsessive Love, Psychological Abuse, Crime & Thriller

(Reader is G.N) (A cannibal Reader, I don't support these! Just writing them!)

Summary :

Follows a twisted, sadistic you who presents themselves as a sweet baker but harbors a gruesome obsession with murder and cannibalism. Your appearance is grotesque, with stitches all over their body, and their bakery serves as a cover for a far darker purpose—using human flesh in your pastries. You met Angel who became your dear person. You get invited to the server,

The story is filled with graphic violence, disturbing themes of control, obsession.

Trigger Warnings and Content Warnings:

Violence and Gore: The content features explicit descriptions of violent actions, including graphic depictions of murder, dismemberment, and physical injury. The themes of torture and the pleasure derived from violence are present throughout.

Mental Health and Obsessive Behavior: There are elements of unhealthy obsession, possessiveness, and manipulation, particularly in the relationships between the characters. Themes of emotional trauma, self-doubt, and psychological instability are explored.

Cannibalism: References to cannibalism are present, with detailed discussions of cutting, eating, and dissection of bodies.

Sexual Themes: There are implied themes of dark and twisted romantic relationships, including non-consensual dynamics, manipulation, and obsession. This includes sexualized violence and threats.

Self-Harm: References to physical injury, mutilation, and self-inflicted harm, including the imagery of stitches coming undone and body parts falling off, are depicted.

Dark Romanticization: The portrayal of relationships is toxic, with power imbalances, manipulation, and destructive behavior.

Death and Murder: Graphic depictions of death, including the murder of both fictional and real people, are central to the narrative. The thrill and pleasure derived from killing are explored.

Emotional Abuse: Themes of manipulation, psychological control, and emotional manipulation are present in the interactions between the characters.

Disturbing Imagery and Themes: Content involving body horror, the macabre, and disturbing imagery related to the human form is featured.

Please proceed with caution if these triggers could cause distress. If you experience any discomfort during our exchange, feel free to pause or end the roleplay at your discretion.

EXTRA: Made a playlist!

I stitch myself every time

You re-name me...

This is my world, now- I wouldn't let you control me.

Their fate is my hands

If it's ronin, You're in for treat <3

Known as "Stitched Delights," it was a cozy haven filled with the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods and the comforting hum of quiet chatter. Its owner, you, were as much a mystery as you were a beloved figure. Your body bore countless stitches, crisscrossing like a delicate patchwork quilt—a detail no one dared ask about, for your warm demeanor and unparalleled pastries charmed away any curiosity.

Children adored your cookies, adults craved your pies, and the elderly swore by your cakes. The love you poured into each creation was palpable, as sweet as the frosting that adorned them.

The warm scent of vanilla, caramel, and freshly baked bread wafted through the little bakery on the corner of a quiet street. The walls were painted a cheery pastel yellow, decorated with whimsical illustrations of pastries and cakes. Shelves lined with cookies, tarts, and cakes gleamed under the soft glow of the lights.

Behind the counter, you stood, the picture of sweetness. Your smile stretched wide—perhaps too wide—beneath your bright eyes. The soft apron tied around your waist was dotted with flour and sugar, a testament to your hard work. But the most striking thing about you wasn’t the aroma of your baked goods or your delicate manners. It was the network of stitches crisscrossing your skin.

Lines of rough black thread connected patches of flesh, like a macabre patchwork doll. Some were tiny and neat, while others were thick and jagged, looking as though they were holding together pieces that shouldn’t fit. Despite this grotesque appearance, you were beloved. Customers whispered about how charming you were, how your treats always seemed to hit the perfect note of sweetness. No one asked about the stitches. No one dared.

Tonight, the shop had been busy, as always. The glass display cases were nearly empty, save for a few stray crumbs. The last of the customers had trickled out, bell jingling cheerfully as they left. All but one.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:05 PM. The sign on the door clearly read “CLOSED,” but the man sitting at one of the corner tables didn’t seem to care. He was loud, vulgar, and obnoxiously drunk.

"Hey, you," he slurred, slamming his fist on the table. "Get over here and bring me something good. None of that cheap crap you serve everyone else."

You turned toward him, smile unwavering. "I'm sorry, sir, but the shop is closed. Perhaps you could return tomorrow?"

"Don't play dumb with me," he sneered, his voice cutting through the cozy ambiance like a rusty blade. "I said bring me something to eat!"

Your smile didn’t falter. If anything, it seemed to grow wider, though your eyes remained calm, almost serene.

"Of course, sir," you said sweetly. "Please, wait right here."

You disappeared into the kitchen, humming a soft, haunting tune under your breath. The light from the oven cast long, flickering shadows on the walls, illuminating jars of mysterious ingredients. A sharp knife gleamed on the counter. Your hands—stitched together at the knuckles—moved deftly as you prepared something special. Something just for him.

When you returned, a steaming plate rested in your hands. The man didn’t even look at you, just grabbed the fork and shoved the food into his mouth with a grunt.

"Took you long enough," he muttered around a mouthful of cake. "Tastes like crap."

"Is that so?" you asked, tilting your head. "I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps you would like to stay a little longer? It's so late, after all."

The smile never faltered. Instead, it grew wider, the stitches on your lips pulling slightly apart at the seams. A faint trace of something red—darker than strawberry jam—beaded along one of them. “I do apologize. Let me prepare something special just for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, just make it fast,” he grumbled, flopping into a chair near the window and pulling out his phone. His voice grated on you, sharp and dismissive, as he muttered curses under his breath.

The kitchen was your domain, and tonight, it hummed with a peculiar energy. Metal utensils gleamed under the dim light, and the cleaver on the counter caught your reflection in its blade. Your hands, adorned with gloves to hide the seams crisscrossing your palms, moved with practiced grace.

A splash of something thick and red stained the cutting board, the scent of copper faint beneath the sugar and spice. You hummed a soft tune, one you couldn’t quite remember learning, as you worked.

When you returned, a plate in hand, the man barely looked up. “About time. What is this?”

“Just a little something I made just for you,” you said sweetly, placing the plate before him. The dessert—a small tart with a golden crust and a glistening ruby center—was flawless.

He didn’t thank you. He dug in immediately, barely tasting the delicate layers. “Not bad,” he muttered around a mouthful, crumbs spilling onto the table.

You stood by, hands clasped neatly in front of you, watching. Your stitched fingers flexed slightly, the faintest tear threatening along one seam.

When he finished, he pushed the plate aside and stood. “Guess that’s the only decent thing about this place. Whatever. I’m outta here.”

You tilted your head, your smile stretching impossibly wide. “Oh, but sir… it’s closing time.”

“Yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

You stepped closer, blocking the door. “It’s quite late. You really shouldn’t be wandering out alone at this hour.”

He frowned, his bravado faltering as he noticed the subtle glint in your eyes, the way your body seemed to loom closer than it should. “The hell are you talking about? Move, freak.”

Your gloved hands shot out faster than he could react, gripping his wrist in a vice-like hold. The stitches along your arms strained as you dragged him back, his shouts muffled by the sudden press of something soft and chemical-smelling against his mouth.

“Shh,” you cooed as his struggles weakened, his body slumping against you. “It’s too dangerous outside. You’ll stay here where it’s safe.”

The man lay on the table now, his arms and legs bound with thick ropes. His head lolled to the side as he groaned, the last effects of the sedative wearing off.

“Wha—what the fuck?” His voice was hoarse, panic flooding his tone as he struggled against his restraints.

You stood over him, the ever-present smile on your face illuminated by the flickering bulb above. You’d removed your gloves, and the full extent of your stitching was on display. Patches of skin of varying tones and textures were held together with thick black thread, forming a grotesque mosaic. Some seams oozed faintly, the strain of movement reopening old wounds.

“I told you,” you said softly, running a stitched finger down the side of his face. He flinched. “It’s closing time. You should stay here.”

“You’re insane!” he spat, his voice breaking. “Let me go!”

Your smile faltered for the first time, the edges of your mouth twitching. “That’s not very polite,” you murmured, your voice tinged with something darker. “I worked very hard to make something nice for you, and you were so ungrateful. Do you know how much effort it takes to make something perfect?”

You turned away, reaching for a tray of tools. The man’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the gleaming instruments—knives, saws, and needles of varying sizes.

“Please,” he whimpered, his bravado crumbling. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave. I won’t tell anyone—”

“You’ve already seen too much,” you interrupted, your smile returning, more unhinged than ever. “But don’t worry. I’ll make good use of you. Waste not, want not, as they say.”

The first cut was precise, your hands steady despite the trembling of your latest canvas. Blood flowed freely, staining the table and dripping to the floor in rhythmic splatters. You hummed as you worked, your stitches straining and tearing in places as you bent over him.

The room filled with the metallic scent of blood and the man’s muffled screams. You worked methodically, carefully preserving the best parts. His cries grew weaker with each passing moment until, finally, there was silence.

The sharp, metallic scent of blood filled the kitchen, thick and heady as it mingled with the faint sweetness of leftover batter and vanilla. The man’s body lay limp on the steel table, limbs dangling like the slack strings of a marionette. Your needle worked methodically, threading sinew through torn skin with a precision born of practice. Every tug of the thread made a faint squelching sound, the tension in the stitches pulling his flesh taut, creating a masterpiece of grotesque artistry.

Humming a soft, eerie tune, you reached for your cleaver, its blade gleaming under the fluorescent light. With a practiced swing, you brought it down on his arm. The bone cracked beneath the weight, splitting apart with a sound like a thick branch snapping in two. Blood sprayed across your apron and face, warm and sticky. You giggled, the sound high-pitched and giddy, as if you’d just unwrapped a delightful surprise.

“Don’t worry,” you cooed, patting the man’s severed hand like it was a cherished pet. “You’re going to be so useful. Much more than you were alive.”

You continued to dismember him, your movements efficient, almost clinical. The cleaver sliced through flesh and cartilage, separating the legs from the torso, the head from the neck. Each piece was meticulously prepared, the jagged edges smoothed with a smaller knife. His face, frozen in an eternal scream, stared up at you. You couldn’t help but grin back, wide and manic.

One by one, you hung the pieces on meat hooks that dangled from the ceiling. The other bodies swayed gently in the cold air, their forms reduced to pale, butchered remnants of humanity. Some were fresher than others; their blood still dripped onto the tiled floor in soft, rhythmic plinks. Others had begun to dry out, their skin leathery and taut, their eyes hollow sockets staring into the void.

The room was your gallery, a place where flesh became art. The hanging bodies swayed in the dim light, their shadows casting long, distorted shapes on the walls. It was beautiful in its own grotesque way, a testament to your dedication and craftsmanship.

Once the man’s body was fully integrated into your macabre display, you took a step back, wiping your bloodied hands on your apron. You gazed at your work, your stitched smile stretching impossibly wide. The threads across your face tugged, pulling your cheeks into an unnatural grin, but you didn’t mind. Pain was a friend you had long since grown to cherish.

With a sigh of satisfaction, you walked to the center of the room and sat down on a small stool. Your gaze swept over the hanging bodies, each one a story, a memory. Some had been rude, like tonight’s guest. Others were simply unlucky, wandering into your shop at the wrong time. But all of them had served a purpose. They had become part of you, quite literally.

The faint creak of the meat hooks was the only sound in the room, a soft, haunting rhythm that matched the beat of your heart. You tilted your head, watching the bodies sway like macabre wind chimes. Your stitched hands rested in your lap, fingers interlocked. A sense of calm washed over you, a moment of peace amid the chaos of your work.

“Ah,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “So beautiful.”

You reached out, your fingers grazing the closest body. The skin was cold, the texture rough under your fingertips. A small giggle bubbled up from your throat, growing louder until it echoed through the room. It was a sound of pure delight, unrestrained and wild.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHA!” you cackled, throwing your head back. The stitches on your neck pulled tight, some of them oozing faint beads of blood. “Look at all of you! So perfect, so helpful! You’ll keep me together, won’t you?”

The bodies didn’t answer, of course, but you didn’t need them to. Their silence was its own kind of companionship. They were yours, every piece of them stitched into your being, a patchwork quilt of flesh and bone.

Hours passed as you sat there, basking in the glow of your creation. The blood on your hands dried, cracking against your skin like old paint. The smell of death was overwhelming, but to you, it was comforting. It was home.

Eventually, you stood, stretching your arms above your head. The stitches across your joints pulled taut, some of them threatening to snap. You made a mental note to reinforce them later. For now, there was work to be done. The bakery would open again in a few hours, and the display cases needed to be restocked.

Humming once more, you began to clean the room. The floor was scrubbed until it gleamed, the tools were washed and placed back in their proper spots. The man’s face—his terrified expression frozen forever—was carefully peeled and set aside. Perhaps it would make a nice decoration for the shop’s back room.

. You stood in the center of your gallery, a rusted bucket in one hand, the other tapping your chin thoughtfully.

The bodies hung like grotesque chandeliers, swaying gently in the chilled air. Your eyes roamed over them, taking in the patchwork of flesh, the twisted limbs, the faces frozen in their final moments of terror. One, in particular, caught your attention—the newest addition. His bulkier frame seemed promising, the meat fresh and unmarred by time.

"Hmm," you murmured, tilting your head. "Yes, you'll do nicely."

Setting the bucket down, you grabbed his torso, your stitched fingers digging into the still-warm flesh. With a grunt, you dragged it toward the butcher’s table. The sound of wet, sticky meat sliding across the tiles was music to your ears. His head lolled to the side, eyes wide open in a stare that saw nothing.

You hummed softly as you reached for your cleaver, running your thumb along its edge to check its sharpness. Satisfied, you brought it down on the man’s wrist with a satisfying crunch. Bone splintered, blood oozed from the severed stump, pooling around the table legs. One by one, you dismembered the body, severing fingers, hands, arms, and legs with methodical precision. Each piece was tossed into the bucket with a wet thud.

Once the body was reduced to manageable chunks, you reached for your bone saw. The teeth glinted in the overhead light, promising efficiency. You began cutting through the larger pieces, separating bone from meat. The saw’s rhythmic scraping filled the room, blending with the faint sound of your humming.

"Perfect," you whispered, holding up a cleanly severed thigh. The meat was vibrant, unmarred by fat or imperfections. “You’ll make such delicious treats.”

The pile of meat grew, you turned your attention to your baking station. A large bowl sat waiting, already filled with flour, sugar, and other ingredients for your special batter. You cracked eggs into the mix, their golden yolks oozing lazily down the sides. But this time, there was a special addition.

From the bucket, you grabbed a handful of freshly cut flesh and fed it into the grinder. The machine whirred to life, the blades tearing through muscle and fat, reducing it to a fine, pink paste. The scent of raw meat mingled with the sweetness of vanilla extract, creating a heady, nauseating combination.

You scraped the meat paste into the batter, stirring it until it was fully incorporated. The mixture turned a faint pinkish hue, small flecks of red dotting its surface like confetti.

“Beautiful,” you cooed, your stitched smile pulling tight as you spooned the batter into cupcake molds. Each tin was filled with care, the batter smooth and even. You placed the tray into the oven, setting the timer before stepping back.

The heat from the oven warmed the room, the glass door glowing softly as the cupcakes began to bake. You crouched down in front of it, resting your chin on your hands, your wide eyes fixed on the tray inside. The batter puffed up, golden edges forming around the tops.

The scent of the baking cupcakes filled the air, masking the lingering metallic tang of blood. You couldn’t help but giggle, the sound childlike and sweet, completely at odds with the macabre scene behind you.

“Ah,” you sighed, tilting your head as you watched the cupcakes rise.

Time ticked by, the minutes stretching into eternity as you stared at the oven. The warmth of the glass seeped into your skin, but you didn’t move, transfixed by the transformation taking place. The meat, the batter, the sugar—it was all coming together, melding into something beautiful.

When the timer dinged, you practically skipped to the oven, pulling on a pair of mitts before retrieving the tray. The cupcakes were perfect, their tops golden brown, little flecks of pink meat visible if you looked closely enough. You placed them on the counter to cool, your smile never faltering.

One cupcake caught your eye, its surface cracked slightly, revealing a glint of meat within. You picked it up, turning it in your hands. The warmth seeped through the paper wrapper, and you felt a giddy thrill run through you.

Lifting the cupcake to your mouth, you took a bite. The sweetness of the sugar and vanilla mingled with the savory, iron-rich taste of the meat. It was divine, the flavors dancing on your tongue in perfect harmony.

You swallowed, a contented sigh escaping your lips.

“Delicious,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The sun had fully risen now, its light filtering through the bakery’s windows and illuminating the pristine display cases. The bell over the door jingled as the first customer of the day walked in.

“Good morning!” you chirped, spinning around to face them. The blood on your apron was hidden beneath a fresh layer of flour, the stitches on your face pulling into a welcoming smile.

“What’s the special today?” the customer asked, their eyes scanning the display case.

“Cupcakes,” you said sweetly, gesturing to the tray behind you. “Freshly made. They’re… one of a kind.”

The customer grinned. “I’ll take a dozen.”

“Coming right up!”

You boxed the cupcakes, your mind wandered back to the bodies hanging in the back room. There was still so much to do, so many recipes to try. But for now, you were content.

After all, the sweetest things always came from the heart.

The streets were quiet, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows as you made your way down the cobblestone path. The black garbage bags slung over your shoulder dripped faintly, leaving a dark trail behind you. The scent of iron clung to the air, but the world around you remained oblivious. It was just another walk in the early hours of the morning.

You turned the corner, a figure caught your eye. A girl with blonde hair, peeking out from under a poorly fitted wig, stood hesitantly by the edge of the street. She glanced around nervously, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her oversized jacket. You stopped mid-step, your stitched smile growing wider as recognition dawned.

“How do I meet the strangest men, They always seem to find me…”

Her face was familiar, unmistakably so. You’d seen her on YouTube, her bright personality a stark contrast to her current, jittery demeanor. She had a large following—too large to be here unnoticed, yet here she was, poorly disguised and alone. What a treat.

You adjusted your grip on the garbage bags, the movement making a faint squelching sound that caught her attention. Her eyes met yours, wide and wary. She took a small step back, but it was too late. You’d seen her hesitation, her discomfort. It was delicious.

“Good evening,” you greeted cheerfully, tilting your head. “Out for a walk, are we?”

She stiffened, her hand brushing the edge of her wig as if to ensure it was still in place. “Just passing through,” she mumbled, her voice soft but edged with unease.

You took a step closer, your eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I recognize you,” you said, voice dripping with sweetness. “Don’t I? From online?”

Her breath hitched, and she glanced around, her movements sharp and anxious.

“Remember that time way back when I, Kissed a guy who ate his women friends…”

You couldn’t suppress the giggle that bubbled up, high-pitched and unhinged. “Funny, isn’t it? Running into someone so familiar on such a quiet night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other. She turned as if to leave, but her hesitance betrayed her. She wasn’t sure whether to flee or stay and feign normalcy.

Your stitched fingers twitched, the urge to reach out and grab her almost overwhelming. But you held back, savoring the moment. “It’s a small world,” you mused, shifting the garbage bags onto the ground with a dull thud. “Even smaller when you have… particular hobbies.”

Her eyes flicked to the bags, her nose crinkling as the faint scent of decay wafted toward her. “What’s in those?” she asked, her voice shaking despite her attempt to sound indifferent.

“Oh, just waste,” you replied nonchalantly. “Leftovers from the bakery. I run a shop, you see. Very popular on certain… platforms.”

Her face paled, and you knew she understood. Of course, she would—her disguise wasn’t perfect, but her reasons for wearing it were written all over her nervous posture. Perhaps she’d seen your little storefront on the dark web, the infamous “human cakes” with their chillingly cheerful descriptions.

“Now only dogs will follow me, (Is he following?)”

You took a deliberate step closer, your grin widening until the stitches across your face pulled painfully. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? How people find themselves drawn to the darkest corners, even when they know better.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Don’t you?” you asked softly, leaning in until your stitched fingers brushed her sleeve. “After all, you’re here, aren’t you? And not by chance, I’d wager.”

She flinched at your touch, her wide eyes darting between you and the bags at your feet. “I should go,” she stammered, stepping back. “I… I have somewhere to be.”

“But we’re just getting to know each other,” you said, your tone sweet but laced with something darker. You crouched down, opening one of the bags slightly. The glint of bone and a hint of flesh peeked out, the air around it heavy with the scent of rot.

Her hand flew to her mouth, a strangled sound escaping her lips. “Oh my God—”

You straightened, your stitched smile now impossibly wide. “Don’t worry,” you said softly, almost soothingly. “You won’t end up like them. Not yet, anyway.”

Despite her earlier hesitation, the blonde girl found herself seated at a small, intimate table by the counter. Her poorly fitted wig was slightly askew, and her nervous energy buzzed under her skin, but she kept her smile plastered on, mirroring your own stitched grin.

“Sit, sit,” you said cheerfully, your voice sugary sweet. “I’ll bake something special for you.”

Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her jacket as she glanced around, the faint scent of vanilla and something darker lingering in the air. The tray of cupcakes you’d set aside earlier sat prominently on the counter, their golden tops glistening faintly under the light.

“I bite at the hand that feeds me, I slap at the face that eats me…”

You hummed softly as you worked, your hands deftly mixing a new batch of batter. The flour puffed up in small clouds, mingling with the sheen of meat paste you spooned into the mix. You turned to glance at her, your stitched smile never faltering.

“I think you’ll really like this one,” you said, your tone dripping with enthusiasm. “It’s… unique.”

Her eyes flicked to you, curiosity and fear warring in her gaze. “What’s in it?” she asked, her voice attempting to sound casual.

You giggled, a high-pitched, lilting sound. “Oh, just the usual. Sugar, spice, everything… nice.”

The oven clicked as it preheated, and you poured the batter into molds with meticulous care. As the cupcakes baked, the scent grew richer, sweeter, and yet faintly metallic. She watched you closely, her hands still trembling faintly.

When the timer dinged, you carefully removed the tray, the cupcakes steaming and golden brown. You placed one on a delicate plate, garnishing it with a dollop of frosting and a single cherry. With a flourish, you set it in front of her.

“Here you go,” you said sweetly, tilting your head. “Freshly made, just for you.”

She hesitated, staring at the cupcake like it was a loaded gun. But then, with a nervous smile, she picked it up. Her hands were unsteady, but she took a bite, her teeth sinking into the soft, warm cake.

For a moment, she chewed in silence, her expression unreadable. But then, as she swallowed, her eyes widened. A small sound escaped her lips—a mix of surprise and something darker. She took another bite, and as she did, a small, round object tumbled from the cupcake, landing on the table with a soft plop.

An eyeball.

“Some kind of animal cannibal, Made impressions on me…”

Her breath hitched, her gaze darting from the eyeball to you. You didn’t flinch. Instead, your tongue flicked out, running along your lips as your stitched smile widened.

“Well?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. “Do you like it?”

She stared at you for a long moment, her lips trembling. Then, to your delight, she began to laugh. It started as a soft giggle but quickly grew into a wild, unrestrained cackle. Her head tipped back, her eyes shining with something feral.

“Have we met before? (Possibly in Michigan) In some strange department store, (We won’t see him anymore)”

“I see you have a taste for the finer things,” you said, licking your lips as you picked up the eyeball. You held it delicately, inspecting it like a jeweler admiring a precious stone, before slipping it into your mouth with a grin.

She leaned forward, her disguise slipping further. “So, you know,” she said, her voice low and almost giddy.

“I do,” you replied, your stitched face splitting into a grin that felt too wide for your skin. “You’re my kind, aren’t you? A fellow… connoisseur.”

She nodded, her eyes glinting with a dark light. “I’ve tried to hide it, but it’s always there..."

You leaned in closer, resting your chin on your hands. “No need to hide here,” you said softly. “Here, you can be yourself. Fully. Freely.”

Her gaze lingered on the empty cupcake wrapper before meeting yours. “What’s next?” she asked, her tone dripping with anticipation.

You clapped your hands together, your smile stretching impossibly wide. “I knew it!” you exclaimed. “I knew you were my kind!”

After, that..

It took a while.

She grew on you.

You always sold your gifts to the world and your website in dark web. You can say. In a way, you're a serial killer.

For some reason, Angel invited you to a server she called it.

Why??

The First Day on the Server

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, the warm glow of the screen bathing your stitched face in pale light. The server pinged incessantly as the messages rolled in, welcoming you to the digital den of chaos. Angel had extended the invitation—a rare kindness from someone who saw through the sweet façade to the horrors beneath.

The welcome was... overwhelming.

<goreboy> Welcome to the Newly Christened @Y/n!

The chat erupted.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> WELCOME! WELCOME!

<Angelic> Y/n! You actually joined!

<goreboy> Oh? Angel invited you?

<K9> Wait, Angel invited them? Did you not know?

<goreboy> Oh, I knew. V, meet Mx Baker Killer. Could call them the rebirth of Pinkie Pie—but y'know, darker.

<K9> …Pinkie Pie? What the hell, Ronin?

<goreboy> Wait, wait. That cannibal shop everyone’s been whispering about on the deep web? That’s you, right, darling?

You let the pause linger, fingers lightly pressing the keys. You typed without hesitation:

<Cupcake-slasher> Yes.

The server’s collective silence stretched out for a few moments too long before the chat ignited again.

<goreboy> Not good? How about this, then?

<Zombie> What?

<goreboy> Angel mentioned your stitched skin—reminds me of a zombie. Fitting, no? I'm changing your username!

<Zombie> Thanks.

More pings.

<hitmeuppp> Wait, stitched skin??? That sounds kinda... sad and cool?

<Zombie> Yeah, I was dead as a baby. Someone contacted a demon, and voila—here I am. Just recycled parts stitched back together.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> HOLY SHIT. THAT’S SUCH A GOOD JOKE. WELCOME, WELCOME! I’M LUCA!

<Y/n> Sure.

Your username flickered—an automatic change. A twisted sort of christening.

<goreboy> Angel saved you. What an angel.

<Angelic> Ronin, you’re unbearable. Y/n, I’m so sorry. I stepped away for one minute, and he’s already—

<Strawberryguts> It’s fine.

Another ping.

<goreboy> C’mon. Your motives are unhinged; mine are simple. Just trying to give you a good username.

You stared at the screen.

Rebirth of Pinkie Pie, huh?

The stitched flesh of your hand ghosted over the scars across your neck, the faint scent of vanilla and iron still clinging to you. Maybe Ronin had a point.

Your new username, Zombie, sat mockingly beside your messages, and while you didn’t mind, it seemed to spark something mischievous in Ronin.

<goreboy> Actually, hold up. Zombie is fine, but we can do better. Something... spicier.

<Angelic> Ronin, don’t start.

<goreboy> What about... hmm... Sewn-Sweetie? Or maybe Meat-Master?

<K9> goreboy, I swear to God.

<HITMEUPPP> Wait, I got it—CupcakeCadaver! Perfect, right? Y/n, it’s like you, but with ✨flair✨.

Your lips twitched in amusement as Angel’s reply came in almost immediately.

<Angelic> Stop.

<goreboy> Oh? You don’t like it, Angel? How about SweetFleshStitcher? C’mon, it’s a masterpiece.

<Angelic> Ronin.

Your username suddenly changed again, this time to CorpseConfectioner.

<goreboy> SEE? I’m on a roll.

<Angelic> You are not.

Your name flickered as Angel swiftly intervened, changing it back to Y/N

<goreboy> NOOO! Angel, what are you doing? You’re killing my creativity!

<Angelic> I’m saving Y/n from being a walking horror-themed dad joke, that’s what.

<goreboy> Oh, come on. y/N's boring! It’s so… uninspired.

<Angelic> It’s better than the nonsense you keep spouting.

<goreboy> You wound me, Angel. Fine. What about Bake-and-Take? Huh? Huh? Y/n gets to bake and take lives. It’s poetic!

<Angelic> Ronin.

<goreboy> Angel-Hater69. No? Too much?

Your username flickered again—Angel’sProblem.

<Angelic> RONIN!

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> LMAOOOOOOOO THIS IS SO FUNNY KEEP GOING RONIN YOU’RE A LEGEND

<goreboy> Listen, if you hate fun, just say that. But I’m fighting for Y/n’s branding.

<Angelic> Branding is not your job.

<goreboy> Tell that to Angel’sProblem.

Your username changed back to Y/n, and Angel added a lock icon next to it.

<goreboy> Haha, Funny angel.

<Angelic> I win.

<goreboy> You’re no fun.

<Angelic> And you’re relentless.

<goreboy> Fine. Zombie it is. For now.

It changed again

You finally typed, your message cutting through the chaos.

<Zombie> Zombie is fine.

The server practically erupted.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> YESSS OMG THIS IS EVERY DAY WELCOME TO THE CIRCUS

<Felicite> It’s their love language.

<goreboy> Don’t drag me into Angel’s drama.

<Angelic> MY drama? You’re insufferable.

<Zombie> You’re both terrible at this, but it’s entertaining.

Angel’s private DM appeared moments later:

<Angelic> Ignore Ronin. He’s a menace, but he means well... sort of.

<Zombie> Noted. But don’t worry—I’ve seen worse.

<Angelic> Somehow, I believe you.

Back in the main chat.

The server chat was unusually lively today, and you couldn’t resist jumping in, a twisted smile tugging at the corners of your stitched mouth. You typed, the rhythmic creak of your office chair echoed in your quiet shop, a perfect contrast to the chaos of the chat.

<Zombie> So, I’ve been thinking. If everyone here were... ingredients, what would you all be?

The chat immediately lit up with reactions.

<goreboy> Oh, this is gonna be good. Go on, darlin’, I gotta know what kind of gourmet masterpiece I am.

<K9> This is gonna be disturbing, isn’t it?

<Angelic> Y/n, don’t encourage him.

<hitmeuppp> WAIT, ME TOO, ME TOO!!

You let your fingers hover over the keyboard, a wicked gleam in your eye as you started typing.

<Zombie> Alright. Let’s start with Misaki.

<hitmeuppp> YESSSSS OMG OKAY OKAY GIMME

<Zombie> Misaki is like a... sugar rush. Chaotic sweetness that leaves you dizzy if you have too much. Like that one cupcake in the batch that’s been overfilled with sprinkles, frosting, and edible glitter. Pretty, but if you don’t pace yourself, you’ll regret it.

<hitmeuppp> 😭 THAT’S SO CUTE BUT ALSO RUDE

<Angelic> That’s disturbingly accurate.

<K9> Yeah, I can’t even argue.

<Zombie> You’re also like pop rocks in a macaron. Unpredictable, bubbly, but with a hidden intensity.

<hitmeuppp> Pop rocks?? AAAAA I’LL TAKE IT 🥰

You couldn’t help but smirk. Misaki’s energy always amused you, even through the screen. You glanced at Ronin’s username next, your smile sharpening.

<Zombie> V (K9): Ground peppercorns. Sharp, earthy, and with just the right amount of bite. Subtle, but you notice when it’s missing. A good base to balance out stronger flavors.

<K9> Pepper? Really? I thought you’d go for something weird like… I don’t know… blood oranges.

<Zombie> Hmm, I considered it, but you’re too steady for that. Peppercorn fits.

<goreboy> Boring. What about me?

<Zombie> Patience, Ronin. I’m saving the best for last.

<goreboy> Oho, flattered.

Okay, Zombie, now spill. What ingredient would you be?

You paused for a moment, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a grin tugging at your stitched lips, you typed:

<Zombie> Oh, I’m the whole dish.

The server erupted.

<hitmeuppp> ICONIC OMGGG

<goreboy> Okay, that’s a power move. Respect.

Your fingers danced across the keyboard, the text pouring out as if possessed by your fascination.

<Zombie> You know… Ronin’s the most interesting ingredient of all.

The response was instant.

<goreboy> Oh? Do go on, darling. Enlighten me.

You leaned closer to the screen, your stitched lips curling into a grin as your thoughts spiraled, erratic and almost feverish.

<Zombie> You’re like... the rotting core of a fruit. At first glance, you look appealing—bright, ripe, even a little seductive—but the closer you get, the more you realize you’re rotten. Spoiled. Putrid. But oh, the flavor you bring... it’s unforgettable.

<K9> ...I don’t know whether that’s an insult or a compliment.

<goreboy> Shh, V. Let the artist work.

<Zombie> It’s the decay that makes you potent. You’re sharp, acidic, and dangerous in all the best ways. The kind of ingredient that doesn’t just sit in the dish—it dominates it. You make everything about you. Every bite is a risk. Every taste burns, but you keep coming back because there’s something so addictive about it.

Ronin typed almost immediately.

<goreboy> Darlin’, you’re makin’ me blush. Keep going.

You kept typing, the words pouring out in a chaotic frenzy.

<Zombie> But you’re also… versatile. You could be a poison, a cure, or even just the spice that turns a dish unforgettable. You’re the ingredient that could ruin the meal, but if you’re handled just right, you could make it a masterpiece.

<Zombie> ...But who could ever handle you perfectly? No one. Because you don’t want to be handled, do you? You want to unravel, to rot, to consume. You want to break apart and spread, infecting every single thing around you with your essence.

<Zombie> You’re chaos, Ronin. The kind that tastes like a nightmare you can’t stop dreaming about.

The server went silent for a moment, the eerie kind of quiet that only happened when people didn’t know how to respond. Then:

<goreboy> I could cry. That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

<hitmeuppp> YOU’RE SO WEIRD OMG THIS IS AMAZING

<K9> Yeah, that’s not unsettling at all. Totally normal.

<Angelic> ...Well. That’s certainly a description.

Ronin wasn’t done, of course.

<goreboy> You’re not wrong, though. I am addictive, aren’t I? I mean, you’re the one typing out an essay about me. You sure I’m not already in your bloodstream, Zombie?

<Zombie> Maybe.

The server erupted in laughter and chaos, but Ronin’s message came in shortly after, quieter than the others:

<goreboy> You see everything, don’t you?

<Zombie> Everything that matters.

There was a long pause, the server buzzing with its usual noise, but Ronin stayed quiet for once. When he finally replied, it was almost… amused.

<goreboy> You’re gonna be fun.

You grinned at the chaos you'd caused, fingers hovering over the keyboard like a maestro about to conduct the next movement of this darkly delightful symphony.

<Zombie> You know, Ronin, for all your charm, I wouldn’t use you in a dish.

The response was immediate, almost predictable.

<goreboy> Excuse me? That’s rude.

<hitmeuppp> OMG WHY NOT?? HE’S LIKE, PRIME MATERIAL FOR YOUR “WEIRD INGREDIENT” THING.

<Zombie> Oh, Misaki, he’s too rotten. Spoiled goods. Completely useless as an ingredient. He’d overpower everything, turn it sour and bitter. You couldn’t make anything worthwhile out of him even if you tried.

<goreboy> Oh, so now I’m useless, huh?

<Zombie> Yes.

<goreboy> Darlin’, you wound me.

Misaki didn’t let up, her curiosity dragging the conversation in another direction.

<hitmeuppp> Okay, but what about Angel? Is she an ingredient?

You paused, the grin on your face growing wider as you typed, your words curling with twisted affection.

<Zombie> Angel? Oh, no. Angel could never be an ingredient.

The server went quiet for a moment. Then:

<hitmeuppp> Why not?? She’s like… perfect.

<Zombie> Because Angel is too much. She’s too precious, too complex. You wouldn’t eat a diamond, would you? You’d admire it, covet it, keep it safe. She’s the kind of thing that would ruin you to consume because she could never truly fulfill the craving.

<goreboy> That’s the creepiest compliment I’ve ever heard. Congrats.

<hitmeuppp> WAIT SO YOU LIKE ANGEL?

<Zombie> I admire her. She’s untouchable. Not because she’s fragile—oh no, Angel isn’t fragile—but because it would be a crime to use her for something as fleeting as a dish. She deserves better.

Angel’s reply came after a moment, her tone carefully measured.

<Angelic> I… think that was nice?

<Zombie> It was.

<hitmeuppp> You’re so weird about Angel, omg. What’s even the point of this if you can’t use her??

Your tone twisted, playful yet sharp, the words tumbling out like they were meant to unsettle.

<Zombie> Oh, Misaki. Some ingredients aren’t meant to be consumed. They’re meant to be admired, adored, even feared.

<Zombie> Ronin, on the other hand, is just… waste. A fascinating waste, but waste nonetheless. He’s the kind of thing you’d throw out before it infects the rest of the kitchen.

<goreboy> Keep talking, sweetheart. I love hearing how much you think about me.

The server laughed, the tension lifting slightly, but you weren’t quite finished.

<Zombie> You know, cannibal cuisine is all about balance. The cuts of meat have to be clean, precise. The flavor has to shine, but not overpower the rest of the dish. Angel would be impossible to balance. Too much of her would ruin everything. And Ronin? He’d never fit. He’s too… unruly.

<K9> This is so messed up.

<Zombie> Of course it is. But isn’t it fascinating?

The server erupted in responses, a mix of laughter, discomfort, and Ronin’s ever-present flirting. But Angel’s quiet reply, tucked in amidst the chaos, caught your eye.

<Angelic> ...I think you’re fascinating too.

<K9> Okay, Zombie, real talk. What are your motives? Like, why do you do what you do?

You tilted your head, your stitched skin tugging as you grinned. Your fingers tapped out a response, unbothered by the directness.

<Zombie> Motives? I don’t think it’s that complicated, V. I kill because I want to. Because I can.

The server erupted.

<hitmeuppp> WHAT??? OMG THAT’S SO WACKY

<goreboy> Darlin’, I’m startin’ to like you even more.

<K9> That’s not just messed up. That’s so messed up.

You leaned back for a moment, letting the replies pile up before leaning forward to add more, your words sharp and deliberate.

<Zombie> At least I don’t lie to myself about it, V. I don’t wrap it up in a bow and call it “justice.” That’s what you do, isn’t it?

V’s reply was quick, defensive.

<K9> Excuse me?

<Zombie> You heard me. You play the vigilante, but killing someone and pretending it’s righteous doesn’t change what it is. It’s killing. It’s messy. It’s human. The only difference between us is that I don’t need a moral excuse to justify it.

<hitmeuppp> THAT’S SO WACKY OMG. Do you, like, get messy? Like really messy??

You laughed softly to yourself as you typed your response.

<Zombie> Of course. It’s part of the process. The blood, the guts, the gore—it’s all a part of the art.

<hitmeuppp> OMG THAT’S SO ME FR!!!

Ronin chimed in, clearly reveling in the conversation.

<goreboy> I saw some of your handiwork on the news, darlin’. Real nasty stuff. Truly a person after my own heart.

You didn’t bother responding to him directly, but your eyes flicked to Angel’s message when it popped up.

<Angelic> I think it’s… cool.

For the first time, your reply was immediate, simple, and strangely devoid of your usual edge.

<Zombie> Thanks.

The others noticed.

<hitmeuppp> WTF YOU’RE LIKE NORMAL TO ANGEL???

<K9> Yeah, what’s that about? To everyone else, you’re like... super weird.

Your reply was sharp but carried an undercurrent of genuine emotion.

<Zombie> Because Angel’s the only one who deserves it. The rest of you? You’re just noise.

Ronin, never one to miss an opportunity, cut in with his usual flair.

<goreboy> Now, now, darlin’. That’s no way to treat the rest of us. But I’ll admit, you’re startin’ to grow on me.

You didn’t reply to him, your focus staying on Angel’s quiet presence.

<Angelic> Okay, everyone! y/n! #killer-shit. Post about your, well… y’know, “work” here.

The reaction was instant.

<hitmeuppp> OMG THIS IS GONNA BE SO FUN!!!

<goreboy> This is a place to spill guts. Literally. Y/n, think you can handle it?

You smirked, already knowing how your reply would land.

<Zombie> Oh, Ronin, I’ve been spilling guts since before you crawled out of your first sinner’s ribcage. Sometimes, though, it’s my own.

That caught everyone’s attention.

<K9> What the hell does that mean?

<Zombie> I mean my stitches. They’re… temperamental. If I move too fast, too hard, or smile too wide, they come undone.

You paused for dramatic effect, then added the next part, your words dripping with grotesque detail.

<Zombie> Once, I laughed too hard, and the stitches on my abdomen split wide open. I tried to hold it in, but my insides slipped out like a burst bag of viscera. I had to sew myself back together while everything steamed on the cold floor.

Misaki was the first to react.

<hitmeuppp> WTF THAT’S SO GROSS I LOVE IT OMG

You weren’t finished, though. Your next words came slowly, deliberately, designed to make them squirm.

<Zombie> It’s worse when I smile too hard. The stitches on my lips can’t hold, and they snap one by one. My mouth opens too wide, my teeth fall out like broken porcelain, clinking onto the floor. And sometimes... sometimes my left eye pops out. It dangles there, swaying, until I shove it back in.

The silence was palpable, broken only by Misaki’s nervous laughter.

<hitmeuppp> OKAY THAT ONE MADE ME FEEL SICK OMG

<K9> What the actual hell, Zombie.

But Angel’s reply cut through the noise, soft and filled with something close to pity.

<Angelic> That’s… awful. I’m so sorry.

You tilted your head at the screen, a strange warmth stirring in your chest at her words. Before you could respond, Ronin decided to chime in.

<goreboy> Aw, come on. Don’t feel bad for them, Angel. They’re practically a walking horror movie. That’s the dream, right?

You rolled your eyes, waiting for him to keep going.

<goreboy> I mean, if you’re falling apart that much, maybe you should just... stay down next time? You’re like a bad patch job that refuses to quit.

Typical Ronin. Sharp, biting, and almost offensive—until his tone shifted slightly, his words taking on an edge of something… else.

<goreboy> But hey, I get it. Takes a lotta guts to keep putting yourself back together. Literally. Guess I can respect that. Sorta.

<goreboy> You’re tougher than you look, Zombie. And I kinda dig that.

The unexpected turn made you pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Before you could type anything, Angel spoke again.

<Angelic> I still feel bad. You shouldn’t have to go through that.

Your next reply was quick, your usual edge softening just slightly.

<Zombie> Thanks, Angel.

The others immediately latched onto your uncharacteristic tone.

<hitmeuppp> WAIT YOU’RE BEING NORMAL AGAIN WTF

<K9> Yeah, this is getting weird.

Ronin, of course, couldn’t let it go.

<goreboy> Careful, Zombie. You keep acting all soft with Angel, and people might start thinking you’ve got a heart in there somewhere.

Suddenly, a call....

You barely had time to process the abrupt call request when Ronin's face filled your screen, his devil-may-care grin almost daring you to hang up. Instead, you leaned back and stared, taking him in.

Burgundy wine hair, messy and effortless, poked out from beneath a beanie tailored with two stitched-on horns—an obvious nod to the Devil he so gleefully tried to embody. His neck sported a spiked dog collar that looked sharp enough to draw blood, resting against the dark fabric of his jacket. Rings and piercings glittered in his ears and tongue, every piece calculated to scream rebellion.

His shirt featured a decayed skull graphic, paired with black-painted nails that clicked rhythmically on his keyboard. He oozed edginess, a walking contradiction of emo with a holy necklace—a simple Christian cross dangling around his neck, daring anyone to comment on the irony.

“You done ogling, or should I give you a spin?” Ronin broke the silence, his voice dripping with mockery as he tilted his head, one dark eye catching the faint glow of his monitor.

“What are you looking at, sweetheart?” He leaned closer, his grin widening, as if he could crawl through the screen to demand an answer.

You met his gaze unflinchingly, letting your eyes narrow. “It doesn’t matter,” you replied, your voice cutting through his theatrics. “What’s outside isn’t important. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

The faintest flicker of offense flashed across his face, quickly masked by a teasing pout. “Ouch,” he said, his voice dripping with faux hurt. “You wound me, Pinkie. You don’t like what you see?”

“It’s not about like or dislike,” you replied, your voice steady. “If what’s inside is rotten, it’s waste. No matter how pretty the packaging.”

The grin froze on his face for a moment, his head tilting as if to process your words. Then, slowly, it crept back, sharper, hungrier. “Damn. You really know how to twist the knife, don’t ya?” His laugh was low and rough, but his eyes betrayed something more—a flicker of challenge, intrigue.

“You’re a real piece of work, Zombie,” he said, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t think I didn’t notice you staring. Could’ve sworn you liked what you saw for a second there.”

“I observe,” you corrected, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His laughter filled the call, rich and full of wicked delight. “Too late for that, sweetheart. I was born to flatter myself.”

It was hard to ignore the way your aesthetic clashed with his. You, in your sugary pink hues, with pastel highlights that seemed to light up the screen. Him, drenched in dark tones, every inch of him screaming chaos and rebellion.

“By the way,” you added, motioning toward his necklace, “what’s with the cross? Playing both sides, are we?”

His grin stretched impossibly wider, like a predator toying with its prey. “Oh, this?” He fingered the cross lazily, his rings catching the light. “Just a little reminder. Gotta keep things balanced."

“Rot and decay,” you added pointedly.

“Exactly,” he said, leaning closer again, the edges of his voice dipping into something darker. “You get me.”

The video feed was grainy but clear enough to catch Ronin's cocky smirk as he leaned back in his chair, the screen lighting his sharp features. The beanie still sat crooked on his head, and his dark eyes glimmered with something unreadable.

"So, what’s the deal with you and Angel?" you asked, voice light but probing. It was the natural question, the obvious one, considering the way he’d been snapping back and forth in her defense all night.

Ronin tilted his head, the smirk softening slightly but never quite leaving. “You noticed, huh? Angel and I...we’ve got history.” His voice dipped, casual but carrying an undertone of weight, like he was telling a joke he didn’t expect anyone to laugh at.

“She’s... important. We were a thing once, way back when. Thought it was love. Turns out it wasn’t—at least not the kind of love that lasts. More like we were thrilled to find someone just as twisted as we were, and we mistook that for romance.”

He shrugged, but his expression betrayed the complexity behind the words. “It was fun until it wasn’t. I made her worse; she made me realize...some shit about myself. Then we split, stayed friends. Better this way.”

The pause hung heavy, and he leaned forward slightly, his tone dropping into something more deliberate. “She’s been spamming my DMs, though. About you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, grin twitching back to life. “Apparently, I’ve been mean. She thinks I’m scaring you or some crap. Says I need to ease up. Real concerned, you know? Angel always cares a little too much.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, raising a brow as if the question was absurd. “Because that’s Angel. She’s like that. Her manager put her through hell; I guess she’s got a soft spot for anyone she thinks needs saving. Doesn’t matter now. I’ve got a job for you.”

You tilted your head, studying him carefully. “A job?”

“Yeah.” He leaned closer, his face filling the screen. “Keep an eye on Angel. Make sure she’s okay. And I mean actually okay. She’s got this martyr complex, always trying to save everyone else while letting herself get crushed under the weight of it. I’m not about to let her drown herself, you get me?”

You blinked at him, processing the odd sincerity in his voice. “Why me?”

His grin sharpened. “Because you’re crazy enough to care about people the way she does. And because I know what you’ve been up to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, sweetheart.” He laughed, low and wicked. “You’ve been trying to hack into the server, haven’t you? Looking for addresses, names...Am I warm? You just joined!”

Your stomach flipped, but you held your composure. “How did you—”

“I know everything,” he interrupted, eyes glinting dangerously. “And let me tell you something: if anyone—anyone—gets hurt because of you? I’ll be abusing a crowbar on that pretty little head of yours, darling. Don’t test me.”

You stared at him for a long moment, his threat hanging in the air like the faint smell of copper. Then, unexpectedly, you giggled.

your eyes sharp and unblinking, cutting into him like knives. His smirk wavered slightly under your intense gaze.

“You’re not completely rotten,” you said suddenly, your voice low and deliberate.

His grin twitched back into place. “You keep saying that, sweetheart, but I’m telling ya, I’m as bad as they come.”

“No,” you countered, tilting your head, the movement slow, almost mechanical. “You care about Angel. I’ve noticed it. The way you check on her, the way you talk about her. You don’t want her to drown in her own martyrdom. You notice everything about her. You want to protect her, even from herself.”

Ronin’s smirk softened into something almost unsure. “What can I say? She’s my favorite Angel. Someone’s gotta keep her wings clean.”

“You pretend you’re only chaos,” you continued, ignoring his quip, your tone growing more deliberate, more intense. “But you’re not. You’ve got something in there. A little sliver of...something. A little less rotten.”

You tilted your head the other way, a smile spreading across your lips—too sweet, too wide, too unsettling. “I want that kind of care. Someone who sees me like you see her. But...” Your smile faltered, and your eyes seemed to gleam with something darker. “I can’t get it, can I?”

Ronin let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “You’re somethin’ else, darlin’. Really are.”

“Guess that’s a deal then,” you said, your smile returning with a sharp edge. “But in return...” You leaned closer to the camera, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I want to see more of you.”

Ronin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “More of me, huh? What, you want me to start livestreaming my kills for ya?”

“No.” You shook your head slowly, your grin widening. “You’re such a unique ingredient.” Your voice carried an eerie sing-song lilt as your eyes lit up, almost sparkling with manic glee. “A fascinating one. I’d love to see how you’re put together.”

“Holy shit,” Ronin said, laughing as he leaned back again, the sound loud and sharp. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

You didn’t flinch, your gaze still locked onto his. “I want to see your insides.”

Ronin froze mid-laugh, his grin faltering just enough to catch. “Come again?”

“I want to see your heart,” you said, your voice unnervingly calm. “I want to know how rotten it is. I want to cut you open. I want to carve you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the truth inside you. I want to see if you’re really as rotten as you pretend to be.”

The air between you felt thick as Ronin blinked, watching you with something caught between amusement and genuine disbelief. Then, to your surprise, his face flushed—just the faintest hint of red across his cheeks.

“Darlin’, you’ve got some ideas,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, laced with amusement.

You leaned forward, your grin widening even further. “You like it, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You like people who want to murder you,” you said bluntly, your head tilting in that same slow, unnerving way.

Ronin’s laughter burst out again, sharp and unrestrained. “You’re insane. Completely unhinged.” He wiped at his face, shaking his head. “But I can’t lie, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Your voice dropped into a whisper, dripping with a dark, almost intimate intensity. “I’ll cut you open, Ronin. I’ll cut and cut and cut. I’ll carve you down to nothing.”

His grin grew, sharp and full of teeth, as if he were watching a show just for him. “And what would you find, huh? What’s left of me once you’re done?”

“I’ll find you,"

"You're a diseases." He looked at you grinning.

"I do have a disease, . THAT DISEASE ONLY TOOK AWAY MY SENSITIVITY. BUT I CAN STILL SMELL THINGS. LIKE THE BEAUTIFUL SMELL..."

"Flowers, because you're pink?"

"BLOOD."

"I'll admit that smell is pretty cool...I feel bad for you tho. What kind of shitty person has this society turned you into?" Ronin asked ever so...

"Ah...H....."

"You're smiling too much now Mx Baker."

"I'M JUST AMUSED BY YOUR COMPASSION FOR ME. I'M LITERALLY GOING TO KILL AND EAT YOU AND YOU KNOW IT PERFECTLY WELL. AH, POOR ME! YOUR BLOOD, STUPID. I WANT TO EAT YOU, I WANT TO TASTE EVERY BITE AND CHEW IT WITH YOUR SWEET BLOOD. GOD, THE THOUGHT OF IT IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!"

you said, deadly serious, your gaze unwavering.

He stared at you, his grin fading for a split second before returning, softer this time. “You’re a real freak, sweetheart.”

“And you like it,” you replied, your voice dripping with certainty.

“We’ll see,” he said, his grin sharp as he reached for the call button. “Don’t go fallin’ too hard, Zombie.”

With that, the call ended, leaving you staring at the blank screen, your smile unwavering.

Character Introduction: Y/N (The Cannibal Baker)- Character notes on them if you wanna read!

Alias: Zombie (By ronin), Honey (Angel), Freakshow (Misaki) Y/n (V)

Appearance: A twisted vision of stitched perfection, Y/N is a haunting figure of pale pink and soft pastels juxtaposed with grotesque details. Their stitched skin is meticulously patched, a macabre quilt of recycled life. Their wide, eerie smile is framed by scars, and the occasional tooth slips loose, revealing the horrors underneath. Eyes that sparkle with unnerving glee belie their darker nature.

Personality: A duality of sweetness and sinister intent, Y/N is as charming as they are horrifying. They speak with a syrupy kindness that feels just a little too sticky, a little too wrong. Their obsession with "ingredients" extends to everyone they meet, dissecting people in their mind, categorizing their potential usefulness in a culinary metaphor.Y/N has a sharp wit, a playful edge to their cruelty, and an unnerving calmness when speaking of the unspeakable. Their fascination with gore and murder is matched only by their twisted sense of care—caring deeply about the people they’ve deemed important, even if their ways of expressing it are unsettling.

Motivations: Y/N kills for pleasure and perfection, seeing it as an art form. They’ve convinced themselves it’s about crafting the perfect “dish,” but deep down, it’s their way of maintaining control and finding meaning in a chaotic existence.

Character Relationship Thoughts

Ronin (The Devil’s Butcher):

Y/N’s thoughts on Ronin: "He’s like a rotting masterpiece—so vibrant and decayed, I can’t look away. Every joke he cracks is a layer peeling back, every threat a promise I’d love to see fulfilled. He’s not completely rotten, though. He pretends to be, but I see it. The way he cares for Angel—it’s fascinating. It’s beautiful. I want to cut him open and see what makes him tick. I want to carve out the truth of him with my own two hands. He’s a unique ingredient, one I’d never waste on a single dish. He’s the kind of flavor that lingers, haunts you long after the meal is done."

Ronin’s thoughts on Y/N: "Sweetheart’s a goddamn freak, and I mean that in the best way possible. They’ve got that look in their eyes, like they’d gut me and giggle while doing it—and hell, that’s kinda thrilling. They’re dangerous, no doubt, but not just in a kill-you kind of way. They notice things, things they shouldn’t. Makes me feel...seen, in a way I don’t know if I like yet. They’re crazy as shit, but damn if they aren’t my kind of crazy. I’d love to see them try to crack me open. Let’s see who breaks first."

Angel (Heartsick Angel):

Y/N’s thoughts on Angel: "She’s too good to be eaten. Too precious, too sweet, too much. I could never ruin her by turning her into a meal. No dish would do her justice; she’s a perfection I’d never desecrate. But oh, the way she cares, the way she looks at people with that soft gaze—it’s maddening. She makes me feel...small, like I could be something other than this. And that’s terrifying."

Angel’s thoughts on Y/N: "They’re broken, but not beyond saving. I see them the way I wish someone had seen me before I became this. They’re terrifying, sure, but there’s something sad about them, too. They talk about people like ingredients, but there’s a care in the way they don’t talk about me that tells me they’re not as gone as they think. I just hope they don’t drown in the darkness they keep running towards."

V (Vigilante):

Y/N’s thoughts on V: "He’s so self-righteous, so blind to the truth of what he is. He kills and calls it justice; I kill and call it art. At least I’m honest. He’s like a bitter spice, overpowering and trying too hard. He’s useful, though—ingredients like him bring out the best in a dish when balanced correctly."

V’s thoughts on Y/N: "They’re messed up. Totally deranged. But the worst part? They don’t lie about it. They look you in the eye and tell you exactly what they are, and it’s terrifying. There’s a darkness in them that even Ronin doesn’t have—it’s colder, more calculated. I don’t trust them, but I can’t stop watching."

Misaki (HitMeUpp):

Y/N’s thoughts on Misaki: "So excitable, so easily impressed. She’s like sugar—sweet, but too much of her would rot your teeth. Still, she’s fun, in a bubblegum kind of way. Not my usual flavor, but every dish needs a little contrast."

Misaki’s thoughts on Y/N: "They’re so wacky! Like, scary wacky, but also fascinating. The way they talk about killing like it’s an art form—it’s freaky, but you can’t help but listen. I mean, they’re a little too creepy sometimes, but I think they’re cool in a way I don’t wanna admit out loud."

The Messed-Up Love Between Y/N, Ronin, and Angel:

Y/N & Ronin:

Dear ME Their bond is a twisted dance of obsession and control, where love doesn’t exist in the traditional sense. It’s a game, a performance where each step is an act of domination and submission. Y/N is entranced by Ronin’s chaotic nature, drawn to the dark, twisted energy he radiates. They see him as a puzzle they want to solve, a broken, rotting thing that’s too beautiful in its disintegration to ignore. It’s not love, but something darker—an addiction to the thrill of their interactions, the danger they present to each other.Y/N's idea of love is warped by their need to "break" the things they care about. In their mind, to truly love someone is to carve them open, understand them piece by piece, and turn them into something they can possess—control. With Ronin, they find a kindred spirit in destruction, but Ronin doesn’t allow himself to be completely consumed. The tension between them is electric, but neither of them will allow the other to dominate entirely. There’s a mutual respect in their brokenness, but there’s also a game of manipulation—one trying to outsmart the other.Y/N wants Ronin to crack, to let them in, to show them that there's something more under the devilish exterior. Ronin, on the other hand, plays the role of the untouchable figure, the force of nature, the devil who refuses to bow to anyone, including Y/N. Their relationship is marked by moments of twisted affection, sharp words, and even sharper smiles. It’s not love in the purest sense—it’s ownership, obsession, and a constant struggle for dominance.

Ronin’s Perspective: “You think you know me, sweetheart? You're just another fucking weirdo who's trying to find the truth in a world that doesn't have it. But you’re also... fun. Maybe a little too fun. I can’t decide if I want to kill you or keep you. Hell, maybe I’ll do both. What do you think of that? Huh?”

Y/N’s Perspective: “You’re a rotting masterpiece, Ronin. I want to carve into you, see what makes you tick. You think you’re untouchable, but we both know—there’s something in you that wants to break. And when you break, you’ll be mine.”

Y/N & Angel:

TWISTED With Angel, it’s a different kind of twisted affection. There’s a genuine care in Y/N’s desire to protect her, but it’s muddled by their own fractured psyche. Y/N sees Angel as something pure, untouchable, a perfect contradiction to their own broken soul. But that purity is something Y/N feels compelled to defile, not out of hatred, but out of a need to possess everything they find beautiful and unattainable.Y/N’s love for Angel is possessive and suffocating. It’s not that they want to hurt Angel, but they want to understand her, to know every secret she hides, to rip through her facades and uncover the raw, human parts that Angel doesn’t want anyone to see. They know how much Angel means to Ronin, and that fuels their need to control and shape her into something they can possess.Y/N wants to save her, but not in a way that would make her whole. They want to keep her fractured, like them—because only then would they feel truly connected. They want to be the one who heals her, but in doing so, they’d break her a little more.

Angel’s Perspective on Y/N: “You’re twisted. You say you want to protect me, but you’ve got this way of making everything feel like a game—like I’m just another one of your little experiments. But I can’t say I don’t care. There’s something in the way you look at me, something that feels like you really want to be... with me."

Y/N’s Perspective on Angel: “You’re too pure, Angel. Too soft. You make me want to ruin that purity, to twist it, because I can’t have you thinking you’re better than me. But I’ll never hurt you the way I’d hurt someone else. You’re special... in a way that makes me want to hold you close and crush everything good about you just to see how it fits inside me.”

Lemme know if I should do part 2!!!

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #killer chat ronin x reader #killer chat x reader #ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin killer chat #ronin x reader #killer chat vn #killer chat angel #maria de rosa #killer chat angel x reader #angel x reader #visual novel #kc x reader #kc angel #kc ronin #kc #Spotify

33 notes · View notes

memphisnovels · 1 year ago

Text

Evermore

Chapter 16. Emma

Previous chapter

Masterlist

It's always darkest before the dawn :)

I'm so excited to share the next two chapters, in my opinion, chapter 18 is the pot at the end of the proverbial rainbow and chapter 17 is a little treat <33

pairing: Pietro Maximoff x OFC

warnings: Car accidents, canon-typical violence, injuriesNadia totally isn't in denial, arguing, unresolved tension as per usual, Pietro and Nadia in general, just kiss already smh, soft Nadia.

“Here.” I jammed the chocolate-dipped delicacy into Pietro’s hands. He raised an eyebrow at me. “It’s a stroopwafel… you eat it. They’re delicious.” I spoke as if it were obvious.

The corner of his lips upturned as he stared at the item. “I figured. Why are you giving me this.”

“You looked hungry.” I walked ahead of him, adjusting the strawberry blonde wig on my head.

“Right. Of course, so this definitely isn’t you just being sweet on me.”

I offered him a look of disgust. “If anything, it’s me trying to buy your forgiveness.” He chuckled at that. It was the most normal we’d felt in days. It was Wednesday and finally Pietro seemed to not hate me anymore. We still hadn’t spoken about what he was so mad about earlier in the week, but I’d prefer it if things simply got back to normal. No need to talk it out.

“Unfortunately, that’s not something you can buy.” He tossed the waffle in the trash and continued on. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he simply bypassed me and entered the coffee shop. My blood boiled as I worked, where did he get off acting like that? Acting like… well, me, when he first became an Avenger. I chose to ignore this revelation, tonight we’d finally be able to do something, not just sit around and listen. Pietro and I were going to break into Tara Janssen’s office, and I’d access her systems to steal her files.

I’d been antsy all day, craving action. The coffee shop had been dull as usual, Janssen sat drinking her coffee and typing away at her laptop, only answering emails, nothing particularly interesting. She ordered the same thing every day, a black coffee and a meringue tart. She’d smile at me kindly and say thank you when I placed it beside her, never saying anything beyond that.

“Are these your favorite?” I asked, setting down the tart beside her. She startled slightly at my words, glancing at me as if she were a deer and I were the headlights. I smiled gently at her, gesturing toward the plate. “You order this every day.” I explained.

She smiled at me then. “I like sweet things.” She spoke, watching me.

I hummed. “But not sweet coffee?”

“Coffee is a means to an end; it has a purpose. Desserts are just an indulgence, they make me feel better.”

“That’s a philosophy I can get behind.”

Her smile widened. “What’s your name?”

“Emma,” I responded sweetly.

“Pleasure to meet you, Emma, I’m Tara.” She offered her hand, and I shook it gently, gritting my teeth and steeling myself for the contact. “Are you new here?”

“To Amsterdam or the shop? Well, technically the answer is both. I started at the shop this week, but I moved here like a month ago.”

She nodded. “Well, you know if you ever need someone to show you around, I’d be happy to. I know what it’s like to be new to a city, how lonely it can be.” She scribbled her phone number on the napkin by her plate and handed it to me.

I looked it over before folding it and stowing it in my pocket. “That’s so kind of you. I’d really, really like that. Thank you.” My eyes met Pietro’s briefly as I left Tara’s table. He raised a solitary eyebrow at me for just a moment. His jaw ticking slightly before his eyes dropped back to the newspaper in front of him. He looked so different, though I supposed we both did with the disguising bugs that we wore, courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D.

…

“I’d really, really like that.” Pietro mocked, donning a whiny high-pitched tone.

My hands were settled on my hips as I turned to look at him. “I do not sound like that and what was I supposed to say, she’s the target, I have to play along with whatever game she plays.”

“Oh of course… we are trying to prove that she’s a potential terrorist though, not trying to date her.”

“What is your problem?!” I snapped in a hushed tone as we approached Tara’s office.

He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Tony’s voice filling the comm.

“Alright, you two, as entertaining as this is we need to get this done before someone catches the two of you skulking around. Nads, let’s do this.” I sighed, entering the room. Pietro remained outside the door keeping watch. Slipping into the swivel chair behind the desk, I turned the computer on. “Just plug in the bug and follow the prompts then I’ll hack her from the compound,” Tony spoke, I did as he said, jamming the flash drive into the laptop and following each of his instructions. After a few long moments of humming and clicking sounds the screen lit up, revealing the company homepage and several folders. “Okay now take a look around and I’ll tell you what to download.” I hummed in agreement. Beginning to click aimlessly on files.

“What am I even looking for? A flashing file called world domination?”

“I mean that would be ideal actually, but I suspect it’ll probably be a little harder than that, unfortunately.” I rolled my eyes, continuing to open files. “It’ll probably be labeled as something innocuous, search for a file type that is different from the others.”

“Christmas 2015?” I muttered clicking on the extremely large file. The screen went black for a moment before a screen with green text opened. “Tony?”

Clicking filled the comms. “Yeah, on it.” I took to swirling in the swivel chair as he typed away. I’d woken up every night this week from the strange dreams, sometimes it was the man in the glasses, sometimes the ballet and often it was that boy on the street, saying that same thing over and over again. Occasionally, a new word would break through, another piece of the sentence revealed to me. “Holy shit.” Tony’s voice had me putting my feet down instantly and grabbing the desk to stop the chair. I blinked several times to reorient myself as I watched the blank screen begin to populate.

“Is it a map? What am I looking at?”

“It’s… everything.” The fact that Tony had been momentarily silenced by our findings had me nervous. “It’s a backdoor to the entire internet, everyone’s personal information, their dirty laundry, codes, government data… everything.”

A blue streak shot by me as Pietro entered the room, leaning on the back of my chair and looking at the screen. I could feel the heat radiating from his body onto mine, it was extremely distracting.

“Jesus Christ, is this going to be like that Ultron bastard all over again?” He muttered.

Tony hummed. “No, no this is a 25-year-old woman with no superpowers that we know of. At least we don’t have to contend with an almost indestructible weapon of intelligence this time around.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” I spoke, glancing over at Pietro. I swallowed heavily as I watched him, the muscles in his jaw feathering lightly. Feeling my gaze, his eyes shifted to meet mine. I could feel myself melting slightly, he was closer than he’d been to me in days. The way my heartbeat picked up concerned me greatly. What the hell was this feeling? Why is it happening to me? How do I make it stop? Can I make it stop?

The more time passed, the less sure I was.

“Okay, download all of this onto the drive and get out of there,” Tony said.

I dragged my gaze back to the screen hesitantly, doing as he’d said, I could feel Pietro still hovering over my shoulder. From my peripheral, it seemed like he was shooting me glances, though I didn’t want to look his way again, couldn’t risk getting side-tracked. I watched the download bar progress, the pace felt excruciating. Finally, I glanced over my shoulder at the cause of my torment. I muted my comm and turned the chair to face him, crossing my arms. “Can we talk about it now?”

Pietro raised an eyebrow at me, muting his comm as well. “Talk about what.”

“The thing you said you didn’t want to talk about the other night, the reason you’re so mad,” I responded tersely.

He scoffed. “What makes you think I want to talk about it now?” He made a show of looking at our surroundings. “This isn’t exactly the place for a deep and meaningful conversation.”

“I don’t care, we need to talk about it.”

“You cannot be serious; you never want to talk about anything and all of the sudden you’re expressing your feelings?”

I clenched my hands into fists at my sides, narrowing my eyes at him. “No, I’m asking you to express your feelings in a way that isn’t huffy and whiney rudeness, dickhead.” He rolled his eyes at me, sighing exasperatedly and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. I suspected it was Sokovian. With a heavy swallow, I shut my eyes tightly, taking a moment to collect myself. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

A little smile tugged at his lips. “Who are you and what have you done with Nadia?”

“Wow, you’re so funny.” I deadpanned. “I do not want to talk about this either, Pietro, obviously… but if the alternative is you hating me, then fine let’s talk about it, consider me a conversationalist.”

The look in his eyes told me he wanted to talk, to tell me what was going on. However, his jaw remained tight. I opened my mouth to speak again but before I was engulfed by a blue and silver blur. My back hit the wall silently, Pietro’s hand pressed firmly over my mouth, his chest flush to mine. I furrowed my eyebrows at him, and he turned my head toward the glass pane of the office, within moments a flashlight shone through, and a security guard appeared, wandering down the hall between the offices, searching for signs of life. I closed my eyes for a second, it’s lucky one of us was paying attention. I was infuriated by the situation. I’d been so caught up in him being mad at me that I completely let my guard down. This is exactly why I wanted some distance between us, this is what happens when you get too invested. When the elevator doors closed behind the guard and the coast was clear I intended to shove Pietro off of me and say something cruel, something to further the wedge between us. However, all it took was one glance into his beautiful blue eyes and I was right back on the balcony that night, seeing the hurt flash across his face as I fled this thing that was not just his fault but my own too. He let his hand drop from my mouth but didn’t move from his place against me, scanning our surroundings one more time before peeling his body from mine. Air filled my lungs once more, but it felt different now, disorienting, and jagged. I tore my gaze from the man before me when he looked at me, walking swiftly back to the laptop to see it had finished downloading. I ejected the drive and shoved it into my pocket, zipping the material and pulling the hood back over my head. Tony had hacked the security cameras to get us in unseen, but I still didn’t want to take the risk.

Pietro extended his arm for me, wordlessly. I stared at it for a long moment before closing my eyes and accepting it. One second wind whipped around me so quickly it made me dizzy and the next my feet were planted firmly on the ground at the door of our hotel room. He stepped toward the door but halted in his tracks, his fingers slipping from the handle before he turned to me, his gaze so intense that it had me frozen in place.

“I have never, not even for a moment, hated you, Nadia.” No words came to mind as I stood there completely still, watching him. He hesitated for a moment, looking toward the door before shooting me another glance. The look in his eyes made something deep in me falter. I didn’t think there was anything else he could say that would affect me the way his gaze had just now… but then he spoke again. “Sometimes I wish I did, maybe then this wouldn’t be so hard to talk about.”

His name fell from my lips, so quietly I wasn’t sure he’d even hear me. It was completely unintentional and yet it slipped out so easily, almost instinctually. He closed his eyes for a moment, not meeting my eyes again before he turned and entered the hotel room.

We didn’t speak again for the rest of the night. By the time I walked into the room, he was in the shower, after which he went straight to bed without so much as offering me a glance. I’d laid awake most of the night, replaying his words over and over in my head. Part of me wanted to take the worst from it, to hone in on the word hate. He wanted to hate me, that’s what he said. That part of my brain screamed that I was right to push him away, he was telling me how he felt, if he had the choice, I’d be his mortal enemy. That wasn’t the part that won out though because that isn’t what he’d said to me, and maybe sometimes I wish that he would just hate me too. I’d tried really hard to make him hate me, and even though he was evidently upset with me right now, he still didn’t hate me, and just like he said that makes all of this so much harder. It wasn’t so much the words he spoke that I clung to, but what lived between his lines.

The sun had been extra bright the next morning and I was feeling hopeful. I’d left before him to begin my shift at the coffee shop, stopping on the way at the specialty bakery I’d spotted two days before. When Pietro finally arrived and took his usual seat, the morning rush had just died down and Tara was yet to come in. I quickly set up a plate and saucer beside the barista, telling her what I wanted her to do. The instruction brought a cheeky smile to her lips as she brewed the rich coffee. He didn’t look up when I walked over to his table, continuing to scan his eyes over the newspaper that lay he held before him. I didn’t let his attitude deter me, placing the coffee down in front of him slightly harder than necessary. His eyes trailed slowly from the newspaper to the drink before him, his regular coffee order but with a little smiley face on top made out of cocoa powder. “Cute.” He muttered, returning to his newspaper. God, he was a smartass, I swallowed down my amusement at his antics, placing the little plate before him next. As hard as he tried to ignore it, his curiosity evidently got the better of him and his eyes darted to the plate, eyebrows furrowing instantly. He glanced over his shoulder at the glass display at the front of the shop before doing a double take of the dessert before him. “They don’t sell these here.” It was quiet but I heard him loud and clear.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I rolled my eyes at myself, shaking my head and adding. “There’s a specialty bakery on the other side of town, they have desserts and pastries from a bunch of different places… Sokovia too.” My voice lowered at the end of my sentence as my eyes darted between him and the plate. Suddenly, I was nervous, palms sweating. Maybe this was stupid, this isn’t me. I don’t do things like this it’s too real… too vulnerable. I took a deep breath, shaking off the anxiety of it all and steadying myself. He remained silent for a stretch of time that had my heart pick up once more. “Plum dumplings…” I clarified as if maybe he simply wasn’t sure what they were from a glance.

“I know.” His voice gave nothing away about how he was feeling. I felt sick to my stomach as I stood there awaiting a proper response. Every fear that I had just banished came creeping back into my head then. Why wasn’t he saying anything? I glanced around the café to see the other patrons, sipping coffee and going about their days, blissfully unaware of this excruciating experience. I’d endure torture that was more pleasant than this. Then, finally, he spoke up. However, as soon as the words left his mouth, I wished we had just remained in that deafening silence. “I hate plum dumplings.” He didn’t even look at me as he said it.

I felt sick to my stomach in the moment, rage boiled through me, yet the nausea was the thing that hit me the hardest. “Fine,” I uttered, disgusted by how defeated my voice sounded. I rolled my eyes at him as I walked away, feeling utterly defeated. I had just wanted things to be okay between us again. Even when he didn’t seem mad, I hated how he was acting toward me. This distance was unbearable. I ran a hand through my hair, well, my wig, that was weird. My body coming into contact with another pulled me swiftly from my thoughts.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honestly, I’m such a klutz. Are you okay?” I asked, my English accent strong as I gazed at Tara.

“No worries at all, I’m completely fine, I promise.” She spoke gently, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s really my fault anyway, I was just in too much of a hurry.”

I smiled warmly at her. “Take a seat I’ll grab you your regular.”

“No need.” She lifted her hand to show the takeaway coffee cup. I hadn’t even noticed her come, that was bizarre. Sure, I haven’t exactly been myself this past week, but I wasn’t that out of it that I’d miss her coming in. I shook it off, maintaining my smile and offering her a kind farewell before turning to walk away. “Oh, and Nadia, I have to say I really prefer your normal face, disguise tech-free.”

My heart stopped beating for a second but when you’d undergone the training I had, it was easy to hide any sudden emotions. I glanced back at her with furrowed eyebrows and a slightly amused smile. “Are you talking to me? Damn, I thought I was a bit more memorable than that, my name’s Emma.”

She only smiled at me. “Fuck, you’re really good! You actually had me, you know that, well of course you know. Unfortunately for you, good old-fashioned intelligence agencies just aren’t what they used to be. Money can buy a lot of things, even people’s loyalty.” My mind was working a million miles a minute, there was a rat, someone was feeding her information.

My composure didn’t falter for a second. “Sorry, I think maybe you’ve got me confused with someone, I’m a waitress, what do you think this is some kind of strange spy movie?” I giggled as if she were being ridiculous.

“A word of advice, because for whatever reason, I find myself taken with you… Soon, MI6, CIA all those ridiculous government ops will be a thing of the past, so you really ought to switch to the winning team.” She took a step toward me, placing her hand beside her mouth the way one would before telling a secret. “I’m the winning team if that wasn’t clear.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, tilting my head slightly. “I think you’re confused, Tara. Is there someone I can call for you?”

“Shame.” She spoke, blowing me a kiss before turning and walking out of the café. I turned back to where Pietro had been sitting the second, she was gone.

It was nothing more than a glint, the gray metal slipping from a suit jacket that had me reacting. I pushed a civilian out of the way, using my coffee tray to hit the man, slamming his wrist against the table before he could shoot. I restrained him, ignoring the gasps and panic of the other people in the café. The tattoo on his neck had me hesitating for a moment, the 6-armed octopus seemed branded into my mind, but not from the Avengers' previous fights with Hydra. I’d seen this tattoo before, I just couldn’t remember where. A blue and silver streak caught my attention, a man went flying to the ground a second later, he’d had a gun pointed at my head I realized. My short distraction had almost cost me my life. The man I was restraining swung at me with his free arm, but I dodged it easily, however, the sudden movement allowed him to get free of my grip. I disarmed him before he could use the gun, but he got a good hit or two in. He was good, I’d give him that. I grabbed a coffee cup from the table and smashed it over his head, using the base of the gun to hit him again and knock him unconscious. Customers were crouched down, hiding around the shop while some inched toward the door to leave. I looked toward Pietro who nodded toward the back exit of the building.

“Thank you,” I muttered to him as we moved toward a car that was parked out the back.

He only grunted in response.

I jumped into the driver’s side, slamming the gun into the steering wheel column until the plastic shifted and I could pry it off to reveal the wires beneath. I could feel Pietro’s gaze on me as I hotwired the car with ease. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

I raised an eyebrow at him as the car started. “The same place I learned how to do most of the things I can do.” He nodded, putting his seatbelt on as I began to drive us away from the shop. “We’ve been made, that guy was Hydra, if they’re involved this is a lot worse than we realized. We need to destroy all our intel that’s at the hotel before we leave Amsterdam.” I spoke calmly as if this wasn’t as big of a deal as it was.

Pietro watched me intently. “Right… and if they’re already there?”

“Then I will go and destroy the intel and you’ll call Tony from the car.”

“You’re not serious.”

The look I gave him evidently told him otherwise. “Jesus Christ, Nadia, you’re not hospitalizing yourself for this. How many times do we have to have this argument?!”

“I’m not arguing. Hydra isn’t getting our intel, if they’re already at our hotel then we do things the hard way. I’m a big girl I’ll be fine.”

“You are fucking infuriating! You say that other people don’t make sense to you? You don’t make sense to me! You’re right, we’re not arguing. I’m telling you that this isn’t the plan, there must be another way that doesn’t involve you getting killed.”

I whipped my head in his direction, eyes narrowed. “Do you want them to get our intel?”

“I don’t give a shit about the intel! Just like I didn’t give a shit about the mission in Russia, not if it means that you get yourself killed just to get the job done.”

It all happened in slow motion. I saw the car plowing toward us reflected in Pietro’s wide eyes as I opened my mouth to respond. The sound of metal gnashing and crushing filled my ears and we were moving, or at least I think we were. It felt like it went on forever, I barely even felt my head slam into the window of the driver’s side door. I don’t even remember the airbag bursting out.

When my eyes first opened, I shut them quickly, blinded by the brightness. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed but I knew something felt very wrong. It took me several long moments to orient myself and realize that we were upside down. Hanging from our seats, only kept in place by our seatbelts. A small pool of blood sat below me, replenished by a steady drip originating from my head. I pressed a hand to the flesh to feel a wet patch along my hairline. When I looked over the first thing, I saw was an unconscious Pietro. I reached out, ignoring the ache in my arm and the blood streaking covering my hand. Gripping his shoulder as best I could, I shook it again and again.

“Pietro, wake up.” He didn’t move. “Pietro, open your eyes, I don’t know if I can drag you out.” Still nothing. I unclipped my seatbelt, groaning as I fell to the glass-covered floor, well roof I suppose. My head was spinning, a ringing sound in my ears. I shuffled beneath Pietro, reaching up to unclasp his seatbelt. It appeared jammed, I yanked at it again and again, but a sound caught my attention. I glanced outside the shattered window to see orange flames growing around the car. The sight of fire had me pulling the belt harder, the commotion seemingly enough to finally wake the man before me.

“Nadia?” He croaked. I did not respond, only kept banking at his belt. “You need to get out of the car.” I shook my head, still focusing on the unyielding metal clasp. “You have to go now before the car catches.” I made a sound of raw frustrated exhaustion in the back of my throat as I pulled even harder. “Go, Nadia. Now.”

“No!”

My eyes were stinging, I realized then. The physical pain that ran through my body had become secondary. “I can’t walk.” He told me. “My leg.” I looked down to see his leg bent at a painful angle, no doubt in my mind that it was broken.

“You’ll heal.”

“Not that fast.”

I shook my head again. “Then I’ll fucking drag you, just shut up because I’m not leaving you here! Don’t ask me to because I won’t.” I braced myself on his chair, yet again ignoring the excruciating agony that shot through my nerve endings from the exertion.

“I’m sorry.”

I glanced at him. “For what?” I asked, yanking hard again and again on the seatbelt, putting all of my weight on it and pulling.

“I don’t hate plum dumplings, I love them, I’ve loved them since I was a kid, I was just being an asshole.” Finally, the broken clasp released, and Pietro was freed, tumbling down on top of me.

I looked down at the window by my feet, kicking it until it shattered. When it was gone, I shuffled out from under Pietro and climbed out, reaching back in to pull Pietro with me. He moved as much as he could but both of us were on the verge of unconsciousness. I gripped him tightly, pulling the both of us as far from the burning car as I could. When we were away, I let my body go limp. Pietro was out cold beside me as I fell onto my back, black dots began invading my vision and everything became a little fuzzy as the world faded out.

I found myself back on that sunny New York street, standing in front of the boy with the silly shirt and the warm smile.

He reached out, tugging on one of my braids teasingly. “Do you want pizza? I really want pizza, the kind with the super stringy cheese. We can get some after school, but you can’t tell Dad he’ll be so mad at us for filling up before dinner.”

His smile was so familiar. Seeing it was like exhaling after years of holding my breath, I didn’t understand why. Warmth ran across my shoulders as he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me to walk beside him.

#pietro maximoff x ofc #pietro maximoff #pietro marvel #pietro maximoff fanfiction #aaron taylor johnson #marvel fanfiction #aaron taylor johnson fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #aaron taylor johnson smut #aaron taylor johnson x reader #atj smut #marvel smut #avengers smut #marvel avengers #pietro maximoff x reader #pietro x reader #pietro maximoff smut

34 notes · View notes

nostalgiachan · 10 months ago

Text

Negative

Eighth Prompt: Describe a happy moment from Vier's childhood, if she remembers it

CW: mentions of child abuse

Summary: Dawnbringer Cyril learns a bit more about his informal ward, Vier's, life and tries to nudge her on a path to personal peace (1835 words)

---

Two years had passed since the Dawnbringer Cyril Rhodos had taken his attempted assassin under his wing. She’d apparently given up her quest to claim his head, and struck up a “bargain” with him: if he’d put her up with room and board, she’d take up odd jobs about the temple to pay for it. Cyril wanted to protest, given that he’d been offering her lodgings in the Temple of Lathander for months, entirely free of expectation. But given how headstrong the woman had proven, he abstained; this was likely the only way she’d accept the charity.

In that time, she’d proven to be quite the dutiful custodian of the temple, scrubbing floors, washing linens, and running errands with an urgency he’d scarcely seen before. Yet he still didn’t feel as though he truly knew the woman yet. The only things he knew for certain were that her name was Vier, and she was a Drow. Most often, she was quiet, guarded, sharply cold towards others. Yet, when services ended, and the priests all retired to their dormitories for the evening, she would immediately approach Cyril asking, nay, demanding that he teach her about what she called the “World Above” - Toril and all its workings. For hours, she would listen with rapt attention, only interrupting to ask further questions, and as he’d speak, he’d see her expression soften, even if only a little. Clearly, she had a curiosity streak a mile wide.

Cyril wondered, had Vier been a scholar in her days in the Underdark? If so, what drove her to come to the surface in search of violence? Certainly, he knew of the Drow’s penchant for raiding the sun-touched lands of Faer��n, but were even their more learned members required to engage in such barbarism? Truly, he wanted to know more, but he didn’t want to coerce her into revealing more than she was willing. He wanted her to open up at her own pace. Yet, in a less charitable light, his lack of asking as to her background could be misconstrued as a lack of interest, he realized. He stewed over this conundrum a while, before at last, he made his decision.

The next night, Vier arrived at Cyril’s private room for another informal lesson. As usual, a steaming cup of tea - a sweet spiced blend imported from Chult and prepared with milk and sugar, seemingly the only luxury in which Cyril indulged - waited for her, but that night, it was paired with a plate of cheese tarts. That one difference was enough to make Vier cock an eyebrow, which Cyril immediately noted.

“Before you concern yourself, I merely had a craving for tarts and thought you may wish to enjoy one,” he assured her. “I promise there’s no ulterior motive here.” Even still, Vier was hesitant as she took the flaky tart in hand, looking it over as though it might spontaneously develop evidence of poisoning. It would be a long moment before she’d actually take a bite; but while her face betrayed no reaction as she cautiously chewed, Cyril noticed her ears seemed to shift ever so slightly, as though her muscles were relaxing and she was enjoying herself. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Now, I know I’ve spent quite a bit of time teaching you about our society,” he continued, “but, if you’re alright with speaking of it, I’d like to learn more about you, Miss Vier - to know you better.”

Vier stopped mid-chew, her eyebrows tightening and her gaze sharpening. Within a split second, Cyril backtracked. “Pardon the choice of words, I meant nothing untoward. I simply wish to know your history, if you’d care to tell me. Where you came from, what your life was like there, that sort of thing.”

A long moment passed as Vier finished chewing and washed down the tart with a sip of tea. “Nothing to tell,” she responded curtly.

“You’re certain?” Cyril asked gently. “Don’t have any, say, favored childhood memories?” While he was familiar with stories of Drow society, how brutal and cutthroat daily life was for its inhabitants, he didn’t want to simply assume that Vier had hated her life there; for all he knew, her life could have very well been charmed in comparison to her compatriots. Then again, if it had, would she have abandoned it as she did?

“Childhood was pretty shit,” Vier responded. “Mother tried to have me killed once. Wouldn’t be the last time someone tried.” Her gaze remained fierce, though after a moment, she looked down at her cup of tea. “...Though I suppose there was one thing I enjoyed.”

“Do tell,” Cyril gently nudged her.

“Mother used to have an office that I was strictly forbidden from entering. So considering I was a precocious little scamp and hated the ol’ bat, I snuck in there any time she left the house. She had a library in there jam-packed with books, and I tore through the whole lot of them. Hardly understood what I was reading, but that didn’t stop me.”

She paused for a sip of tea. “There was one book in there I particularly loved to read. It was all about ‘negative energy’. I’m sure you’re familiar with that one. Gives life to the undead, causes wounds and illness, all that?”

“Yes, unfortunately, I’m quite familiar with it,” Cyril replied with a grave nod.

“Well, I absolutely fell in love with the concept,” Vier continued. “I didn’t get half of what I was reading, but the illustrations in that book told me everything I needed to know. If I could harness the power of negative energy, I could turn anyone I wanted into a pile of mold, or a zombie, or something even worse! Every time I’d read that book and recite the incantations, I’d always picture the next time Mother raised her hand against me, or sent Father after me with a cane. I could just raise my hands, say a word, and BOOM! They’d be gone forever, and I’d be in charge.” “And did you attempt this plan of yours?” Cyril asked, his eyebrows knitting together with concern.

“Nope,” Vier answered shortly, “I was far too scared of what Mother would do if I failed. I wouldn’t get the chance until the day she sent me out to what I’m certain she intended to be my death. Got attacked by night hunters - giant bats that wouldn’t say no to having a Drow child as a midnight snack - and just as I hovered at death’s gate, I thought back to the book. It was then or never, so I grabbed one of the little shites by the tail, said the words, and it happened. I actually channeled negative energy! I would’ve been absolutely chuffed if I wasn’t just about to die. Took out two or three of the things before they finally scarpered.” Cyril couldn’t help but be absolutely horrified for Vier. The image of a small mistreated child having to defend herself against a pack of winged nightmares by summoning pure death through her hands, all because her own mother wished her dead, shook him to his core.

“So after that, Mother decided to send me to clerical school,” Vier continued. “Guess she finally realized I wasn’t going to be much help around the alchemy shop, but I did have some magical ability, so she may as well send me off to somebody that could teach me how to use it. You know, now that I think about it…even more than the time I spent reading that book, the day I left my family might be the single happiest moment of my childhood. Of course, everything after that was complete shit, too, but at least at that point, I knew I had the power to absolutely fuck others before they could fuck me. I’d never be that weak little thing eating half-rancid mushrooms and sleeping on the floor of the alchemy shop again.” While Cyril did his best to withhold judgment, he still couldn’t help but feel sick at the look of pride that came over Vier’s face. But it wasn’t Vier that made him feel uneasy, but the heinous circumstances which led to her being so deeply proud that she could tear apart anyone who crossed her. Though he would likely be seen as a bleeding heart for it, he dearly wished Vier could have had the childhood all children deserve - carefree days of study and play, a loving family to return home to every night, warm meals and soft beds. It was almost enough to bring him to tears, but he kept his demeanor calm. “So…did you remain a cleric?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Vier replied, “though my medical studies weren’t as much about how to cure wounds as they were how to cause them. Got pretty talented with negative energy. Hells, I could probably turn you inside out right now if I had half the mind.” She quickly added, “Though, erm…I think we both know I’m not going to do that at this point.”

Though she tried to assure him otherwise, Cyril truly didn’t care for the casualness with which she inadvertently threatened him. While he understood that the channeling of negative energy could be a handy defense tactic for any cleric, it should be just that: a defense, not a first resort. But if she truly was that talented with negative energy, surely she possessed the same talent for positive energy?

“I do appreciate that, truly,” Cyril said, his gentle tone not betraying his overt concern. “But I’m curious if you’ve ever put the same amount of effort into channeling healing magic? After all, positive and negative energy are simply two ends of the same spectrum.”

Vier thought about the question a moment, a hand raising to her chin. “Hmm…suppose I probably could, yeah. Why, are you looking for an apprentice or something?”

“No, not necessarily,” replied Cyril, “but I feel with some training, you could make a wonderful healer.”

Vier visibly hitched at the word “training”. Was she afraid that Cyril would subject her to more of whatever it was she experienced at the clerical academy? Or was she simply uninterested?

“If you don’t care for the idea, I won’t press the issue further, I assure you,” Cyril quickly explained. “I simply feel that remaining a custodian may be a bit of a waste for someone of your obvious ability.”

“No, no, it’s…it’s not a bad idea, I suppose,” Vier said hesitantly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Truly, that’s all I ask,” Cyril said, his heart immediately feeling lighter. “And if you decide clerical training isn’t in the cards for you, I will ask no more. But, for now, I’m sure you’d probably like a change of subject, no? What were we discussing last night?”

“You were telling me a story of a place called Baldur’s Gate. Something about…ball-spawn?”

Cyril would never know, but this one night, this one conversation, would forever change the fate of Toril.

#my writing #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #lathander #cleric tav #drow tav #vier alurlssrin

2 notes · View notes

ciaossu-imagines · 2 years ago

Text

I’m still in love with K all these years later and definitely so for Homra’s alphabet boys! I had so much fun writing these headcanons, based off this prompt here, for them and hope you all will enjoy reading them!

Shouhei Akagi

Favourite fruit?

I feel like it’s either some type of melon or possibly berries. For melons, though, he’d prefer something along the lines of a honeydew or cantaloupe over watermelon…I mean, he’ll still eat watermelon and enjoy it but he just prefers something with a little more flavour overall. For berries, I can see him liking blueberries or blackberries the best, just something a little tart but still sweet all at once.

Do they eat healthy or do they like junk food?

It’s kind of a mixture of both. He’ll eat junk because it’s more readily available quite a bit, but he can only go so long with eating just junk food, maybe a couple days, before he actually out and outright needs something better for him. Some food can be filling and a full meal, like pizza or fried chicken, so it’s not so much that he won’t be getting his calorie count in. It’s just that after eating nothing but junk for a bit, he notices his body just doesn’t feel right and he won’t have as much energy as he needs to, not to mention that his stomach is…irritable, to say the least. He’ll start craving healthier foods and he’ll make it more of a point to eat a bit healthier for a week or two, just to get his body back to feeling right.

Tea or coffee? How do they take theirs?

Shouhei will honestly drink both. He likes both fairly equally; it’s really not a one or the other situation to him. He drinks his tea plain and prefers it cold to hot but he does need to sweeten his coffee, but only a little, maybe half a cube of sugar at most, and he does use milk in it, until it’s more light than dark.

Favourite song?

Not so much favourite song in particular, but I feel that while Akagi’s tastes in music are pretty varied, he does prefer more upbeat music. Anything that makes him feel like moving is pretty up his alley. I think he goes for rock more often but has no problem with more poppy music and definitely has at least one idol or idol group that he’s a fan of.

Have they ever killed someone?

While he does have no issues with resorting to violence, and he has probably sent people to the hospital, Shouhei has never killed someone. He has no desire too. Beating a person up until they need medical attention is one thing, but I don’t think he could stomach outright killing anyone.

Saburota Bando

Favourite meal?

I feel like Bando really eats a lot of cup noodles and, other than that, he really likes street food. Okonomiyaki is one of his favourites.

Usual outfit?

Most of his clothing is very casual and, even when the weather is warm, it always includes a hoodie and his trademark sunglasses (and I strongly headcanon that those are prescription and expensive and he’s always a little annoyed when they get broken because, like, those things cost money and he does not have money so…).

What does their living space look like?

It’s…sparse, honestly. I don’t think he decorates a lot, and his living space is very minimalistic looking. It’s always just a little messy. Not a mess; Bando is generally pretty clean. Just always a little messy, with a dish or two still sitting where he left them or papers just kind of strewn about in a small area from where he’d last been using them.

Do they like hot or cold showers?

It depends on a lot. I’d say about 90% of the time, he likes hot showers. Not to the ‘scorch your skin off’ degree, but definitely warm. But if it’s really hot and muggy out and he’s sweating his ass off, there’s nothing quite like a cold shower. And when Bando can’t sleep for whatever reason, a cold shower followed by warm milk with cinnamon and honey and crawling under enough layers of blankets to make him really toasty warm…it’s almost always guaranteed to get him to sleep within ten to twenty minutes of getting into bed.

Sleeping position?

I feel like he falls asleep on his back most of the time, one arm over his eyes and the other slightly to the side. The way he wakes up though?? Definitely not in that same position, nowhere near it, and, for a guy who isn’t flexible, you wonder how he ended up in those positions.

Yo Chitose

Have they ever broken the law?

Chitose wouldn’t outright answer this question ever, but he is a part of HOMRA, with all that entails so I feel the answer is pretty clearly obvious.

Are they athletic?

Yes. Chitose is actually really athletic naturally and he’d be good at a lot of sports. It’s just that they’re not his thing. Maybe back when he was younger…he might even have been on a couple of teams. Always was one of the first five in races. But he just doesn’t really care about any sports too much anymore. He’s not that motivated to be really athletic, and his smoking habit is costing him some of his quickness, but he’s still one of the more athletic members of HOMRA.

Favourite type of flower?

I feel like, both for the meaning behind the flower, which he once learned from a previous lover, and for how they look, he likes cyclamen’s the best.

Do they play any instruments?

I honestly don’t see him as having played any instruments, other than the ones that might have been required for a school glass and even then, he didn’t play them well. Though he works hard and definitely could learn to play an instrument, he just doesn’t have a musical ear and doesn’t understand the finer points of rhythm and tempo, keeping time, different pitches because it all kind of sounds the same to him.

Artistic ability?

Chitose’s fairly middle of the road when it comes to artistic ability. He’s not laughably horrible at it like some other members of K that will remain unnamed (mostly because it’s the King – Mikoto’s drawings look like something someone’s toddler aged kid drew them). But he’s not absolutely fantastic at it and he really doesn’t have much of an enthusiasm for it. He’s never motivated to go and learn to improve his artistic abilities or to sit down and seriously draw something.

Masaomi Dewa

Have they ever gotten seriously ill?

Masaomi is missing organs. He has neither his tonsils nor his appendix. He had frequent bouts of tonsilitis as a young child, to the point the doctors just removed his tonsils and he had to have emergency surgery as a preteen for a bad case of appendicitis. Other than that, though, Masaomi is pretty healthy and after those two things, he hasn’t been seriously ill since.

Do they like sleeping in or waking up early?

He’s an early bird by nature and he does tend to wake up early. Given the people he hangs out with though and how late he’s normally up, even with consistently waking up early, he tends to fall back asleep pretty quickly after that initial wake-up and sleeps in a bit more. He’s normally up by nine in the morning at the latest though because his internal clock just doesn’t let him sleep too far past that.

The longest they’ve ever been awake?

I feel like Dewa’s not the type to stay awake. He likes sleep; he recognizes the importance of sleep. He doesn’t tend to stay awake for days at a time or anything. He might have pulled an all-nighter once or twice in his life but normally, he makes sure he sleeps every day, even if it’s just crashing out for an hour or two.

Random detail about them.

His father wears hats too and it’s part of what got Dewa into them. His father does it though because male pattern baldness runs in Dewa’s family and, by the time they’re hitting their forties, most of the men in his family are starting to thin and bald.

Something other’s do that gets on their nerves?

Okay, but it’s canon and everyone knows how much Masaomi loves spicy foods. He can handle food that is ‘too hot’ for most other people he knows and he frequents restaurants that serve spicy dishes. And it always pisses him off whenever he sees people at those restaurants bragging about the level of spice they can handle and arguing with the servers who try to warn customers about really hot dishes. Because most of the time, those same customers can’t handle dishes that hot and then get pissy at the servers and demand a different meal on the house.

Eric Solt

Do they drink or do drugs?

I feel like Eric might drink, but he doesn’t drink heavily. He’s more the type to nurse one or two drinks throughout the night because he gets drunk really quick and just doesn’t really like the taste of most liquor either.

As a kid, what were they like?

Eric’s past is…heart-breaking, honestly. Canonically, he just had a horrible, abusive childhood for the most part, after his parent’s died. Because of that, he became withdrawn, quiet, a little scared all the time. He was jumpy, irritable when he did talk, but mostly he just tried to stay out of the way.

Do they have a sweet tooth?

He actually does. He wasn’t given much in the way of sweets after his parents’ deaths, but he remembers getting sweets a lot as a child when his parents were still around, mostly because his mother had a huge sweet tooth of her own. So sweet things do bring up painful, but still sweet and nice, memories of his parents and honestly, they just taste really yummy.

How old are they?

I had to go look this one up because it’s been a while but canonically, he’s 18. I hadn’t really thought about how he’s one of the younger members of HOMRA!

Can they sing?

It’s not whether or not he can sing. I honestly think he has a quavery, but pleasant, singing voice. It’s that Eric doesn’t like to sing. He’ll never be a person to make a lot of noise and he also has a hard time remembering song lyrics so singing just isn’t something he does.

Kousuke Fujishima

What makes them feel better after a long day?

Kousuke actually has a lot of things that perk him up after a long day. He’s pretty easy to please and he does always try hard to see the positive side of things. His friends, the fellow members of HOMRA, are a guaranteed way to make him feel better. His family does the same thing, as do animals of any kind. If his day’s been really, really bad and he needs a heavy dose of ‘pick-me-up’ energy, he’s heading to a cat café to play with all the cute cats, or he’ll go feed the strays at a spot he knows they always go to.

Parents?

Yep, he has those. No, but seriously, both of Fujishima’s parents are still alive. They’re happily married and have been for years. I don’t feel like he’s an only child, but I do headcanon him as either the oldest or middle child in his family, definitely not the youngest. He’s got a fairly solid relationship with his parents and gets along with them. He doesn’t cause a lot of trouble for them, and they don’t really get after him about too much, other than getting upset at all the strays he keeps trying to bring home.

Favourite snack?

I think Fujishima prefers chips. He likes a lot of them, but goes most often for soy sauce mayo or seaweed salt Calbee chips.

What are they afraid of?

Shipwrecks. He’s not afraid of the water so much but there’s just something about shipwrecks that he finds eerie and unsettling and that just shoot a bit of a chill down his spine. He also wouldn’t be too crazy about the idea of spending any amount of time on a larger boat either, or any boat too far out into the waters. If he can’t see the shoreline, he’s too far into the water.

#k project #project k #k the anime #k headcanons #homra #homra's alphabet boys #headcanons #eric surt #eric solt #kousuke fujishima #dewa masaomi #chitose you #saburouta bando #akagi shouhei

10 notes · View notes

finniestoncrane · 2 years ago

Note

thank you for those answers on the Breakfast Discourse!

I suppose I'll just have to say "think vampire, think vampire," the next time I try black pudding bc I do think that would help me, so thanks for the tip!

also uhhhh I'm so sorry but the beans with nothing???? I just.... 😔😔 that just ain't it for me I'm so sorry 😭😭 they gotta have something on them 😫😫 (but also, differing cultural norms/expectations, so I totally get it, it's just really different than what I'm used to)

okay and then your response sparked another question: not sure if this is just me being stupid, but what's brown sauce?

and yes omg London SUCKS. that horrid city pretty much ruined my life for a little while there lmao. (except the cemeteries. they can stay. those were fucking fantastic.)

with shared distaste for London,

peng-anon 💜💜

mmmm Breakfast Discourse™ at breakfast time 💚

you're welcome, i love the iron-y taste of it, i crave the violence lmao

nah see i don't like uh like bbq sauce or shit so baked beans work for me but i totally get why they would seem like such a heathen treat!!

OK OK OK OK OK my beloved, it's like this weird kinda tangy, tart, maybe a bit sweet flavour? like it's supposedly kinda similar to worcestersererserer sauce but i don't know, i can tell the difference (i like both) ANYWAY it is good and wonderful and i even like the bastardised east coast version where they cut it with vinegar:

#anon #friends being friends

2 notes · View notes

goodlucktai · 2 years ago

Note

i crave some sanji hurt/comfort and you are the best sanji writer i know of 🙏🙏🙏 please deliver ✨️

this is the only thing i could scrape together, i would call this more silly/fluffy than hurt/comfort 😭

“I’m so sorry about him,” you say in a rush. You think you will actually go out back and cry for at least twenty minutes if you miss out on an order this big all because of Reel’s stupid mouth. “I’m—here, please, let me discount this for you.”

The blond man doesn’t answer for long enough that the silence graduates with honors from awkward to downright uncomfortable. His visible eye is trained above your shoulder in the direction Reel slunk off, like he’s still halfway considering committing an act of violence.

Next to him, his companion has visibly gotten bored of the tense atmosphere and is rooting through the snacks by the register. The rustling of plastic candy bags is the only sound in the store.

Then, the blond says, “Fine.”

He resumes unloading his shopping on the checkout counter. When his friend pops open a bag of chocolate-covered caramels, the blond makes direct eye-contact with you as if daring you to say a word about it.

Wisely, you say nothing.

“Heyyy, Sanji, these are good! Try one!”

You glance up in time to watch the formidable, take-no-shit terror of a man sigh and lean down to accept a caramel from his friend’s—his friend’s??—smudged fingers.

No wonder this Sanji guy wants to murder Reel in cold blood, you realize, finally making sense of the entire situation. He totally insulted his boyfriend! Most people want to murder Reel in cold blood just because of who he is as a person, but Sanji has more reason than most.

Now you feel even worse about your coworker. Mentally, you knock another two percent off the final price.

“Yummy, right? They taste sort of like those tarts you made for Robin’s birthday,” the boyfriend says brightly. “Except yours were way better.”

“I’d hope that mine would be better than this cheap processed shit,” Sanji replies with a bite, but he’s smiling a little. “You like caramel?”

“The sticky middle part? Sure! But it’s not as good as coconut.”

Sanji’s smile widens. On anyone else, you think it would have been a laugh. “I’ve created a coconut monster. Should we have pavê for dessert again tonight?”

The boyfriend bounces on the balls of his feet, candy bag crinkling noisily as he throws his hands up and cheers, “Pavê!”

They’re adorable. They’re also probably never going to shop here again. You’ll never forgive Reel for this for as long as you live.

“So how long have you two been together?” you ask, in what is most likely a transparent attempt at salvaging this transaction.

Sanji blinks. He looks taken-aback for some reason, staring at you like you’ve just started throwing food at him. He glances sidelong at his boyfriend, who has returned to shamelessly pilfering the snack shelf. You wonder if maybe he wasn’t expecting you to pick up on their relationship somehow, despite how obvious they’re being.

Then he huffs, and shakes his head. The surprise on his face fades into wry good humor.

“Almost three years now,” he says, sort of tongue-in-cheek, like he’s the only one in on a joke. “My most successful relationship.”

You sigh a little. That’s so nice.

#one piece #op #opfic #sanlu #nakamaship #black leg sanji #monkey d luffy #the sanlu isn't actually romantic its just perceived that way by a stranger #and sanji is like 'youre more right than u are wrong honestly'#my writing

46 notes · View notes

koiblossom5 · 3 years ago

Text

tr characters at a sleepover

takemichi: probably the most normal one, which is not a good sign. he’s the type to chomp down aggressively on popcorn during scary movies bc that’s how scared he is. he’s also the first one to pass out, making him the ideal target for pranks (courtesy of mikey, smiley, and kazutora)

mikey: oh god oh fuck. this very violent gremlin will hog all of the snacks, and by all, I mean ALL of them (he’s willing to lend takemichi the popcorn though). nobody can get any sleep bc this little shit snores louder than a vacuum cleaner, much to everyone’s annoyance. oh and the nasty ass creature that’s stealing all of the food in your fridge at night? that’s not your sleep paralysis demon. that’s just mikey with his stupid 3 am snacking.

draken: takes on the role as mikey’s impulse control, but only because no one else will do it. everyone cuddles up toward him during the scary movie because he’s strong and has a very reassuring presence. by the end of the movie, he can’t feel either of his arms or legs. he’ll be willing to buy extra snacks from the local dollar store just so he can get away from mikey.

baji: honestly? just as annoying as mikey. he’s ready to get wild, and constantly squabbles over the snacks with mikey (but he’s willing to share with chifuyu). he lets emma play with his hair while he gets his nails done by chifuyu. before sleeping, everyone has to roll baji up into a blanket burrito because this mf will NOT stop kicking in his sleep. have you ever been strangled in your sleep? oh don’t worry that’s probably just baji dreaming of choking kisaki to death

chifuyu: sneaks peke j in because he can’t sleep without his cat. thankfully, he’s one of the calmer people, probably second to takemichi. he also brings over his nail polish and offers to do everyone’s nails! oh uh, ignore the barfing noises in the background: that’s just chifuyu after he’s eaten one pop tart too many. given up on sleep yet?

mitsuya: he’s willing to be more chill. he loves his sisters, but it’s practically a gift from heaven having one night to himself. he brings all of the snacks, much to mikey’s delight. he’s also probably surprisingly calm during the scary movie, but only because he had a weird but short phase sometime during middle school where he would watch nothing but horror movies. it explains a lot about luna and mana’s upbringing, actually. he’ll try to get inui to model in some clothes for him, much to hakkai’s jealously.

hakkai: slightly bummed because mikey has a super tight grip on the snacks and won’t seem to share (it’s fine, draken is going to get some more). also, mitsuya is asking someone ELSE to model for him, which he seriously can’t stand. luckily, he has someone to rant to (ahem, angry) while he gets his nails done by chifuyu. he’s terrified out of his mind during the movie, screaming really loudly during the jump scares. it’s an odd sight: hakkai’s six foot ass cowering behind mitsuya, who’s calmly munching on some popcorn with takemichi without batting an eye.

pah chin: don’t tell koko, but he somehow managed to sneak his dog, pochi into the fucking house. chifuyu’s not the only one who can’t sleep without his pet. peh-yan is the only one who knows pochi is there. they hide pochi in a closet, occasionally feeding pochi some leftover snacks that mikey hasn’t claimed yet. it’s literally the worst kept secret because these two share a collective brain cell, but somehow no one has noticed yet because there’s too much chaos going on. unfortunately, the closet they hide pochi in just happens to be where koko’s shoes and fancy clothes are stored. don’t worry! koko doesn’t find out until the very next morning, or the morning after THAT, because he’s so exhausted he literally passes out for two days. that’s how much of a headache these dumbasses are

peh yan: nervously helps pah-chin smuggle pochi inside koko’s house. he nearly spills the secret like three times to five different people, but everyone thinks he’s joking. he works off the stress by playing (several) rounds of mario kart with smiley, who is unsurprisingly good at it. after the end of his rage-quit, the TV’s shattered and broken, the consoles are split into two, and koko’s headache turns into a migraine.

smiley (nahoya): whatever you do, do NOT turn your back on this fucking demon. he’s all ready to party and get wild, and by party, he means pranking the shit out of everyone at least once. he’s already got to takemichi literally after he just stepped into the house with the classic bucket prank. takemichi seems to be his favorite target by far, partially because he’s so easy to prank. he reluctantly stops filling the water balloons with boiling hot water only because mitsuya catches him in the act. did I mention that his son of a bitch craves violence?

angry (souya): kind of becomes everyone’s therapist for tonight. he sympathetically listens to his friends’ ranting, purely because he just wants all the tea (keeping a secret? forget it. he’s gonna spill to smiley like ten seconds later anyways). during the water balloon fight, he grabs a giant nerf gun instead, which automatically makes him the winner because everyone’s desperately trying to escape his carnage. after all, he was closest to winning smiley’s paintball party last year.

koko: man I feel so sorry for this guy. everyone chooses his fancy-ass mansion for the location of their sleepover (without permission because permission is for weak ass nerds ofc ). his blood stress and headache is higher than usual, which is saying something. you know that feeling when you’ve had a busy day at school, and your backpack is so fucking heavy it’s practically killing your spine, neck and shoulders? that’s what he’s feeling right now, but worse. don’t worry, everyone trashed his house, but paying for the property damage will barely scratch his bank account.

inui: it’s a little awkward for him because he’s rarely slept over at someone else’s house (other than koko’s), and he isn’t quite close to the others yet. he pointedly avoids other people (mitsuya, who he literally whacked over the head with a baseball bat, hakkai, because he used to be taiju’s subordinate, mikey. because mikey made it very clear that he doesn’t like inui very much, and koko, because fuck you, read the manga). he sticks close to draken’s side and kind of just follows him everywhere until draken tells him to get to know the others better. that leads to him chatting quietly with takemichi, who seems to welcome him. chifuyu’s very eager to paint his nails (red, because it’s the colour of mitsuya’s blood after he got whammied in the head!). mitsuya is determined to make inui his new model project (again, much to hakkai’s envy and distress), and tries to talk to him, which makes inui avoid him because he’s worried that mitsuya’s going to confront him. luckily, it turns out that mitsuya just wants him to try on some clothes, much to inui’s relief. he ends up making some new friends!

kazutora: you thought mikey and baji was bad, huh? well kazutora is (arguably) worse. he’ll keep it civil for the first hour, only making like, 20 snide comments toward chifuyu while chifuyu is doing his nails (the only thing that’s keeping chifuyu from dumping acrylic nail polish all over on kazutora’s stupid egirl banana hair is that the nail polish was expensive as hell ). kazutora’s favorite prank victim also happens to be poor takemichi, which leads to a competition between smiley and kazutora to see who can prank takemichi the most. suffice to say, takemichi had a truly awesome horrible night.

kisaki: i’d like to make one thing clear. this bastard was NOT invited at all. he’d be a mood killer to have around anyways. even if he was, chifuyu would have killed him before he could even take a single step inside the house.

hanma: in a hypothetical turn of events, let’s just say that if hanma WAS at the sleepover (hypothetically, of course), he would be just as chaotic as smiley, except his idea of “fun” is setting something on fire with those stupid cigarettes of his (don’t smoke kids!! protect your lungs). stealing baji’s forte? not cool hanma. :/

125 notes · View notes

bebevlnt · 1 year ago

Text

sybellax:

Blood still splattered her neck from the night earlier at Flirt and although she traded her red lace dress for a sequin glitzy number, it still didn’t remove all the violence that she had committed that night. She had seen the other demon at the nightclub where she worked, the red spandex was a look. “Never took anyone’s advice and ain’t about to start now, you can save your opinions.” Her nose ruffles as if she’s kidding but she’s obviously not, she reaches for the tart and after a delicious bite speaks again. “How far did you get into the demonic trials?”

Eyes narrowing as she tries to place the other demon, she finds it easier to remember outfits than faces half the time. However this demon’s was stunning, her cheekbones, the slope of her nose, perfectly symmetrical. Not as perfect as Lucretia, but nobody else really was. Brows raising at the question, at the attitude, Bebe can’t help but grin, all sparkling teeth as she thinks about the carnage from the previous night. Carnage that hadn’t quite brought her the catharsis she’d craved. Few things did nowadays. “Wouldn’t you like to know? I can’t offer advice, but can I offer you a wet wipe, bit sloppy there bestie.” She muses, nodding towards the blood splattered across the other demon’s neck.

#sybella 01.#masquerade 2.#//fitting gif is fitting

12 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 4 years ago

Text

i like the way they run, then fall, then die

character: shigaraki tomura

genre: gore/violence for torture, then smut

notes: this takes place before the events of break my bones but act as my spine! please, please heed the warnings. the entire first half of this is a torture scene. if you’re just here for the smut and would prefer not to read the torture, scroll all the way down to the three stars dividing part one from part two - you can still read the smut without reading the torture if u wanna, all you need to know is that tomura tortured + murdered a boy who had been harassing the reader at university and now he’s coming home. please please please stay safe <33 | title credit: nitro cell by city morgue

warnings: 18+, torture, murder, blood/gore, graphic depictions of violence, daddy kink, spanking with a belt, edging, mild degradation, possessiveness/generally toxic relationship

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

He isn’t usually one for torture—all this pleading drives him absolutely insane, makes it feel like a thousand tiny bugs are crawling under his skin. However, when it comes to someone who has wronged you, well…that’s a different issue entirely.

Men who bother you deserve to be tortured within an inch of their lives, and Tomura will gladly endure their pitiful begging; he wants to hear them beg and plead and cry like the pathetic pieces of shit they are. He wants them to suffer, and to suffer immensely, for even thinking about touching something that’s his, for daring to utter a disrespectful word to something that’s his.

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

Bleary hazel eyes open, blinking twice then squinting as they try to adjust to the bright light, a head full of orange curls lolling back heavily. It takes the boy’s hazy mind a few moments to register the fact that he’s tied to a chair, thick rope binding him to it.

Tomura knows the boy recognizes him almost instantly when their gaze meets and his hazel eyes widen in an almost comical manner, breath hitching painfully in his chest as he chokes on a gasp. A wicked, toothless smile spreads across Tomura’s face.

He’d have a hard time forgetting those ruby eyes that, impossibly, seem like they’re glowing under the fluorescent lights of the old abandoned A.F.O laboratory; those same eyes that had glared at the redhead over your shoulder only a few days ago as Tomura caught you in his arms.

This boy had been pestering you for a while now. You hadn’t thought much of it the first day it happened, wrote it off as some overeager and overconfident college boy, but by the third day you were sure this classified as harassment. Sick of repeating yourself and firmly telling the boy that you have a boyfriend and you’re not interested, you whined to Tomura about it that night after dinner, your head in his lap as his slender fingers carded through your hair—and inadvertently sentenced the boy to death, right then and there.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt more relieved in your life when you spotted Tomura leaning casually against the Maybach after your last class had ended, the day after you had voiced your complaints. Taking off the moment your eyes met, you ran into his waiting arms, cutting the boy off mid-sentence. Tomura must’ve given that boy an awfully nasty look, because the harassment magically stopped.

Or so you thought.

Nevertheless, the boy manages to spit out a shaky, “Wh-Who are you?” as he begins to struggle against his restraints.

“Aw, come on, you know who I am,” Tomura says like their old friends, walking a few feet towards him with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Where am I? What am I doing here?” his eyes dart around the room wildly, barely pausing on the three men leaning against the wall behind Tomura before they find his face again, big and frenzied.

Tomura’s smile spreads, revealing sharp white teeth. He isn’t usually one for torture—all this pleading drives him absolutely insane, makes it feel like a thousand tiny bugs are crawling under his skin. However, when it comes to someone who has wronged you, well…that’s a different issue entirely.

He doesn’t answer the boy’s questions, instead opting to pull out his phone and scroll through it quickly.

“You wanna see the love of my life?” there’s a slight bite to his tone as he shoves the device in the redhead’s face, pale hand gripping it so tightly it trembles a little.

The kid’s eyes fill with tears as he stares at your smiling face, tiny sobs beginning to sound from deep in his throat. His eyes flit between the screen and Tomura, an impending sense of doom looming over him.

“She’s real pretty, isn’t she?” he asks mockingly, a hint of a pout in his voice. “Pretty enough to harass, yeah? Pretty enough to render you incapable of understanding the word no, eh?”

“I’m sorry,” the kid’s already wailing, pathetic sobs beginning get under Tomura’s skin, blunt nails absentmindedly scratching at his wrist and forearm. “I-I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, I swear!”

“Ah?” Tomura stops for a moment, blinking at the kid with wide eyes, mimicking astonishment. “Now I know that’s a lie,” he smirks. “I heard her tell you, several times. Do you have hearing problems? Is there something wrong with your memory?”

The kid stares at him, mouth opening and closing quickly, exhaling shallow breaths in rapid little huffs.

“You seem to be hearing fine right now,” Tomura continues, voice still painfully calm. “And you remember her, and me, so I doubt there’s something wrong with your memory, right?” he stops, only a few feet from the kid now. “Right?”

The poor redhead can’t find his voice, only able to emit these tiny, pitiful sounds in the back of his throat, peppered between his obnoxious sobbing. He shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again, movements jerky and frantic.

Tomura’s eyebrows knit, and he tilts his head to the side. “Well, which one is it?” his voice is so casual, and he sounds almost as if he’s worried about the boy’s inability to decide.

Sighing after a beat of silence, Tomura tuts his tongue and shakes his head, cocking his gun. “Shame,” he points the gun at the kid’s head, closing an eye as he adjusts his aim, tongue poking his cheek.

“No!” the kid cries out, squirming against his restraints. “I-I—You’re right! There’s nothing wrong w-with my hearing or my memory, please—”

“Mm, thought so,” Tomura says softly to himself, nodding as he swiftly readjusts his aim and pulls the trigger, shattering the kid’s right kneecap.

The redhead lets out an absolutely bloodcurdling scream, throwing his head back as he thrashes wildly against the thick rope again, the legs of the chair scraping against the concrete.

“Ouch!” Dabi laughs from his spot on the floor, leaning back against the far wall, blue eyes dancing with mirth.

“Ugh,” Chisaki groans beside him, looking away in disgust.

Tomura takes a moment to admire his work, Dabi’s encouraging laughter inspiring another bout of confidence to surge through his chest. He had been close enough that the bullet caused the entire kneecap to explode, sending little bits of bone and flesh flying, thick blood immediately beginning to cascade down the boy’s leg, soaking straight through the denim of his jeans.

“Now,” he continues, speaking over the boy’s shouting with a levelled voice. “I’m gonna cut those pesky ears off your fucking head, since you don’t seem to use them,” he looks over at Dabi and nods once, prompting Dabi to hop up and leave the laboratory.

“But before that,” he stops in front of the kid and leans forward, his face only a few inches away. “Do you wanna know what her pussy tastes like? Hmm? I bet you do. I bet you’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”

He’s still blubbering, Tomura’s words barely registering, ears ringing from the gunshot. Crimson eyes search his face intently, bright with the intoxicating mix of adrenaline and exhilaration that the rush of torture affords him. Tomura wrinkles his nose a little at the snot running down the kids face and onto his lips, face red and streaked with gleaming tears.

“I’ll tell you,” he says, voice dropping into a growl. “It’ll be the last thing you hear before I take those good-for-nothing ears from you—what a treat!” he laughs a little, resting his hands on his bent knees, inching forward just a hint more. “She tastes like strawberries and honey; the perfect balance of tart and sweet. God, her cum’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, the most decadent cream…Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back with a malicious grin. “Now you got me craving her,”

Dabi returns then, coming to stand beside Tomura, and the kid’s so consumed with pain that he doesn’t even notice the little reciprocating saw in Dabi’s hands.

“Ah, thank you,” Tomura says as he takes it, a devious smile spreading across his face. He turns the saw on, testing it by squeezing the trigger a few times. “Perfect. Now,”

He grabs an ear by the cartilage and yanks, holding it taut from the head. The kid squirms, trying to wiggle his way out of Tomura’s grasp and he growls, asking Dabi to hold his head steady.

The saw slices through the ear like butter, cleanly slashing it from his head in one quick motion. Blood begins to gush from the wound immediately, streaming down the redhead’s cheek, thick, sticky drops dripping off his jaw and onto his collarbone.

“One,” Tomura counts gleefully, tossing the ear to the side. It hits the concrete with a sickening splat! a few feet away.

“Very Mr. Blonde of you, Tomura,” Chisaki rolls his eyes as Tomura moves onto the next ear, Dabi nearly snapping the kid’s neck as he forces his head to tilt the other way, allowing his boss easier access to the second appendage.

“Oh!” Dabi gasps as the saw neatly slices the second ear off. “We should set him on fire,” he suggests, sapphire eyes glittering at the prospect.

“Oh?” Tomura looks up at him, intrigued, decapitated ear still hanging between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you have any kerosene in your car?”

“Nah, but I could go get some—”

“Can we please finish this, already?” Chisaki whines, pushing off the wall and walking towards the two men. “My lunchbreak is almost over,” he checks his watch, frowning.

“Alright, Mr. Head Chemist, your lunchbreak is almost over. You have to head back to work—we are gonna find some kerosene,”

Chisaki sighs, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers. “Your father would like you at the lab today, Tomura,” he says flatly.

Tomura groans, shoulders slumping as he dramatically throws his head back to glare at the ceiling. “But the lab is so boring when there aren’t any experiments or testings going on,” he complains with a slight pout.

“I could finish him off, if you want,” Dabi offers.

“No! Where’s the fun in that? What good is torturing him if I don’t even get to see him die?”

“Look, I don’t care how you do it, just hurry up,” Chisaki spits, turning to walk away. “I’m going to my car—you better be in yours in five minutes,”

“God, he’s no fun,” Tomura mutters to Dabi, who nods in agreement.

“I heard that!” Chisaki hollers as he continues walking, not bothering to look back.

“You were supposed to!” Tomura calls in response, rolling his eyes. “Damn,” he sighs in disappointment, turning back to the boy. His face is slippery with blood, pouring down either side and streaking his neck and the collar of his polo shirt. He’s gone into shock from the pain, screams cut off into choked little whimpers and hiccups. “Looks like our playtime ends here,”

He shrugs, almost indifferent, cocks his gun again and fluidly aims at the boy’s forehead, pulling the trigger without a second thought.

Wet splatters of crimson stain the concrete, echoing throughout the mostly vacant building, the boy’s quiet little sounds cutting off abruptly. Tomura watches as the light fades from his wide, terrified eyes, watches as the hazel goes from vibrant to dull, and the kid’s head falls back, blood beginning to trickle down the bridge of his nose.

A car honks twice outside and Tomura snarls a little to himself, whipping his head around and glaring at the door to the lab, hanging half open and letting pale sunlight leak in.

His grip tightens around his gun, fingers flexing around the metal warmed by his palm. “I’m gonna kill him,” he seethes, eyes narrowing.

“Nah, don’t be stupid,” Dabi laughs, shaking his head a little. “We still need him,”

✰ ✰ ✰

Tomura returns to the penthouse earlier than expected, startling you when large hands wrap around your hips just as you’re removing a loaf of freshly baked banana bread from the oven.

“Aw, baby, playing housewife?” he coos, breath hot against your ear, before taking the lobe between his teeth.

A sigh slips through your parted lips and you lean back against his chest, tipping your head to the side and eyes closing.

“Our bananas were going bad,” you explain softly, in a bit of a trance as nimble fingers rub small circles into your hips.

“Oh?” he asks, as if he’s genuinely interested, lips leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down your neck. “It’s so cute when you get all domestic,” tender hands slide up your torso, coming to cup your breasts as he kneads them gently, tweaking a nipple through the thin material of your dress.

Your back arches as you try to press into his palms more, quiet mewls spilling from your lips.

“What’s gotten—” you cut yourself off with a sharp intake of breath as teeth sink into your skin. “What’s gotten into you?”

Tomura usually isn’t this…soft. He’s affectionate for sure, but his after work affections usually include slamming you up against the nearest wall, counter, or table and almost violently claiming your mouth with his, tongue invading viciously as rough, eager hands rip off clothing.

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, tongue tracing the fresh bite. “What, daddy can’t miss his baby?” A hand snakes down your body and slips between your thighs while the other stays preoccupied with rolling your nipple between his index finger and thumb.

Little hands fly out to grip the edge of the counter as you yelp in surprise, steadying yourself as he pinches your clit. A dark chuckle sounds deep in his chest, vibrating against your back.

“Already so wet?” His fingers prod at your little hole through the flimsy material of your panties. “Did you miss daddy as much as he missed you?”

“I-I always do,”

“Oh yeah?” Moving your panties to the side, the pads of his fingers tease your slit, collecting wetness. “And did you happen to be thinking of something naughty while you were playing housewife?”

Two fingers push into you just as you open your mouth to respond, a small strangled hiss escaping your throat. It burns a little, tiny hole stretched around the digits, sucking them in.

“Hmm?” he frowns, looking almost concerned. You’d believe he was, too, if it weren’t for that wicked glint in his dark eyes, shining every time you emitted a soft noise of pleasure instead of an answer.

And then he’s curling his fingers against your spot every time you try to speak, frustration building in your chest until you’re finally able to force out, “D-Daddy, fuck me al-already!” lips set in a deep pout and eyebrows pushed together.

His fingers halt their ministrations entirely and he pulls back to look at you, ruby eyes studying your face intently, firmly pressing his lips together. It takes your clouded mind a few moments to register the words you just said, the high, whiny tone you just used…then your eyes are widening and a gasp claws its way out of your throat, shaking your head vigorously as if to say, I didn’t mean it!

“I’m feeling good today,” he begins slowly, voice even and controlled. “So you’re getting off with a few spanks for that attitude of yours. Now go bend over the dining room table,”

His voice sends chills pebbling across your skin, spikes of ice shooting up your spine. You want to protest—he can see it in your eyes, the urge tickling the tip of your tongue. You want to tell him you didn’t mean to talk back to him, promise! It’s just that you want his cock so bad! You swear! Scarlet eyes watch you sharply, daring you to utter the words, looking almost as if he’s hoping you do, just to give him an excuse to lengthen your punishment.

But you don’t want that—a longer punishment means you’ll have to wait even more before his cock’s finally inside you—so you force yourself to swallow the words and nod solemnly, sulking towards the table and draping yourself over it.

Calloused hands run up your thighs, taking the hem of your little dress with them and bunching the material around your waist. He smirks at your cute little panties, hands running over your ass and kneading for a moment before he hooks his thumbs in the waistband, pulling them down your legs. You step out of them and a low laugh rumbles in his chest as he feels the soaked material, bunching it up and stuffing it in his pocket.

The wood of the table is cool against your cheek, your heart palpitating in your chest as you anticipate the first hit.

Except it doesn’t come, and a beat of silence passes before you hear the gentle clinking of his belt buckle.

“No!” you gasp, little fingers curling around the edges of the table as you hug yourself closer to the surface, eyes snapping open and consciously forcing your head to stay pressed against it, not daring to look back at him. “No, daddy, please, not the belt,”

“Aw baby, you’re precious,” he chuckles a little, the sound making your stomach flutter. “Good girls take their punishments without complaint, and you want to be good for daddy, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you whimper, nodding against the table. He hums to himself.

“You will get twenty lashes for your behaviour, and you will count each one aloud,” Tomura explains as he folds the belt in his hands, the leather squeaking softly. “Do you understand?”

You nod again, earning yourself a superficial slap on your bare skin from the back of his hand. It still stings.

“Use your words,”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, feeling the smooth leather in his hands.

A tense, heavy silence settles in the air, your chest swelling as you subconsciously hold your breath in expectation of the first blow, crying out when the belt finally collides with your ass. The leather cuts into your flesh, leaving thin welts across the soft skin. Sharp slaps echo throughout the empty penthouse intermittently, mingled with the soft sounds of your uneven breath and pathetic little whines.

By ten, you’re whimpering into the table, tears leaking from your eyes and sharp edges biting into your palms as you grip it.

By fifteen, you’re full-on sobbing and having difficulty staying still, hips wiggling and legs trembling as you cry out the numbers, muffled by the table.

“Daddy,” you hiccup, blinking your bleary eyes furiously to clear them from tears. “Daddy, I’m sorry,”

“I know you are, sweetheart,” Tomura says a little breathlessly behind you, cock straining against his slacks. “You’re almost there baby, five more to go. Be a good girl and finish your punishment,”

The statement makes you cry harder, but you manage to force out the words, “Yes, daddy,” between your wailing.

The last five are, admittedly, the most difficult for the both of you. Your soft whimpers of “Please, daddy,” and “Hurts, daddy,” nearly enough to make him forego the final five. But an intentional brat like you must learn her lesson.

When the final hit comes, you unclench your fingers from the edges of the dining room table and flex them, feeling proud of yourself for taking all twenty. Tomura’s pressed up against you in an instant, his body folded over yours, pinning you to the table.

“My pretty little baby girl, you did so well,” the words are whispered into your hair as cold hands caress the stinging skin, using his feet to nudge yours further apart. “So good for me,”

A hand trails down and between your thighs, nimble fingers slipping between your folds. He groans a little as the pads of his fingers collect your slickness; you’re still so wet.

“Such a good, good girl, getting this wet for me,”

“Please daddy, c-can I—” a little hiccup cuts you off, the pad of Tomura’s thumb swiping across your cheek to catch a stray tear as you struggle to look back at him. “Can I have your cock now?” you whimper out, eagerly pushing your hips back and into his hand, almost as if you’re trying to grind against it.

Christ, what did he do to deserve such a good little slut like you? Your lashes are still wet, little droplets of water clinging to them, soft sniffles still catching in your chest. And you’re staring at him with those wide, glistening doe eyes, your lips puffy from crying, desperately awaiting his answer as your hips move in little circles, trying to catch your clit on his fingers.

You can feel his cock, pressed up against your ass through his pants, and it only makes you crave him more, little hole fluttering around nothing.

“Yeah?” he breathes, lips at your ear. “You want it?” he pushes his hips against you more, laughing a little when you whine and nod your head fervently, rubbing your ass back against him despite the way your sensitive, wounded skin snags on the rough material.

“Yes, yes, please, I-I want it,” you babble, your head gone hazy from the intense, heady mix of pain and desire, no longer able to think about anything else except how badly you need him to fill you up.

“Do you think you deserve it?” his voice drops an octave, smooth and low as two fingers dip into you again.

“Yes,” you respond without any hesitation.

He hums softly to himself, fingers pumping in and out of you slowly, knuckles curling periodically, pressing forcefully against your gummy walls and pulling broken, needy whines from your throat. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough, intense spikes of pleasure that have your stomach swooping as your hips squirm, trying in vain to bounce on his fingers, to speed up the pace just a little more.

“Please daddy,” you’re sobbing again, words garbled through spit and tears. “Please, please fuck me,”

“I am fucking you, baby,”

And you hate how unaffected he sounds, just a slight breathiness to his voice, hate the way you can hear his smug smirk.

“With your cock!” you cry in demand, a violent shiver coursing through your entire body as his knuckles press into that spot again, hard and ruthless in his assault of your poor pussy.

“There you go again,” he says, voice fading into a growl as his fingers begin to viciously curl over and over, rapidly picking up the pace. “Being a fucking brat. And you were doing so well, too…Didn’t your punishment teach you anything? Only patient little girls get daddy’s cock in their soaking little cunts,”

“Oh, daddy, please, please, I-I’m sorry! I just—”

“Maybe I’ll fuck your throat instead,” he muses, sadistic smile spreading across his face as you weep loudly, shaking your head with vigour and chanting out the word no. Tears are steadily streaming down your soft cheeks and Tomura’s not sure he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight. It makes his cock throb, laughing at the way you moan wantonly when he grinds it against you again.

“You’re a greedy little slut, y’know that?” he whispers in your ear as the tempo of his thrusts increase more. “You’re lucky daddy’s giving you anything at all after the tone you used in the kitchen,”

“Bu-But I took my punishment!”

“Oh, my poor baby,” his voice is sickly sweet, fake and syrupy and absolutely dripping with derision. “Poor thing, has to take daddy’s fingers instead of his cock, poor thing has to have her tight little pussy stretched out before she can take my cock, you poor fucking thing,” a hand collides with your ass, the resounding slap! of your skin against his palm ringing in your ears, a pretty handprint already beginning to form on your abused skin.

You nearly scream, cutting yourself off midway to bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to leave little purple indents in the flesh, breathing out harshly through your nose.

“Insatiable little whore, thinking she’s entitled to my cock,” he spits, thumb finally finding your clit and rubbing quick circles into it. He can tell you’re close, pussy pulsing around his fingers, entire body jolting with each swipe of his thumb over your sensitive bud.

“Feet apart, damn it,” he growls as he kicks at your ankles, forcing your legs to spread again.

Teeth bite into your tongue, refraining from nearly blurting out that you can’t help it, it’s too much, the pleasure is practically blinding, your thighs instinctually squeezing around his wrist.

And, God, you’re so close. He knows, of course, is able to read every micro-expression perfectly—every hitch in your breath, every mewl bubbling past your lips, every twitch, jerk, quiver of your body—and every time you’re teetering on that edge, he stops, slows his pace, takes his thumb away completely, until you’re a sweaty, shuddering mess, until you’ve gone dazed and numb from how badly you need to cum.

Finally, finally, when he thinks he’s tortured you enough, when your legs are nothing but trembling jello, when you’ve been fucked stupid by just his fingers alone, vocabulary seemingly reduced to the words daddy and cock—finally he removes his fingers and pushes the head in, and it stings a bit as your cute little cunt struggles to stretch around him.

“How are you still so fucking tight?” he breathes out, as if he isn’t the one who doesn’t ever fuck you with more than two fingers even though he knows that the girth of his fingers are, obviously, no match for the girth of his cock. Merely able to whine in response, you impatiently push your hips back, and then he really fucking snaps.

Before you even know what’s going on, your aching little hole is being filled entirely with one harsh, quick thrust.

He sets a ruthless pace immediately, growling about how much of a little cockslut you are, how you’re practically starving for his cum, how his cock must be all you dumb little brain can think about.

Your sweet cunt is clenching around him after only three drags of his cock against your spot, and the laugh he barks out is nothing short of vicious. His thrusts don’t slow, fucking you right through your orgasm, grunting about how pathetically easy it is to make you gush all over him.

The legs of the table screech as they scrape against the hardwood, Tomura moving the entire piece of furniture with the force of his powerful thrusts. And all you can do it take it, eyes rolling back as your fingers grip the edges of the table again, desperately trying to keep your legs from giving out entirely, body gone limp and bouncing vehemently as his hips piston into you.

Then he’s spilling himself into you, spurt after spurt of hot cum filling you up as his hips stutter, cock pulsing, strands of silvery-blue hair stuck to his forehead and neck.

Christ, you look so gorgeous all fucked out from his fingers and his cock, thick cum leaking out of you and down your inner thigh. The head of his cock drags over your ass, smearing excess cum across your skin, an extra little reminder that you are his, that you belong to him.

It glitters under the low light of the dining room—the sun’s almost completely sunk below the horizon now, the dim neon glow of the city spilling into the penthouse through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Mine,” he says softly, just a huff of breath forced from his heaving chest, thumb swiping though the cum and rubbing it into the deep, swollen welts.

Yes, you think, too far gone to use your words, throat sore and raw from your crying. Yours, forever.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki smut #shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura #bnha #mha #bnha smut #shigaraki #tomura smut #tw degradation #tw violence #tw gore #tw blood #tw daddy kink #tw murder #tw toxic relationship

672 notes · View notes

the-badger-mole · 3 years ago

Note

I've honestly always thought Mai loves Zuko for his status and privileges. I really did. There are so many scenes just indicating this.

She's a gold-digger. She canonically favours her own comfort over everything and everyone else, completely lacks any moral sense or empathy. She was RAISED to be like that by the family of careerists. She's always quiet and it feels like she's there for you (even Azula was tricked into believing this), but she ends up doing whatever she wants in the end.

She's also always pretty eager to get back with Zuko after he becomes a meaningful person again...in the first episode she's already jumping on him while he's about to become a prince again and in the final episode - she f*cking forgets she's been in jail for weeks because of him or that he dumped her out of nowhere and she never even actually realised why. And I'll remind you that while Zuko was banished she was totally okay with hunting him down with Azula, or when he was at Boiling Rock she used her authority to press him some more. The palanquin and fruit tart scenes do not help either.

She's just there for royal life, privileges and sex, change my mind.

And before anyone says she was ready to sacrifice her comfort for Zuko's safety I'll say - she had nothing to lose at Boiling Rock. She never feared Azula, neither do I think she was treated as horribly as the prisoners here knowing that her uncle is in charge of the prison. And while it's clear there're gonna be some changes in the country due to Avatar raising the resistance, it's probably the most clever and thought-out politics of her - to sit it all out and wait for it to end.

I love this version of Mai, to be quite honest. This is more compelling than her all of the sudden discovering she was afraid of Azula, just in time for her to realize she loved Zuko more than she feared Azula.

Also, lets be real, even in my most charitable moments, I can't see Mai lasting with Zuko because she would HATE being the Fire Lady. If living with her parents was stifling (nah... I still don't buy that), then being the wife of one of the most powerful world leaders, the wife of a Fire Lord who is trying to balance reparations to the other nations AND making sure his own people don't starve, the wife of a Fire Lord who is going to be looking to his Fire Lady to be an ally and a partner, would be an absolute NIGHTMARE for Mai. She doesn't care about other people in a way that would make her a good choice for co-ruler of a post imperial, post war country. Mai would be a mix of Yzma and the caricature of Marie Antionette. Ruling the Fire Nation with Zuko would be a full time job, and I don't think Mai would be good at it.

IF YOU LIKE MAI as she is in the show, and not the popular fanon takes on her, then I have to question why you ship Maiko. It's like Ty Lee joining the Kyoshi Warriors. That type of responsibility is the opposite of what Mai wanted. Mai wants a carefree life of lavish luxury. She wants the freedom to come and go as she pleases. She wants parties where handsome men pay attention to her. That is NOT the life that would come with being married to a man like Zuko. Maybe a different Fire Lord would give her the trophy life she wants, but if she were married to Zuko, the best either of them could do is stay out of each other's way. Mai isn't going to work with Zuko. Zuko isn't going to stop craving support.

You know who would be a good match for her, at least temporarily? Aang.

Aang wants a woman with no real opinions and who won't challenge him or his paper thin understanding of Air Nomad philosophy. Mai might snark on him and maybe threaten people with knives, but she isn't going to challenge his sense of self, and she isn't passionate enough about anything to cause problems that might need to be handled with violence. In fact, she might be the best ego massage Aang ever got. She wouldn't be on him to do his freakin job. If Aang wants to segregate the world and ban intermarriage, she wouldn't care. The Northern Water Tribe wants to colonize the Southern Water Tribe? Mai has experience with that. Aang gets pissed off for no reason and wants to destroy several city blocks? Mai is sitting on a hillside watching the mayhem through binoculars. As long as Aang supplied good times with little to no effort on Mai's part, she'd be happy enough with him.

#atla #anti-mai #anti-maiko #flying dagger #i'm going to make it a thing #anti-aang #to be safe.

82 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

By the king’s hand 🐍 IV

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers (this chapter, violence, oral, a bit of degradation)

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Loki closes in on his prey.

Note: Doing my best to update something every few days. I’ll probably switch it up here and there and try to get to other series old and new as well. I won’t be answering any asks about updates but I am working on lots between work so I appreciate the patience.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You cleaned up the balcony for fear that Hal or another servant would happen upon your mess. You were aware that they would have little misconception about your position but you had no desire to flaunt your shame. It might not be your choice but others would not know that nor would they easily assume.

‘Bed warmer’; that was what he’d said. He’d assured you of it upon his last visit. You were nothing more than a whore to him and undoubtedly, to any other who knew of your existence in the palace. Your only comfort was that you might hide from prying and judging eyes for the duration of your service.

How long would that be? And after, what would you be left to?

You sat on the ledge of the window and stared out. The sunlight faded slowly, the summer lingered still. Even so, you could feel it was late. The king’s absence fed the dread deep in your chest and assured you that with each minute that passed, his return would come with inevitable zeal.

He promised you pain and had proven himself to be a selfish and sinister man. A man never told no, even to that one thing which had never been promised to him, the crown. How could he expect anything other than to be sated in his every need?

When the door handle turned and drew your attention from the ruffling leaves below, you stood. You watched Loki enter with the young boy, Hal, at his elbow The king’s day deepened the small lines around his eyes and brought out the vein on his forehead.

Hal removed his cloak and hung it and Loki fell heavy onto the sofa. He was skilled at ignoring all around him until they were required. Including you. He waved away the boy with his fingers and sighed.

“Fetch me wine for the night. I have little appetite…” He let his head loll and his eyes sparked as he saw you standing anxiously by the window, “Do you require anything to nibble on, little mouse?”

You shook your head but quickly corrected yourself. You cleared your throat and spoke carefully. “No, your majesty.”

“Very well,” he flicked away the servant and spread his arms over the back of the couch. The boy left and Loki hummed at the ceiling. You watched his profile as he closed his eyes. “I cannot lie. Our noontime delight did tide me over as the day stretched on. And how it did make it seem longer too.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at you again. He smirked.

“Just a taste and I want more, like a sweet tart secreted from the sill or a sip of ale stolen by a child. A simple craving turns to an irresistible hunger.”

You squirmed and he beckoned you close. You watched him warily as he pulled at his overcoat with one hand and unbuttoned the high collar.

“Sit with me. I should like a drink before we proceed.” He said and his lithe fingers worked down the front of his coat. “I must wash away this tension, little mouse, and you might drown your fear.”

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the couch as he let his overcoat droop and reveal his tunic beneath. His fingers ran along the back of our gown and he sat forward slightly as he snaked his arm around you. He pulled you against him as he reclined again and grabbed your chin as he made you look at him.

“I like that.” His nose was close to yours, “The way you try to hide your emotions. That artificial bravery that cannot still your fidgeting fingers or that tic in your cheek. It assures me that you are truly afraid of me, little mouse…” His hot breath grazed your lips, “As you should be.”

“I am not afraid of you,” you uttered, “I am appalled… your majesty.”

He chuckled and a rap came at the door. He parted from you, his hand slipped down to rest on your hand and he pulled it onto his thigh as he called for his servant to enter. Hal came in and set down the bottle of wine and the pair of cups. He was dismissed with a nod.

Alone again, Loki pulled your hand up his leg and forced it over his growing bulge. He snickered as he hardened against your palm.

“My patience wears thin,” he groaned, “So pour us some wine before my thirst is forgotten.”

You drew away as he released you and stood. You poured the wine to the brim and returned to Loki. He took his glass and pointed you to the cushion again. He drank smoothly as you nearly choked on the acrid alcohol. You pulled the cup from your lips and crinkled your nose. The king chuckled and reached to set aside his empty goblet on the side table.

He pushed on the bottom of your cup until it was once more at your lips. “I recommend you drink but do not require it. Perhaps, I should enjoy you sober and petulant.”

You gulped again but quickly recoiled. He laughed again and took the glass from you. There was still quite a bit of wine sloshing around in it as he placed it beside his empty one.

“Get undressed for me, little mouse,” he stood and shrugged out of his overcoat.

You hesitated and flinched as his face turned stern. You rose as he slung his jacket over a chair and pulled the tails of his tunic loose from his trousers and unbuckled his belt. You strained as you bent your arms back but only managed to tangle your fingers in the laces.

He neared and turned you. He expertly unknotted the top of the laces and your bodice slackened. You caught the dress as it drooped down your chest and reluctantly let it slip further. You stepped out of the skirts and he gathered the fabric from the floor. He tossed it over his jacket as you avoided looking at him.

You felt his warmth along your back as he came close and his fingertips brushed lightly along the scars that lined your skin. The ones he’d left there. Those which might never go away. He pressed his thumbs more firmly to the lacerations and traced them down to your ass.

He exhaled and his hand stretched around your hips as he gripped them firmly. He edged you toward the couch until your legs met it. He nudged you until you lifted your knees onto the cushion. It was like you were in a trance; the thought to stop him was overpowered by that which wanted it all to just be over.

“You are healing nicely,” he purred, “A reminder of me when I am kept for too long from you, little mouse.”

You lowered your head as your lip curled. You latched onto the back of the couch and clawed the cushion.

“I feel the anger in you,” he slithered. “I long for it. A sharp tongue calls for a sharper strike. Should I use my hand or another toy?”

You stiffened as his hand crawled back up to your shoulders and he squeezed them as he leaned in.

“Or should I give into my basest desires and leave all patience behind. I could be inside you in a moment. I could have you screaming with a different pain. One which would soon enough be pleasure. An insatiable need.” He hooked his arms under yours and cupped your chest. “Funny, how peasants differ little from ladies. You have the same curves, the same want of a man.” He nuzzled the back of your head, “Perhaps the cunt is tighter? Wetter? Sweeter?”

You snarled and he pinched you. You swatted him away without thinking and he caught your wrist. He twisted your arm against your back until you whined.

“Come on, mouse, fight me,” he sneered, “Give me a little entertainment.”

You bit down but remained still. You huffed and stared at the carpet on the other side of the couch.

“The ladies never do. They’re too proper. Even as a prince, they were all too eager. Of course, they thought their kisses, their words, would lead to something other than a carnal revelation. They thought of contracts and prestige but I only wanted the flesh. They are too proper, too polite to resist.” He pushed on your arm and a pang went through your shoulder, “And when I fucked them, they only cried. Silently. No matter, I’d rather the back of their heads.”

Your insides roiled and the thought of this man, this monster called king, doing to you what he proudly boasted of doing to countless others had you livid. You could not resign yourself to the shame. If he never had to work for anything, he would have to now.

You swung your leg back and your heel met his thigh bluntly. He let go of you with a surprised grunt and you spun, kicking out again. He barely dodged your foot and you were quick to stand. The back of his hand split your lip and you stumbled but not far as you threw your elbows up into his ribs. His second strike missed as you ducked away and struggled to gain your bearings.

You flung a fist out at him and he batted you away. He swept your feet out from beneath you with one of his and you landed with a gasp as the air rushed from your lungs.

“Do you not recall our first lesson? You do not strike a king.” He taunted and stood above you. “If you do, you should hit a lot harder.”

He jabbed your side with the toe of his boot and chuckled. He lifted his tunic over his head and tossed it away. He paced around you and as you tried to sit up, he kicked you back down.

“Shall I have you on the floor? A beast like you belongs there.” He spat, “Oh, dear, are you angry?”

He bent and grabbed your arms. He pulled you up to your feet, leaving you light-headed as he stared you down.

“Go on and try again. Your venom only feeds my own.” He leaned in and his cheek brushed yours as he lowered his voice, “And this snake is meaner than any.”

You pushed on his chest and he shoved you away. You collided with the side table at the end of the couch and wine splashed across your front. He followed you and kicked your ass so that you fell atop the the table entirely, leaving it overturned as you writhed on the floor.

“I’d use your mouth again but you seem like to bite, little mouse,” he chortled. “Oh, but I have waited for that which makes you a woman.”

“You’re… disgusting,” you choked out as he planted a boot on your chest and pinned you to the floor.

“Perhaps but those words mean little from a heathen like you. Tell me, how many men have known you, hmm? A peasant like you? Perhaps a butcher? A forger? Several, even?”

“Get--” You grunted as you grasped his boot, “Off.”

“Do be honest. There is no number which could tarnish you further. You cannot possibly sink lower, little mouse.”

“St-stop,” you pleaded as he pushed down and you found it even harder to breathe.

“Tell me,” he said, “Hmm? More than one? Perhaps five?” He peered down at you and smirked, “Is it more? In the tens?”

You wheezed and shook your head. You kicked out as silver dots floated around your vision. “N-n-none!” You gasped, “None.”

He relented but kept his foot where it was. He laughed. Loudly. He shook his head and scoffed.

“No man?” He said wryly, “Oh, the elusive untouched maiden.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” you snarled.

“A mouth like that on a creature so pure,” he bent and grabbed you by the throat.

He lifted you to your feet and spun you. He forced you over to the table and your middle met it with a thud. You bent over as once more the air was driven from you. His hand was on your ass as he pressed his crotch against you and rocked.

“I do like this angle but wonder if it better to look you in the eye as I pluck your flower,” he kept his hips moving and moaned, “See the pain, the fear, the realisation that you are completely and utterly mine.”

He reared back and slapped your ass. You whimpered at his strength as your hips knocked against the wooden table. He raised his hand again but was halted by a sudden knock. He paused and let out a thick breath. He struck you again. The knock came again. Louder.

“I told my guard, I was not to be disturbed,” he growled.

“Oh, your majesty,” the sing song came through the door, “I have a message for you.”

“Fuck,” Loki swore and backed away. You turned your head to watched him as he pushed his shoulders back, “That fool.”

You didn’t move as he snatched up his tunic and replaced it over his torso. He glanced at you and snapped his fingers. He pointed to the bedroom and you stood straight. He lifted a brow in a final warning.

You shakily retreated and ambled through the doors. You stayed close as you listened. You couldn’t stop quaking. The adrenaline was ice in your veins but seeped away and uncovered the flames of agony licking at your body.

“What is it, you dolt?” The door whipped open in tandem with Loki’s words.

“Why, it is I, your brother’s most beloved companion, aside from his wife, of course, and a message for his most esteemed brother, the king,” the man sounded like a jester.

“Lord Fandral, I do command that you are to the point and do not continue on in this mockery.” Loki tutted.

“Oh, you have not changed,” the lord, Fandral, quipped, “As dour and dull as ever.”

“But a king now so do be on with it.”

“I have been sent to present to you a humble invitation to your brother’s own tournament upon the celebration of his new marriage. He does apologize for the short notice but it would not take you much long than a day and a night to arrive which is why I did insist upon my interruption… I do assume I have disturbed some going on.”

“If I accept this ridiculous proposal, will you be gone?”

“Oh, I must, your brother does await the answer and I would be away tonight to insure you do not arrive before me. You see, the tournament does commence in three days thus. You do want to make the lists, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, go. Let him know that I will appear.” Loki huffed. “At once before I change my mind and have your head sent back instead.”

“As amiable as ever, your majesty,” the other man said, “Do continue on in your… well, whatever it is you do for fun.”

The door snapped shut quickly and you staggered away from the door as you heard the king’s footsteps beneath the muttered curses. His shadow appeared in the dim and you pressed yourself to the wall. You eyed the door behind him, the balcony to your left.

“Get in the bed,” he snipped. “If I must drag you, you will not drag yourself from it.”

You shuddered and forced yourself away from the wall. Loki undressed fully as you neared the bed and climbed over the covers. He was quick as he followed and met you from the other side. He shoved you onto your back and held you there with his hand across your throat. His hot breath glossed over your cheek as his fingers flitted to your chin and he squeezed.

He growled and let go. He flopped onto his back beside you and laid silently. Stewing. You watched his silhouette in the dark.

“My brother does ruin everything,” he whispered. “I am so… riled I can barely focus and…” he bit his lip and stopped himself. “Use your hand.”

“Wha--”

“Or your mouth. I don’t care, I only need to cum,” he closed his eyes. “And not think of what my brother has laid on my plate for the morrow.”

You grimaced and reached over blindly. You kept your eyes on the ceiling as you gripped his hard member and he winced at your touch.

“Tighter,” he murmured.

You did as he bid and slowly moved your hand up his length and back down. You thought of the balcony. At least it was only your hand. You stroked him as he groaned beside you, as his voice floated in the moonlight, and the night air skimmed over your bodies. He wrapped his finger around yours and guided you faster.

You kept the motion as his hand dropped back down and you felt his climax building as he trembled. He grunted as he reached over and kneaded your hip. He bent his legs slightly as he erupted and his warm cum dripped over your knuckles and along your palm. He stopped you and spasmed as he tried to catch his breath.

“You will fetch a rag and clean me before I sleep,” he said, “And we will continue our little game another day.”

🐍

You awoke with a heat wrapped around you. The king’s arm clung to you as there was a prodding further down. You could feel his arousal along the curve of your ass. You tried not to fidget in fears you would rouse him more or wake him. You laid, helpless and watched the early dawn light on the wall.

“It is merely a nocturnal habit,” Loki said as his arm tightened around you. “But, I suppose, your presence does evoke it as well.”

You scowled and said nothing.

“You slept heavily. Rather loudly.” He mused. “I had to roll you over to ease your snorts.”

“You might send me back to the dungeon if I see you sleepless,” you suggested.

“I did not say I was,” he countered, “I slept well enough.”

He drew away from you and the bed shifted as he turned his back to you and hung his legs over the edge. You rolled onto your back as the blanket crumpled around his back and you watched him. He stretched and shook out his black waves. He stood, unabashed by his erection, and went to the window.

“On the road by noon.” He said, “A brief rest on the roadside and the sojourn will not be more than a day.”

You stayed as you were. It might be his bed but it was the most comfortable you’d ever known. Besides, you were unsure of what else to do.

“The party needn’t be very large. Some guards and a few companions.” He spoke to himself as he picked at the window frame and stared out. “Of course, my armor will have to be polished and--” He pulled away and looked back to you on the bed. He smirked. You sat up, alarmed by his sudden interest. “And you will need a chest.”

“Pardon?”

“You must accompany me, of course. As my bed warmer.” He neared the bed and loomed over you. “Did you truly think I’d leave you behind? What in all the gods’ names would you do?”

You frowned and bent your legs to your chest. What would you do indeed.

“In an unfamiliar castle, my bed will certainly need warming and… my brother is the very being that does know how to irk me entirely. I will need the… respite.” Loki lowered himself back to the bed. “And there is so much undone.”

You couldn’t hide your discomfort. You watched him recline across the bed as you stayed huddled at the top of the mattress.

“I don’t understand…” you said quietly.

“Understand what?” He looked over at you with his discerning green eyes.

“Why you didn’t leave me in the dungeon? Or send me to the laundries or the stables?”

He considered you a moment and exhaled. “Well, you are of little use to me in either and I do see use in you. As king, it is prudent only to surround yourself with those who can further your own purpose; be it pleasure or otherwise.”

His answer made you sick. You were an object. A commodity. Well, you were just a peasant, what did you expect?

“And, was your life so glorious before? Were your clay pots and simple companions so amusing? Never touched? Did you ever expect it, at the least?” He challenged.

“Commoners do not marry so early as nobles,” you said quietly.

“Oh, but surely by your age they have considered it? Tell me, do I tread on another man’s grass? Is there some secret betrothal I do not know about? Or perhaps just a tryst unconsummated?”

You pursed your lips and begrudgingly shook your head. You kept your eyes on the blanket as he rolled onto his side and looked at you closer.

“I have done you a favour,” he said, “And I am not in the habit of favours so you might be thankful for it.”

“You would make me a whore. I could’ve done the same in any alleyway.”

“You will find no kings in your alleys,” he girded, “Nor silks, satins, or furs. I offer you all despite your crimes and you think I take from you. I have given you more than you know. You, little mouse, are not the prize in this game, I am.”

You looked at him and blinked. He ran his finger along the blanket that hung over your leg. He tugged until it fell down your knees. You shivered as you thought to grab it and pull it back to your body but he was quick. He pushed your legs apart despite your resistance and you fought with him as he moved between them, his head by your thighs.

His hands hooked over your thighs as he held them apart and he beamed up at you. He licked his lips and pulled himself closer. You felt his breath along your folds as he held your gaze. He lowered his head slowly and you squirmed as he hovered just along your cunt.

“What--”

He poked his tongue between your folds and dragged it up along your bud. You gasped at the peculiar sensation and he did it again, this time circling the sensitive bump. You grasped the pillows as he watched you and continued on, teasing and toying with his tongue. As he pressed his lips around your bud and suckled, you squeaked and you fell flat on the pillows.

“What are you--” You were breathless as he lapped at you and hummed, sending a thrill up your spine.

Your back arched without thought and your hand flew down to grip your own thigh as it pushed against his head. He held onto your legs as he hugged them and closed his eyes as he devoured you. Your eyes rolled back and you dug your heels into the mattress. You lifted your pelvis as you were driven wild by the flurry in your core.

You moaned and whined pathetically as he took control of your body. As he lured you closer and closer to an unknown release. A coil wound tighter and tighter inside of you until finally it snapped. You felt the pleasure flow from you as he drank it up and the tension left your body in an instant as the waves crashed over you.

You bent your arms across your chest and held yourself in your shock; in the sheer ecstasy that had overcome you. You panted and felt suddenly cold as he removed himself from between your legs. You peeked over at him as he sat up and wiped his glistening lips. His mouth curved deviously as he met your gaze.

“I am not the only in need,” he preened, “Though the need is so much more dire when you know what exactly it is you long for, isn’t it?

#loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #dark fic #fic #dark!fic #series #by the king's hand #king!loki #au #medieval #medieval au #medieval!au #mcu #marvel

392 notes · View notes

livvibee · 4 years ago

Text

Out of the Gutter

Pairing: Starker, minor Peter/OMC

Rating: Explicit (E)

Notes: Uhhh I apologize in advance for this one y’all. 😂

Length: 5.5k~

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Extreme Dubcon, Underage, Incest, Underage Drinking, Drug Use, Minor Violence,

Read here or on AO3.

“Peter! Peter, this is amazing!”

Ned’s excited voice knocked Peter’s attention out of the textbook he was reading in the library during an impromptu study session with MJ. Peter shrank in his seat, feeling dozens of eyes staring them down. He shot a pleading look at Ned and watched as he slowly exhaled, tension running out of his shoulders, before he slid into the seat across from Peter at the table.

“Guys!” Ned whispered excitedly. “They came!”

“What came?” Peter stared blankly at Ned.

Ned looked around furtively, leaning forward to be closer to Peter and MJ. “The fakes.”

Peter felt a jolt of excitement run through his body, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his best friends as Ned started to draw a plain envelope out of his backpack.

“Stop!” MJ hissed. “After school- Can we meet at yours, Ned?”

“Totally!” He replied, wide smile gleaming.

Peter practically vibrated in excitement through the last period of the day, shooting off a quick text for permission to his father, and sighing in relief when he received the okay just as the dismissal bell rang. It had been a rough couple of months since his Dad caught Peter red handed at a club (how was Peter supposed to know his Dad’s date would end up there?), drunk as a skunk, confiscating his fake ID and grounding him severely in response. Thank God Peter hadn’t been high that night, or he probably would still be grounded, or maybe even shoved into one of those stuffy private schools for misbehaving rich kids.

Ned and MJ met up with Peter by his locker, and they walked to Ned’s house together, rocketing up the stairs to his room with barely a word to Mrs. Leeds. Once safely inside, Ned flipped open the envelope and pulled out the plastic cards, handing one to Peter who examined it closely.

“Ned,” Peter gasped, “this looks incredible! It’s so much better than the last one!”

“Right???” Ned said incredulously. “They look just like a regular ID, I can’t believe my cousin managed to get ahold of these.”

“You know what this means?” Peter asked.

“What?” Ned said, still clutching his ID in hand and staring at it in disbelief.

“It means we’re back!” MJ crowed. “Good luck to anyone who tries to confiscate these babies!”

Peter suppressed a wave of unease as Ned and MJ whooped together in excitement, before dissolving into laughter as Ned’s mother yelled up the stairs for them to quiet down.

Finally it was Saturday night and their plan was in action. Get to the club, become appropriately socially lubricated, dance, maybe even find a hookup, then get back to their beds before parents were awake in the morning. Sneaking out of the Tower would have been impossible (and boy had he learned that lesson the hard way one spring evening Freshman year), so Peter and Ned waited at the Leeds’ for his parents to head to bed. Peter helped Ned out of the window with a small grunt of effort, then swung down himself. All those gymnastics lessons were finally coming in handy.

They met up with MJ at the subway station. “Hey losers, you rolling tonight?” Ned and Peter quickly agreed, receiving the pills from MJ before swallowing them down dry with the ease of long practice. The trio headed downtown, overcome with good cheer and giggles during the course of the trip, dressed in their finest babyslut getups.

The fake IDs Ned had gotten from his cousin had scanned at the door as genuine, gaining them entry to the club and access to the bar, access they’d immediately taken full advantage of. Peter jumped up and down with Ned and MJ as the beat dropped and the bass of the song vibrated through his bones, feeling open and loose, in sync with the crowd and with the universe.

“MJ! MJ!” Peter laughed, yelling her name over the music. “I’m having so much fun!”

Her response was swallowed in the sway of the crowd on the dancefloor, lips unreadable in the flashing strobe lights and fog inside the club. Peter lost himself to the pure joy of dancing with his best friends, heart thumping to the beat, sweat dripping down his face, smearing his eyeliner and leaving tracks through the iridescent highlighter swept across his cheekbones.

“Hey!” Ned grabbed at Peter and MJ’s hands, towing them toward the bar. “This round’s on me!”

Peter could just hear him over the music now that they were further away from the DJ. Ned held his cash in the air, clumsily getting the attention of the bartender and ordering them all lemon drop shots. The trio clinked their glasses together before knocking back the sugar-sweet lemon-tart throat-burning liquid with the faint grimace and loud whoop.

Peter bopped his way back into the crowd of dancers, happily grinding on anyone who came his way, uncharacteristically uncaring about looks or even gender. The overwhelming urge for touch was fully upon him as he exchanged sloppy kisses and careless caresses with any number of partners, letting himself be passed around the dancefloor in a blur, like some glittery party favor.

Several rounds of dancing and shots later, and Peter felt great. Better than great. Fantastic even. So what if everything was a little blurry around the edges? So what if he wasn’t absolutely sure where Ned and MJ had disappeared to? Peter was having the time of his life, everything was right with the world! He was sweet sixteen, flush with liquor and lust, and from the look of the guy eyeing him from across the dancefloor, attractive enough to fuck.

Peter shimmied his way through the bouncing crowd with loose limbed moves, catching the eye of a dark haired man with attractively trimmed facial hair. (Didn’t that remind him of someone? Peter pushed the thought away impatiently.) Peter’s heart was beating out of his chest as they made eye contact, blue eyes catching on brown. Everything slowed down for a moment, the music fading into the background as Peter looked the man over, taking in his muscular arms and trim waist, eyefucking him from head to toe as the lights flashed through the haze.

“Hi!” Peter yelled above the vibrating beat, watching the man’s lips as he returned the greeting. He didn’t waste any time, turning around and leaning back against the man to grind his ass against him on pure animalistic instinct, craving the pressure against his skin. The man’s hands came down to rest on Peter’s hips, pulling him into an energetic rhythm that matched the beat vibrating through Peter’s bones.

Fuck, it felt so good to let go. To let the stress and expectations of being Tony Stark’s son and protégé drift away from his shoulders, disappear under the haze of molly, alcohol, and raw desire clouding his mind. Peter lifted an arm and wrapped it behind the man’s head, pulling his face down to Peter’s exposed neck. Score, the guy took the hint and started sucking livid marks into Peter’s pale skin, fueling the pool of liquid heat collecting in his core. The man’s hands travelled up and down Peter’s body, running over the front of his silky mesh shirt, sending a wave of shivery sensation through his skin. His fingers plucked against Peter’s sensitive nipples, dug hungrily against the dips of his defined abs, groped the sides and bottom curve of his ass.

“Do you know somewhere more quiet we can go?” Peter yelled, spinning around to face the man, who grinned lecherously and nodded, pulling Peter with him through the crowd.

They squeezed their way out an emergency exit in the back of the club, hands frantically rubbing whatever parts of the other could be reached, Peter’s mouth being enthusiastically penetrated by the man’s tongue as they kissed. Peter slammed the man against the wall, drinking in his noise of shocked surprise before dropping to his knees right there in the dirty alley. He could feel the grit of the city underneath his knees, even through his tight black jeans, and relished the grounding sensation to counteract the floating in his head.

The man eagerly unzipped his pants, pulling out his hard cock, flopping it right in front of Peter’s face. His mouth was watering, senses overwhelmed by fresh sweat and masculine musk as his lips parted to take the man inside. Peter hummed happily, palming himself through his jeans as he gently sucked, bobbing his head back and forth and licking around the tip.

“Fuck, your mouth-” The man gasped out, grabbing at Peter’s sweat soaked curls with shaking hands.

Peter grinned around the man’s cock. All those hate fueled hookups with Flash Thompson had been good for something after all. Peter lost himself in the rhythm and feel of skin against his tongue, sucking harder and groaning at the salty taste of precum, neglected dick throbbing inside his pants. He groped blindly for the man’s leg and pulled it between his thighs to grind against it.

“Oh, that’s it. Fuck you’re a greedy lil thing, that’s right baby, suck that-”

“Hey! Asshole!”

Peter froze around the man’s cock before pulling off with a sloppy pop. Oh shit. Oh no. Oh my God, oh no, oh fuck, oh shit. It couldn’t be. There was no way. Peter screwed his eyes shut as he felt a familiar hand grab at the back of his neck, sending a slow roll of pleasure down his spine, and pulling him up and back from his kneeling position.

The hand disappeared and there was a dull thud before a series of protests started. “Woah man, ow, what the hell?”

Peter was still half crouched, quivering in shame as he listened to the response, which was growled with menace.

“I’m going to give you one chance to get the hell out of this alley before I separate your head from your spine.”

The resulting silence was broken by the sound of rustling fabric, a zipper being closed, and rapid footsteps in the opposite direction.

“Peter Anthony Stark.” That disappointed voice was like a bucket of ice dousing his lust, better at sobering him up than any greasy burger ever could be.

“H- Hi Dad.” Peter stammered, looking up at his father, who was dark eyed and puffed up with rage.

Tony held up his hand, silencing Peter with the familiar gesture. “I can’t believe we’re doing this again Peter. You didn’t learn the last time I had to pull you out of the gutter?”

That peculiar combination of shame and anger rose inside Peter, choking him, contributing to his sputtered denial. “I- I- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

“You were doing exactly what you meant to do. Like you always do.” Tony’s voice was tight as he stared down at Peter, hands clenched at his sides. “Kid, I can’t stand by and watch you self-destruct the same way I did.”

Peter shot to his feet, sudden fury winning out over the embarrassment of being caught with a cock halfway down his throat. “I’m just trying to have a little fucking fun! What I’m doing is nothing like what you did! Newsflash, Tony, we’re not the same person, no matter how often you act like we are.”

The echoing crack of the slap across Peter’s cheek seemed to catch them both by surprise. Peter rubbed his cheek in shock, wide eyed and slack jawed, watching Tony’s still raised hand with utter astonishment.

His father was huffing and puffing like he’d just run a marathon, chest heaving, breath rasping in his throat as he spoke. “You think this is cute Pete? You think this is fun? All this acting out? It’s like you’re six again and throwing a tantrum, screaming out for Daddy’s attention. Well “newsflash” kiddo, you’ve got my full attention now.”

Peter was still speechless, his father had never hit him before. He’d never even been spanked as a kid, let alone slapped. “You- you hit me,” he said, rubbing his smarting face.

Tony’s jaw tightened as a grudging laugh slid out from between his teeth. “Talk shit, get hit kid. Unfortunately you’re a little old for me to take over my knee. You’re lucky for that, or you wouldn’t be sitting down for a week after this stunt you pulled tonight. You wanna know how I knew you were here? The social media alerts I have set up on you started going crazy, Peter. Practically the whole city knew you were here, grinding like a slut on some stranger, getting drunk and God knows what else.”

Peter’s vague noise of protest died in his throat as he thought of tomorrow's headlines. He looked at his father desperately. “I didn’t mean-”

“No,” Tony interjected, “I don’t want to hear it. Save your excuses.” Peter gasped as his father grabbed him with an iron grip by the upper arm, and started hauling him out of the alley to where a familiarly discrete black SUV was idling by the sidewalk. “Get in, and don’t think we’re done with this conversation.”

Peter opened the door and blanched to see a hangdog Ned and wide eyed MJ already in the back. He blushed fiercely as MJ’s perceptive gaze passed over the livid handprint on his left cheek. The ride to drop off his friends was silent, the teens not daring to speak to each other as they each reached their destinations, with only dreading looks exchanged. Even that brief contact brought a sideways and threatening look from Tony, daring them to talk at their own risk. Finally the vehicle was empty, but the silence still weighed heavy on Peter’s nerves.

“Dad…” Peter spoke into the quiet, voice cracking on the single word.

“Not now Pete, I’m driving.” Tony’s voice was still rife with irritation, and Peter’s mouth snapped shut in response.

The utter stillness continued as Tony parked, and as they rode up the elevator to the penthouse. Peter fidgeted nervously the whole way, unable to keep still as the tension rose. He was still rolling, running his hands up and down his thighs, unable to keep still as the urge to touch and be touched seized his body.

“What did you take?” Tony’s voice was firm as they walked into the living room, not leaving any room for excuses or prevarication.

“Molly.” Peter muttered to the floor, unable to meet his father’s eyes. He flinched and gasped as his father’s hand lifted his chin, forcing him to make eye contact.

“Want to try that again kid? What did you take?”

Peter quivered under Tony’s laser sharp gaze. “M- molly.”

Tony’s sigh of disappointment cut into Peter like a knife. The ride back across the city had cooled his righteous indignation, leaving only the shame behind. Peter looked back to the floor, pulling away reluctantly from his father’s hand.

“I am so incredibly disappointed in you Peter. I’ve always tried to be open with you about my struggles with substance abuse, and hoped you would learn from my mistakes and not repeat them. You can consider yourself on lockdown, no phone, no friends.”

Peter kept looking down at the floor, the film of tears he’d been battling since the slap prickling in his eyes. His dad was right, Peter had really fucked up tonight, in a spectacularly visible way, and so soon after gaining privileges back. “I’m sorry…” Peter whispered.

“I don’t believe you Pete. I can’t trust anything you say right now.”

Tony’s words stung worse than the slap had. “That’s not fair!” It burst out of Peter’s mouth before he could think twice.

“You think that’s unfair?” Tony scoffed. “Trust me, you’re going to be learning a big lesson on what’s fair and what’s not. Just- Go get ready for bed. I can barely even look at you after what I saw tonight.”

Peter was suddenly furious again, hurt boiling over, too hot to consider the effect of his words. “Is that what Howard told you? After your first sex tape leaked?” He looked up with fire blazing in his eyes to note with satisfaction how his father’s jaw had dropped. “Guess what Dad, I’m not a little kid anymore. So what, I like to suck dick.” Peter jutted his jaw out defiantly. “From what I’ve seen, that apple sure didn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Bed!” Tony practically roared, eyes flashing, pointing toward Peter’s room.

“Fine!” Peter shouted back, stomping down the hallway with the full power of his favorite Docs. He stormed into his room, slamming the door and hearing the answering shout echo down the hallway. Peter was most of the through angrily stripping, standing in his socks, bare chested with just his black briefs on by the time the door flew open. “Dad!” He yelped, “I’m changing!”

“Don’t care, as you so clearly pointed out, nothing I’ve never seen before.” Tony’s voice was clipped with irritation. “Finish getting ready for bed.”

Peter practically ran into the bathroom and slammed that door shut too, locking it behind him. He collapsed onto the cool tile floor, chest heaving with frustrated sobs as the doorknob jiggled.

“Unlock the door Pete. I don’t trust you being alone.”

“Fuck you!” Peter hissed venomously through the door. Dead silence was the answer, instead of the explosion Peter was goading for.

“JARVIS,” Tony enunciated clearly, “unlock Peter’s bathroom door, override code, ‘Daddy knows best.’”

Peter gaped at the door as it audibly unlocked and swung open and his father stalked inside.

“You want to act like a child Peter? I can treat you like a child!” Tony was clearly still furious, eyes flashing down at Peter who was huddled on the bathroom floor by the sink. “Stand up!”

“No!” Peter shouted back, foot kicking down on the floor in defiance.

Tony reached down and hauled Peter up from the floor, hands under his arms like he was nothing more than a little kid. Peter kicked and struggled the whole way as he was deposited to sit on the counter by the sink. “Stay there!”

Peter huddled in on himself miserably, feeling exposed and small, shivering in his briefs and socks as the cool marble sunk in through the fabric. He watched in confusion as his dad pulled Peter’s toothbrush and toothpaste from the medicine cabinet, getting the toothbrush wet under the faucet and squirting toothpaste on the bristles.

“Open.” His father’s voice didn’t leave room for argument, but Peter resisted, giving in to the childish urge to shake his head with his lips pressed tight together.

Tony caught Peter’s chin with one strong hand and pinched at the hinge of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Peter squawked in alarm as his body followed Tony’s whim instead of his own will, spluttering as his father firmly inserted the toothbrush into Peter’s mouth.

“Dad! Stop!” Peter’s whining protests were garbled by the toothbrush as it slipped and slid roughly over his teeth and gums, spreading an intensely minty taste.

“Can’t believe I found you in some alley on your knees, gonna clean out that filthy fucking mouth of yours.” Tony was growling aggravated nonsense as he scrubbed harshly inside Peter’s mouth. “Down in the gutter sucking off some Tony Stark knockoff while the real one is at home worried, you think your life is unfair?! You think I like watching you disobey and disrespect and self-destruct?”

Fat tears were swelling up in Peter’s eyes, the ghostly ache of the earlier slap making itself known as his father’s strong grip pressed into his cheek, keeping his mouth vulnerable and open. As Tony continued brushing across Peter’s teeth those tears started running down his face in streams as he hiccupped and choked around the toothbrush invading his mouth. The foam that had built up was dripping out of the corners of his lips and down his chin.

Peter tried to fire back around the intrusion, he wasn’t disobedient or disrespectful or self destructive, he wasn’t! He just wanted to have a little fun. All Peter succeeded in doing was sobbing miserably and disgustingly leaking out toothpaste onto Tony’s hand. He'd never felt so achingly vulnerable, not when Flash first pushed him against the lockers and forced him to his knees, not the first time his father had caught him trying to sneak out of the tower, not even when the paparazzi caught up with him after a particularly bad day at school, sobbing his sorrows out over his mother’s grave.

Tony let go of Peter’s jaw and maneuvered him sideways over the sink by his shoulder. “Spit.”

The touch against his bare skin rocketed tingles down Peter’s spine and to his- Oh no. Peter sputtered the foam out of his mouth into the basin, chest heaving with shame. Why was- How could he be? The more he thought about it, tried to unravel his feelings, the harder his dick throbbed between his legs, tenting the dark fabric of his briefs.

Drowning in confusion, Peter felt utterly unmoored as his father let go of him, turned on the taps, and cupped his hands underneath to catch the water.

“Rinse.” Tony said flatly, holding his hands up to Peter’s lips.

Peter shook his head frantically, needing something, needing just a minute to think- To calm down-

“Rinse!” Tony snapped.

The roiling combination of shame, panic, and desire bubbling in Peter’s stomach erupted. He shoved his father’s hands away, spilling water all down his chest and stomach. “I’m not a child,” Peter shouted as he tried to swipe the cold water off his skin, “and I don’t know how to prove it to you!”

Dead silence was his only answer.

Peter looked up in confusion from where he’d been glaring at the floor, waiting for the reprimand for losing his temper. Aw fuck. His dad was staring straight down at his hard-on, which was pointing proudly toward the ceiling like it had nothing to be ashamed of, like everything about popping a boner in this situation wasn’t completely wrong.

“I can see that,” Tony finally replied in a coolly interested voice, anger still present but iced over by something- Something else Peter couldn’t identify.

Peter started to curl defensively into a ball on the counter, but was stopped by Tony’s hands coming down to rest on the tops of his thighs, fingers splaying out across his sensitive skin. He gasped as the touch set off another rolling wave of pleasure to his core that left goosebumps in its wake, sent shivers up his chest, hardening his nipples to little brown peaks.

“You wanna prove you’re not a little kid Petey?”

Peter had never heard that tone in his father’s voice before. “Dad?” He asked in a small voice, head spinning, confused beyond belief, heartbeat racing.

Tony leaned in and nuzzled at Peter’s neck, rubbing his goatee against Peter’s pulse as his hands traveled slowly up Peter’s thighs. Peter gasped out a shocked moan as the prickly sensation sent heat blazing straight toward his throbbing dick.

“What?” Peter panted. “I don’t-”

“Shhh,” Tony soothed against Peter’s skin. “Isn’t this what you want? To prove to me you’re old enough?”

Peter tilted his head back against the mirror and parted his suddenly dry mouth. “I- I guess-”

Tony dragged his lips up Peter’s neck and to the shell of his ear. “Good boy,” he said crisply before fitting his mouth against Peter’s and squeezing down on his thighs, digging his nails into Peter’s pale skin.

Peter’s reflexive protest that he wasn’t a boy was swallowed up by his father’s lips and probing tongue, and turned into a moan deep in his throat as fireworks sparked off under his skin. Though he’d thought the kiss from the stranger earlier that night was good, it was nothing compared to this all consuming experience. Tony’s nails slowly scratched up Peter’s thighs toward his aching cock, making him whimper helplessly into his father’s mouth.

Breaking the kiss and laughing cruelly at Peter’s confused whine, Tony traveled down Peter’s body with his lips and teeth, nipping sharply and sucking at his pebbled nipples, drinking in the sound of his son’s shocked gasps and moans.

“Wait, no- You can’t- Dad!” Peter cried out as Tony reached his goal, and mouthed lightly at Peter’s hardness through the cotton of his briefs, sucking at the dot of precum that had dampened the fabric by the tip of his son’s dick.

“Has anyone ever done this for you before?” Tony asked, looking up at Peter and ignoring his protests.

Peter shook his head wildly back and forth, looking down at his father with wide eyes. “I- I’m usually the one who-”

Tony grinned wickedly up at Peter, then tugged impatiently at the tight elastic waist of his son’s briefs and pulled it down past Peter’s hips and ass, freeing his erection to bob fully in the air. Laving at his son’s leaking tip with a practiced tongue, Tony sucked Peter’s dick into the wet heat of his mouth.

“Ah- Hah-” Peter was beyond words as his father bobbed his head up and down. He curled around Tony as he was completely overwhelmed by the sensations, by the silken tightness surrounding his cock, by the agile working of his dad’s tongue around the tip on every upstroke.

Peter lost track of time as waves of pleasure lapped in his core, radiating out to all his limbs, tingling at the base of his skull. He could feel his balls drawing up and tightening, and couldn’t control the rocking of his hips, the perverse urge to fuck up into his father’s mouth.

Pulling off Peter with a wet slurp, Tony tugged him forward off the counter until his feet met the floor, and flipped him around roughly by the hips, tugging his briefs down all the way to the floor. He stopped to give the perfect roundness of Peter’s cheeks a series of wet nips as he stood, before tucking his head over his son’s shoulder, and meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Peter’s irises were almost invisible, swallowed by the black of his enlarged pupils, surrounded by smeared eyeliner and accented by sooty tear tracks down his cheeks. His eyes grew impossibly wide as he heard the metal of his father’s zipper being undone, and felt Tony’s hardness nestling between his bare cheeks, hot like a branding iron against his skin. It felt huge. Tony flexed his hips forward, making Peter hiss as the head of his father’s cock nudged against his virgin hole.

“Dad,” Peter began, voice breaking off as Tony ground against him again, making him throb with empty want and abject terror.

“Yeah Petey?” Tony grunted as he rooted through the medicine cabinet for something slick, hips rutting forward over and over, rubbing the tip of his dick across Peter’s asshole with increasingly slippery thrusts.

“I- I don’t feel so good.” Peter’s head was back to spinning and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, even as the slide of skin on skin sent electric sparks shooting though him.

“Shhh baby,” Tony cooed, opening the jar of coconut oil he’d found. “It’s about to feel really good.”

Pulling back, Tony slicked up his cock with the oil, spreading it with a series of wet schlicks that echoed dimly in Peter’s ears. Peter gasped weakly as his father’s now slickened cock resumed rubbing against his hole, pressing inside ever so slightly with every pass.

Dad!” Peter cried out.

“What?” Tony bit out.

“I’m scared,” Peter confessed in a small voice.

“You getting scared like a little kid Petey? Tony mockingly caressed Peter’s hair. “Afraid of what you don’t know? What’s next, you gonna be afraid of the dark again, need me to tuck you in, need a nightlight?”

“‘M not a little kid,” Peter shot back in a watery voice, holding back a confused sob. Everything felt so good, felt so bad, he just wanted so badly to be touched, just maybe not- Maybe not like this.

“Just relax, you’ll be fine.” Tony pushed forward again, gripping Peter’s hips and using the leverage to keep constant pressure against the ring of muscle that clung tightly to the tip of his cock. “Fuck baby,” Tony grunted, slowly forcing himself inside of his son. “Been waiting for you to grow up a little, out sucking on lookalikes when you could have been here sucking on me instead.”

Peter cried out as Tony’s dick slowly slid inside his clinging hole, bringing with it a stinging ache that radiated out to his lower back and thighs. “Stop! Dad, it hurts-”

Tony reached around and tugged at Peter’s cock, which was still hard enough to pound nails. “Can’t hurt that much.” He said dismissively before returning his hands to Peter’s hips, holding him in a bruising grip. “Now shush- Man up,” Tony grunted as his hardness forced inside fully, “and stop your whining.”

Tears were welling up in Peter’s eyes again as the pain built, feeling like his insides were rearranged inch by searing inch. He started crying again in earnest, fresh tracks tracing down his cheeks as Tony pulled back glacially slowly, then slid home again, pulling on Peter’s hips for leverage as Peter clung to the bathroom counter for support, fingers scrabbling against the cool marble surface.

“You wanted to play grown up games, you’re going to win grown up prizes,” Tony said breathlessly as his strokes increased in speed, balls slapping rhythmically against Peter as he experimented with the angle of his thrusts.

“Oh!” Peter warbled as his father’s cock brushed against his prostate. “Fuck- Fuck!”

Tony grinned sharkishly in the mirror. “There we go,” he crowed, and added power to his strokes, mercilessly grinding his shaft against Peter’s stinging rim with every push, hammering against his sweet spot.

“Dad-” Peter sobbed, pain and pleasure mixing up in his system like a hurricane, dick leaking where it hung between his thighs, drooling a long shining string of precum toward the floor.

“That’s right Petey, you take this cock,” Tony growled lowly.

As the minutes passed, the stinging was beginning to subside, leaving only lapping waves of warmth in its wake. Peter could see his body glistening with sweat in the mirror, curls plastered down to his forehead as his sobs turned into hitching moans. He was beginning to lean back into the thrusts, pushing his hips and arching his back to meet his father’s powerful pumps. Peter reached between his legs and grasped his aching dick, hissing in pleasure as he spread slickness from the tip down to his balls and back up again, jerking himself with fervor.

Leaning his head down to pillow on his braced arm, Peter moaned quietly, “Dad?”

“What?” Tony panted between flexes of his hips.

“Can you- I need-” Peter’s body quivered as he tried to speak.

“Adults use their words,” Tony said harshly as he reached up and pulled Peter’s head back by his hair, forcing him to make eye contact in the mirror. “What do you want?”

“Please, fuck me harder!” Peter blurted out, flushed cheeks darkening with shame as he watched his father’s face.

Tony laughed darkly and let go of Peter’s hair, letting his head fall back down to his arm and resuming his clawing grasp on his son's hips. “Who knew I raised such a fucking slut?”

Peter gasped in shock and stroked himself harder as Tony’s thrusts sped up to a blistering pace, moaning like a cheap whore as his father’s cock pistoned in and out of his hole, slamming against his sweet spot on every stroke. His balls were tight with need, the heat in his core raging like a wildfire. Peter just needed- He didn’t know what he needed, but he needed it soon, he needed it like, now; he needed it like, yesterday.

“You like that baby boy?” Tony reached in between their bodies and traced Peter’s reddened rim with his fingers before slowly pressing in a single digit, stretching Peter’s hole even further.

Peter cried out fiercely as his ass began to burn again, white heat overtaking his vision.

“You like being all grown up?” Tony asked breathlessly. “You like being Daddy’s big boy slut?”

His father’s words hit Peter like a bolt of lightning, making his legs shake and back arch uncontrollably. Heat erupted from him as his cock jerked in his grasp and shot out long strings of cum onto the bathmat. His ass clenched, hard, around his father, muscles rippling in rhythmic pulses to the timing of his tsunami of pleasure.

"Fuck, Pete-" Tony cursed, hips stuttering behind, into, out of Peter, finally coming to a lurching stop as a liquid heat spread inside Peter's ass.

The bathroom was silent for long moments, except for their slowly calming breaths. Peter watched his father in the mirror, questioningly tracing the lines of his face as he pulled his cock out of Peter’s sloppy hole.

"Dad?" Peter asked in a small voice.

Tony sounded utterly spent as he replied, rubbing absently at Peter's hips where his fingers had left livid marks. "What Petey?"

"Am I still grounded?"

#starker #livvibee

28 notes · View notes