#when his violent thoughts turn to violent actions

[0omillo0]

Felix angst/comfort (you can use this for the clingy series) where Felix feels the constant need to spend time with Y/N ( also rip this hits home for me) and Y/N is, for the first time in their life, not clingy. Like Felix perceives their actions as clingy but in their mind they feels free and as least clingy as they’ve ever been. And then Felix does the whole calls them clingy. And they have to take a moment because they, for once, felt so confident in themselves that they weren’t being clingy, and now they are second guessing themselves. (This is weirdly personal, I’ve been here before, please give mega angst but even more comfort)

Calling you clingy

Felix x Reader ; angst -> comfort

a/n: I hope this is what you wanted! merry christmas loves

Felix had always been a gentle, steady presence in your life—a warmth you could lean into when the world felt cold. His kindness had a way of pulling you out of your head, grounding you when your insecurities threatened to take over. You loved him for it.

But lately, his warmth felt different. He’d been clinging to you in ways you didn’t recognize, filling the spaces between your conversations with a soft desperation. He was more insistent on spending time together—seeking you out even when you felt perfectly fine sitting in your solitude.

At first, it was easy to brush off. Felix was affectionate by nature, and you’d always loved that about him. But when his gentle invitations turned into subtle comments—“Oh, you’re busy again?”—and his eyes lingered on you just a beat too long, you felt a weight you couldn’t explain.

It hurt, because for the first time in your life, you weren’t chasing validation. You weren’t battling the constant fear of being too much. Instead, you’d been reclaiming a sense of independence—spending time with yourself and learning to love the quiet.

You had felt proud. Free. For once, you didn’t feel the urge to text Felix every hour or overthink every interaction. And it had been working. The days felt lighter, and you believed you were finding a balance between nurturing your relationship with him and nurturing yourself.

And yet, tonight unraveled everything.

“Hey,” Felix called softly, pulling your attention away from the pile of papers on your desk.

The sound of his voice was cautious, hesitant, and you immediately turned to face him. “Yeah?” you asked, a small smile on your face. “What’s up?”

Felix shifted in place, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for the right words. He looked like a boy on the verge of confessing something he thought would ruin everything. “Can I… ask you something?”

“Of course.” You set down your pen, turning your full attention to him.

His gaze dropped, and you noticed the way his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Do you think… maybe you’ve been a little clingy lately?”

For a second, the words didn’t register.

Clingy?

Your heart sank, the air leaving your lungs in an instant. The weight of his question crashed into you, heavy and suffocating, as if the room had suddenly shrunk around you. “Clingy?” you echoed, your voice small and disbelieving.

He nodded, wincing slightly as if bracing for backlash. “I mean… you’re always around. You always want to hang out, and I love being with you—I do. But sometimes I feel like…” He trailed off, clearly unsure how to soften the blow.

“Like I’m suffocating you,” you finished for him, bitterness creeping into your tone.

“No!” Felix said quickly, his eyes wide and panicked. “No, it’s not that. I just… I need a little space sometimes. And I don’t want you to take that the wrong way.”

But how else could you take it? You stared at him, your stomach twisting violently. His words felt like a knife turning in an old wound you’d spent years trying to heal.

Clingy.

That label had haunted you for as long as you could remember. It was the word that stuck to you like a shadow, the fear that kept you second-guessing every relationship, every friendship. But you had worked so hard to overcome it. You’d been careful—so careful—to give Felix the space he deserved while finally giving yourself the freedom to breathe.

And now, the one person who made you feel safe had torn that progress apart.

“Felix…” you started, your voice trembling. You swallowed hard, willing yourself not to cry. “I’ve been trying so hard not to be clingy. Like… so hard.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What?”

“I’ve been holding back,” you said, the words tumbling out in a bitter rush. “I’ve been giving you space. I haven’t been texting you constantly, or asking to hang out every second, or freaking out if I don’t hear from you for a while. I thought I was finally getting it right.” Your voice cracked, and you looked away, trying to rein in the tears that threatened to spill.

Felix’s expression shifted, the weight of your words hitting him like a freight train. “Y/N…”

“But I guess even when I think I’m doing better, it’s still not enough,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” Felix said, stepping forward. His face crumpled with regret as he reached for you. “No, that’s not true. I didn’t mean it like that. I swear—”

“It’s fine,” you interrupted, stepping back out of his reach. Your hands clenched at your sides as you tried to steady your breath. “I get it. You need space. I’ll give you your space.”

“No, Y/N, don’t do that,” Felix said, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t—”

“I just need a minute, okay?” you said quickly, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving Felix standing there with his heart in his throat.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence of your room felt deafening. You sank onto your bed, your mind spiraling with questions you couldn’t answer.

Had you been too much? Had you failed to notice something you should have?

You replayed every interaction in your head, dissecting your choices and second-guessing the progress you’d been so proud of.

Meanwhile, Felix sat outside your door, his knees pulled to his chest. His head was heavy in his hands, guilt eating away at him with every passing second. He didn’t know what had possessed him to say those words—words that clearly cut you so deeply.

Finally, he knocked softly, his voice trembling. “Y/N?”

There was no response.

“Please,” he tried again, his throat tight. “I didn’t mean what I said. I wasn’t thinking. Please, let me in.”

After a long moment, the door opened, revealing your tear-streaked face. Felix’s heart broke all over again. Without a second thought, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as tightly as he could.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t realize how hard you’d been trying… and I just—” He exhaled shakily. “I was scared.”

You stiffened slightly in his arms. “Scared?”

He nodded, pulling back to meet your eyes. “I thought maybe you didn’t need me as much anymore. And I know that’s selfish, but it made me panic. I thought maybe you were pulling away because you didn’t want to be around me.”

His words sank in slowly, and your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. “Felix… I wasn’t pulling away. I was trying to find a balance. For me. For us.”

“I know,” he said, his voice thick with regret. “And I ruined it. I’m so sorry, Y/N. You’re not clingy. You’re amazing, and I’m so, so lucky to have you.”

His sincerity broke through your walls, and you leaned into his embrace, letting his warmth comfort you. “I just don’t want to lose you,” you murmured.

“You won’t,” Felix promised, holding you tighter. “I’ll do better. I’ll listen better. And I’ll never call you clingy again. I swear.”

You stayed in his arms for what felt like forever, the steady beat of his heart grounding you as the ache in your chest slowly began to ease. Felix didn’t let go, his arms wrapped around you with a desperation that spoke louder than any words he could say.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, his breath warm against your hair. “I didn’t mean any of it. I just… I messed up. I didn’t realize how much you’d been trying, and instead of supporting you, I let my own fears get in the way.”

You swallowed hard, the knot in your throat loosening with every word. “You really thought I didn’t need you anymore?”

He nodded, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze was filled with regret, but there was something else there too—a tenderness that made your chest tighten. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I got scared. You seemed so confident, so… happy on your own. And I thought maybe I was the only one who still needed us as much as I do.”

You shook your head, a soft, disbelieving laugh escaping your lips. “Felix, I need us. I always have. I just…” You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I needed to know I could stand on my own too. Not because I don’t love you, but because I wanted to be better for you. For both of us.”

His expression softened, his thumb gently brushing against your cheek. “You are better, Y/N. You’re amazing. And I should have told you that instead of making you feel like… like this.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Felix was quick to catch it, his touch impossibly gentle. “I don’t think you realize how much I look up to you,” he said quietly. “You’ve been so strong, and I’m… I’m so proud of you. I hate that I made you second-guess yourself.”

His words cracked something open inside you, and you leaned into his hand, letting yourself feel the warmth and sincerity in his touch. “You mean that?” you asked softly.

“Every word,” he said, his voice firm but tender. “You’ve been so brave, Y/N. I see it. And I’ll spend every day reminding you how incredible you are if that’s what it takes to make up for tonight.”

For the first time that night, you felt the heaviness in your chest begin to lift. The sting of his earlier words lingered, but his apology—his love—was genuine.

You gave him a small, tentative smile. “You don’t have to make up for anything, Felix. Just… promise me we’ll talk next time, okay? No more letting things fester.”

He nodded quickly, his lips twitching into a faint, relieved smile. “I promise. I’ll do better. No more keeping things to myself. And no more calling you clingy. Ever.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound breaking the tension in the room. “Good. Because that word is banned forever.”

“Forever,” Felix agreed, a playful light returning to his eyes. He shifted, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched. “You’re not clingy, Y/N. You’re perfect. Just the way you are.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart swell, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the moment. For the first time in hours, you felt truly at ease.

Later that night, you found yourselves curled up on the couch, the tension of the evening a distant memory. Felix’s arms were wrapped around you, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your arm as the quiet hum of a movie played in the background.

“Y/N?” he murmured after a while, his voice soft and contemplative.

“Yeah?” you replied, tilting your head to look at him.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” he said, his cheeks turning pink as the words left his mouth.

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re not so bad yourself, Felix.”

He laughed softly, his lips brushing against your temple. “I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to,” you said gently, resting your hand over his. “We’ll figure it all out. Together.”

Felix’s arms tightened around you, his lips curving into a soft smile against your skin. “Together,” he echoed, and in that moment, you knew he meant it with every fiber of his being.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t questioning yourself. You weren’t doubting your place in his life or worrying about being too much. Felix’s love wrapped around you like a promise—a reassurance that you didn’t have to change to be enough.

@intartaruginha @hannamoon143 @inlovewithstraykids @whoa-jo @madirye062 @vixensss @sseawavee @emilyywhyy @halfwinterhalfuniverse @velvetmoonlght @flourishmoon

[rabotimagines]

"HARMLESS" GN BOT! Reader x Optimus, Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide, light Yandere! Scenario

Summary: He'd been walking down one of the ark hallways when he'd heard a noise that drew his attention down one of the more secluded pathways. He'd followed the sound to figure out who was back where they shouldn't be only to find you self servicing.

Warnings: Noncon Voyeurism. Noncon recording in Jazz's section. Smut ahead. Minors DNI 🔞

Genre/Theme: Light Yandere/More Obsessed vibes tbh, catching crush/Obsession masturbating. Smut.

G1! Characters included: Optimus, Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide

Notes: Jazz is the only one here whose accepted the fact that he's a freak. The others are in varying stages of denial. Autobot reader. Valve and Spike are used since BOT reader.

Pronouns: You, your, yours

Optimus isn't trying to sneak anywhere he was simply- curious. Honestly, he was expecting to maybe find the twins up to some pranking or something of that nature. The wall is thick and tall enough that Optimus is just hidden naturally. He smiles to himself at the thought of spooking one of his friends or comrades, so he let's himself- indulge in the little fun. It was harmless, after all. He's up against the wall, ready to interrupt whatever tomfoolery when his optics catch on an opening before the turn. Optimus peers in curious when a sound happens again- and almost stumbles backwards and lands on his aft.

You- panting, optics bright, servos readily stroking over your plating. Array popped open with spike and valve on full display for anyone to see. You were self servicing right here almost in front of Optimus. Heat hit Optimus's fuel lines so quickly he was half worried he'd risk actual sudden ignition. Optimus knew he shouldn't even feel this way about you- it wasn't even- he was your leader for Primus sake! He was the prime he wasn't supposed to be- a pervert! But something- something about you just made his systems lock up and his mind wander in places it hadn't gone in vorns. Made Optimus think in a way he shouldn't. In a way, he couldn't-

The soft sound of you groaning at your own administrations violently locked Optimus back to what he'd unknownly just walked into. Optimus watched stunned as two of your digits slipped into your valve rather easily. Your other servo lightly trailed along your spike, which was twitching in the air and leaking lubricant all over yourself from want- Optimus had to force his engine not to loudly rev in anticipation The sound urged to reverbate through his own frame at the sight.

Optimus knows he can't but- but with you like this right in front of him for his optics, he can't not think about it. Optimus wants to spike you - he wants to so bad. He'd have to stretch you. Optimus was admittedly rather large- overall. (You could even be in his frame size class, and he'd still have to prep you-) He wonders if your optics would brighten like that one time he'd praised you for a battle decision. He'd fold you in half, using his servos to drag you back down his spike in time with his own thrusts. He'd praise you over and over again if you reacted so sweetly. Regardless of how much of his spike you'd actually be able to successfully take.

Optimus knew the more responsible course of action would be to take your spike in his valve instead. But Optimus startlingly finds he doesn't want to be responsible with you. He wants to spike you so badly- your noises getting louder cut his own quick fantasy short, Optimus's attention zeroed in on you. You started bucking your hips against both your working servos desperate for Overload. Optimus has the very fleeting thought of revealing himself and offering assistance before he watches you spill transfluid all over yourself with a full frame shutter.

You gasped in vents of air as the charge trickled over your plating in fits- and Optimus lately realizes his smoke stacks were puffing smog when the smell of ozone hits his olfactory. Optimus has to force himself to move, but once he does, he leaves so quickly he's worried you might've heard him. This leaves Optimus plagued by what he should not have seen in the first place. His entire day is filled with the imagery of you- panting, optics bright, servos on your array- and he has no clue how he manages to finish the little amount of paperwork that he had. Optimus doesn't let himself self service. He can't- he won't- it was so wrong. You didn't even know Optimus saw the whole thing- that he saw you so- indecent.

He's plagued by one more thought of you taking his spike- your hips bucking against his, and Optimus gets up and forces himself to the washracks. It was rather late anyway there shouldn't be any mech using it. He walks in and promptly stops because there is someone using it, and Primus, it's you! With solvent running down your frame casually washing yourself with no worries. He mets your optics (after his optics had trailed much too long on your frame), and you casually greet him, then go back to your rinse. Completely unaware of what offensive imagery had just barreled through Optimus's proccessor.

Optimus didn't wait to promptly step under the closest washrack and turn the solvent on the coldest possible setting. Not even flinching when his frame is doused in a freezing temperature. Optimus finds he has to exert his will to keep staring at the wall and not steal any other glance at you.

... Primus, he needed to get a better hold of himself.

-

Prowl following the sounds in the off-limits area had come with purpose and indent. He'd been readily prepared to scold any of the usual troublemakers for getting up to something they shouldn't have. Clearly, that's what this was, with whoever trying and failing to keep entirely quiet. There was certainly an attempt, and Prowl would not have noticed if he were any of the usual autobots. But Prowl was always alert, and now he's here slowly trailing along the wall. He'd known there was a small indent hidden from the hallway for someone to hide or lean against. Prowls optics catch on a small opening in the wall that allows him to spy who-

Prowl stops dead in his tracks when he sees you- he almost walks the last two steps and reviles himself to you when he actually processes your expression. Optic ridge tight, mouth open panting, optics bright- Prowls line of sight trails down your shuttering frame before they widen when they land on your pressurized spike. His gaze snaps farther down instinctively when he catches movement and sees your valve.

He also sees the false spike in your valve.

His doorwings hike so high so quickly that Prowl can feel the snap of air on his own neck cables. He can feel his own optics burn brighter and his logic centre suddenly goes rouge and attempts to calculate subduing measures on you- Prowl wasn't going to subdue you- you weren't a threat- just as he dismisses the calculations you groan rather loudly. The action triggers the subduing success calculations to turn back on, and Prowl watches you hilt the false spike back in your valve. Valve stretching to accommodate it and hard spike leaking lubricant at your own heightened arousel.

Prowl- Prowl needed to leave now. It had to be you of all mechs. If it was anyone else, Prowl would be able to rightfully interrupt this debauchery. But the fact that it's you- You softly panting with your array on full display and demonstration- Prowls processor is stuck, and he feels like if he stares too long, he'll risk a minor circuit crash. Prowl still doesn't know what it was about you that made his system stutter like it does. But Prowl knew that whatever it was- it was unhealthy. It wasn't  harmless- it was far from it. Prowl shouldn't think about you like this- He has to force himself to look away from your array again. Prowl had barely managed to push you out of his proccessor the other day, and now he's seeing you like- you groaned, and Prowls door wings vibrated a touch at the sound.

Prowl takes one long last look at your pleasured faceplate before promptly turning on his pede and briskly walking away. Prowl makes his way back to his office and sits, and finishes his entire daily paperwork log so quickly he's stuck sitting in his office staring at a blank datapad. Now, the other problem he had to solve. How is Prowl to... inform you that you're not allowed to self-service outside of your habituate.

Prowl knows you have that false spike in your subspace. He knows he could call you in right now and make you empty your entire subspace on his desk for him. Say some of the autobots were smuggling... contraband. If you didn't drop it, he'd frisk you for it. Regardless, it would be put out on his desk, and Prowl would scold you and properly punish you. Prowl would use it on you. Force that false spike in your valve again and again and watch you fall apart while his own spike ached against his modesy panel. He'd make you overload all over yourself until all you could say was his designation.

His proccessor supplied the image of you sitting on his desk, with your legs splayed open on either side of you. Transfluid all over the front of your chasiss from your overworked spike. With Prowls own spike sitting heavy against the mesh of your valve...

Prowl has to force himself to turn and go on break. Which leads to him walking like he's on his way to kill a mech and subsequently scaring anyone out of his way as he makes his way to his habituate. Prowl overloads into his fist so hard his battle computer resests itself from the heat. When it turns back, his logic centre started by running through the success he'd have getting himself alone with you and your potential routes of travel around the ark... It takes a shameful amount of effort to dismiss the promt...

The stasiss cuffs Prowl always keeps in his subspace feel absurdly heavy.

-

Ironhide is like Prowl, he'd come expecting to have to drag a troublmaker or two out and lay into them. He's not usually light on his pedes, but he'd had to learn to be after this many vorns at war. So he makes his way over ready to drag an autobot out like a buzzing scraplet if he needed to. But he stops when he hears a sharp invent that could have been pained? The sound sets his plating shifting the wrong way, and he gets even quieter and reaches a tentative servo against his subspace. Ready to pull his blaster out if he had to blast like pit as soon as he turned that lil' corner.

Ironhide's optics catch movement, and his gaze is drawn to the little broken patch of wall that gives him a small but wide enough gape to easily pear in and see what was on the other side. Ironhide stops and actually focuses on it only to recognize just who's plating that was- You failing to stifle a moan sends Ironhides plating ruffling for an entirely different reason. Oh, sweet slaggin- Ironhide has to bite his glossia so he wouldn't curse a storm under his own vents. Really? Here? Now? You were actually doing this?! You little pervert!

Ironhide- Ironhide knew whatever he felt about you was- well, fragged to put it lightly. He'd been online for frankly too damn long, and he'd never felt like this before. (And that only made it freak him out even more.) Yeah, he'd loved and crushed and fantasized, but whatever you were doing to his systems was something else. The blasted amount of feelings you were giving Ironhide was a pain in his aft on a good day. On his bad days, he couldn't focus on anything else, but his proccessor conjured charged fantasies- like he was a fragging youngling who'd just learned what interfacing was.

Ironhide sure wasn't about to let that stop him from doing his job, though. He was gonna drag you out and put you on chore duty for a week for this- You failing to stifle a groan that only turned muffled halfway which made Ironhide focus back on you through the gap and Ironhide swallowed hard. You had your digits shoved into your own mouth, thrusting them in again every time you thrust your spike into your other servo. You moaned against your own digits, your own desperate servo sending a bit of oral lubricant down your chin.

Arousel spiked in Ironhides frame so damn fast he didn't even have a chance to deny the HUD prompt before his array snapped back of its own accord. Ironhide bit his glossia, glaring at his now suddenly very fully ready to go spike. Ironhide cursed hard in his proccessor at his own frames utter betyral. You whined around your digits, and Ironhides will shattered like glass. His servo cupped and immediately started stroking his own spike. Fine- fine! Ironhide would let you have this harmless dirty little secret. Even if he shared it a little bit with you-

Ironhide took the sight of you in- Optics bright, mouth making a mess all over yourself with your own digits, Spike hard and probably aching- Ironhides spike throbbed and he made sure to match the pace on his spike with your own servos speed. Ironhide pressed slightly against the wall, imagining it was you. Instead, he could press into the ground. Pit- Ironhide could take two the last two steps and do it right now- (He wouldn't- he couldn't.) Just two easy steps, and he'd scold you for being a pervert. (With his own spike already dripping-) Ironhide could punish you for it- he should punish you for it.

Ironhide would make you get on your knees and he'd have you swallow his spike. Put something better in there than your own desperate digits- you groaned on your own digits, and it was scarily easy to imagine you on his spike instead. Ironhide overloads to the sound of your own overload- he has to set his jaw tight, so the heavy groan that wanted to roll out of it wouldn't give him away.

Ironhide then realizes he's made a mess on the wall with his own transfluid and quickly grabs the rag he keeps in his subspace for oil. He wipes his mess up as quickly as he can before turning and making his way back to the main hallway. Ironhide might not get you for self servicing- but he can definitely scold you for slacking when you're supposed to be on the job. So Ironhide waits around the corner for you to come out on your own accord. 

... Ironhide realizes he can't deny this much longer before some other part of him breaks.

-

Jazz is naturally light on his pedes after vorns of making sure he stays that way. He doesn't even have to stop before he's leaning up against the wall instinctively when he hears another soft set of sounds trying and failing to stay quiet. So Jazz does what he does and sneaks over to find out what's what. He half wonders what he's gonna interrupt so he leans to peak between a gap to see a peak of whatevers being hidden from him- and Jazz almost immediately gives himself away like some kind of rookie at the sight of you with your interface array popped open.

Jazzs spark stutters and arousel starts pumping through his system like it was his function. As soon as he realizes it's you- You self servicing- a delighted smile curls on his face, and he leans farther against his little gap to get a better view. Oh, Jazz is lucky! he's so lucky-

Jazz had long accepted the admittedly almost obsessive hold you had on his spark and processor. After a few internal debates, he'd elected his feelings for you while wild and were also genuine. So Jazz just needed to squash down the more- intense urges, and he should be fine. Jazz was never the type of mech to shy away from vices. Whether it was a harmless perversion or the unsavory things he needed to be or do as the head of special operations. Jazz had no objections in indulging in his romantic desire for you. (He just needed to make sure it didn't consume him whole while he tried to woo you properly.)

Jazz could interrupt and scold you teasingly and offer a servo, but Jazz knew you wouldn't be likely to want to keep going after being interrupted doing what you thought was private...

So he decides he'll take the harmless- (what you didn't need to know wouldn't hurt you.)  opportunity and activate the record function setting on his visor. He didn't want to miss this- Your servo stroking along your twitching spike, other servo running along your frame touching and grasping at the gasps in your plating. Giving Jazz a proper show of you tentatively touching yourself. Jazz wonders what your spike would feel like in his valve when you buck your hips against your own hold. Jazz then has to bite down on his bottom derma so he wouldn't groan at the sight of you spreading your legs unknownly, giving him an optic full of your obscenely dripping valve.

Jazz reigns in the wild urge to jump you- to offer to help because he knows the act would ruin any process he'd made getting closer to you even just as a friend-Jazz leaned even closer, focusing on your digits teasingly brushing against your own mesh and anterior node. Jazz found himself wanting to burry two digits down to the knuckle in your valve and hear what sound you'd make. Would you manage to stay quiet like you were now, or would you moan for him? You panted out quick vents and noises that were still so restrained due to where you were. Your servo jerked your twitching spike quicker, causing more soft and barely audible sounds.

Jazzs own digits started to dig into the gap of his inner thigh armor. Moving to run along there against the dips of his own array panel. He'd pop his aching spike out, but Jazz didn't want to even chance ruining any little sound you might make with his own noises. Or the sound of his own lubricant- this was all you, baby. All for him-

Jazz has to dig his digit pads into his own thigh- scratching the paint right off when he watches you overload. You looked so good- So perfect. So sultry. So perfect for him-

Jazz has to force himself to hit end on the recording when you start to rise and move to quickly clean up. You'd be coming his way in a moment, after all. So Jazz casually stalks his way back to the common hallway he'd started at and moves to finish that report he'd originally been filing. He's definitely just going through the motions, though. His proccessor replaying his new prized recording over and over for him behind his visor.

He's self servicing to it as soon as he tucks into his habituate for scheduled recharge. Jazz is already making notes about how you touched yourself and how he could keep that little information tucked away for later. Jazz, let's himself imagine spiking you in your little area and giving you a proper valve overload, making your optics bright and your vents shaky. Jazz then imagines riding your spike and filling him up like he'd filled you up. He imagines sucking your spike- tasting your valve. Jazz had already accepted that he wanted you in every way you'd let him, so he has no problem indulging further and further.

Jazz overloads hard watching you overload a second time. And Jazz has to bite down on his own knuckles to not set Red alerts hallway sensors off. Maybe... Jazz could adjust your work schedule and give you just slightly more free time than you have right now. Would be a shame if your little hiding spot went... unutilized

Jazz just hoped he'd be quick enough to catch you next time, too.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

The Book of Yemoja

18+ mdni, please check master list for the content warnings

Master list

Chapter 1: Noctilucous - shining at night.

I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime

Tell them, tell 'em, tell them the truth

I hope you find some paradise (tell them, tell 'em the truth)

Tell 'em, tell 'em, tell 'em, tell them your-

“Captain Price, I'm afraid that if you try to separate them too soon, Kyle may go into shock.” The psychiatrist tries to gently explain. “Not to mention the young woman that is with him.”

John stares at his pack's omega and he feels like a failure. They thought he was killed in action. Gone from them for good. He's ashamed that he was ready to write it all off despite Soap saying he could feel it in his soul that Kyle wasn't lost. He doesn't even try to pretend to be concerned about anyone else other than his Kyle. Yeah, it's nice that this woman managed to save him. What's not nice is the unhealthy codependency. They orbit each other, always within arms reach, growling whenever someone gets too close. When one sleeps, the other keeps watch. They never eat at the same time or even eat the same food. John can't imagine what kind of hellish abuse happened to where neither of them will eat together. 

Right now, both of them are lying on the bed. There are soft whispered words between the two of them. They lay in each other's arms, tracing soothing patterns on each other. Kyle has his back facing the observation window. He's hiding her. While Kyle was worse for wear when they found him, the girl was feral and extremely violent. It's clear that she's not all there, but there are moments where John swears she's clairvoyant and is always three steps ahead of the staff that has been tasked with watching them.

She counts a lot. She counts the amount of grapes in the bowl from their lunch. She counts the number of tiles on the ceiling and walls. She counts how many staff members pass the doorway window. John is sure she is keeping count of time, but he isn't sure how because there's no clock in the room, but she always makes sure she is up at each shift change. 

“I guess she's stuck with us for now.” John sighs, turning away from the two way mirror. 

I've been goin' through somethin'

One thousand, eight hundred and 55 days

I've been goin' through somethin'

Be afraid

Heat. Blistering itchy heat. Kyle wants to crawl out of his skin. It's so bad. The cold stone floor does little to give him relief. He imagines in his mind that Johnny will tease him. Nip at the bond mark on his neck, finger him open, and then slowly push himself into him. A sweet joining of flesh to prepare him for John and Simon. It would then be a week of non-stop fucking, and at the end he would he would be pleasantly sore. 

“Suppressants aren't-” a voice says through the thick fog of his concussion and heat addled brain.

There's growling coming from above his body. A weight presses down on him, and it feels like when Simon lays on him. A weighted blanket that's growling and hissing. There's a clang and the sound of glass shattering. Pained grunts and muffled shouts.

“Fuck! Sedate-” another voice is yelling and it makes his head hurt. Then it's all quiet or he thinks it's quiet. 

“You're okay.” A soft voice that sounds like it has swallowed rocks says to him. A warm hand touches him, and he hisses. “We'll get through this.” 

He opens his eyes, and the splitting headache he has only gets worse. Her eyes are wild like a caged animal, hair a matted mess. Despite this, she gives the visage of a bright light shining dimly in the dark of night (he is delirious with pain and heat). He's about to close his eyes again, but she taps him on the cheek.

“Hey, stay up. You have to stay up.” She moves him and holds him close to her breast. “Are you in heat? How long does it last?”

“Six or seven days.” He manages to croak out. Promptly after everything becomes a blur and haze.

His body doesn't feel like it's his own, but his inner omega feels good. The heat in his body is still blistering, but right now, the edge is being taken off. He grips at the flesh of her hips as he rocks into her body. He almost never is on top. His own dick never really enters any of his alphas. It's always him on the bottom, so this feels different. She's got the smooth column of her neck bared, submitting to him fully. His body bends over her, and his hips work into her, trying to desperately find relief. His dick is covered in an obscene amount of her slick, and it's mixing with his own. 

He whines, a guttural sound coming from his chest. He pants when he kisses her, bites at her lips, and shoves his tongue into her mouth. She sucks on his tongue and moans into the kiss. Her nails are bitten to the quick drag along his skin, and there won't be any scratches or welts on him. He still likes the feeling all the same. Somewhere in his mind he knows this isn't what his body of craving, he craves a knot, he desires to be ruined in the only way Simon can, to be choked and have his Captain’s beard leave a tingling feeling across his skin, to feel the jackhammer of Johnny's hips against his own.

This. Two omegas fucking. It feels like too needy pups that just discovered what sex was and didn't want to commit to the act with an alpha. 

But fuck if it doesn't feel good. It feels wet. It feels hot. It feels like the frayed edges of his mind are being cooled. It feels good to dominate her body and flesh.

When his heat breaks on the last day, he finally is lucid. The two of them are in a tangle of limbs. Sweaty bodies pressed close together at the far side of their cell. They don't bother with clothes. The thin, scratchy blanket that covers them is enough for now. She keeps her back towards the cell door, and he faintly realizes she is trying to hide him.

“What's your name?” His eyes feel heavy with sleep. Voice raw from voicing his pleasure. “My name is Kyle.”

She is quiet as she stares back at him. He is a little unnerved by how she doesn't answer right away. Instead, a small smile graces her cracked lips, and he thinks about the dangers of dehydration. She has not, to his memory, drank enough water, and she certainly only allows him a few sips here and there. Her fingers trace over his cheekbones and lips. Hands cupping his face with reverence, almost like she can't believe that someone else is in here with her.

It's a long moment of silence, and he is drifting off to sleep now. “How many days has it been?” He asks. He is trying to get her to talk. One of the first things to go as a POW is sanity. Maybe hers is already gone?

“It's been two weeks.” She tells him. “They put it in the air…I'm sorry.”

“Hm?” He cracked open his eyes, “I just got here.”

“No. The suppressants and sedatives were put in the air when I wouldn't let them inject you.”

He lost time. A big mistake, a rookie one at that. He can already hear Captain scolding him. He takes a deep breath. The come down from his heat is pulling him under into sleep. He needs it so that he can figure out with a clear head on how to escape and get back to his pack.

Before his fitful sleep finds him, he hears her speak again.

“Call me Yemoja.”

Everybody grieves different. 

I grieve different. 

Huh.

a.n: hello everyone. I plan on making you all hurt in this one. Love you. 😘

Song: United in grief. Kendrick Lamar

Tag list: @uraeus56 @littlelovebug98 @mochroialainn @gazsluckyhat @chickennuggetuwu @beloveds-embrace @leahnicole1219 @curiouslittleprincess

[lune-moon-nuit]

Thoughts about Mike I had last week while watching the middle of season 4

While watching Season 4 last week (yes, I’m extremely late to the party), I’m truly astonished at how misunderstood Mike is by much of the fandom and the general audience. It’s clear that Mike from Seasons 3 and 4 often comes across as an awkward idiot who can hurt others with his words or actions—particularly Will and El. This starkly contrasts with how he behaved in Seasons 1 and 2. However, it seems people overlook an important factor: Mike is now a teenager. A teenager who already carries a significant amount of trauma yet isn’t in a position to complain, because he has always been the friend or boyfriend supporting the “main victim” of the story.

Mike was traumatized by Will’s disappearance, by the abnormal events and creatures that turned their lives and town upside down. He has witnessed countless deaths—just in the episode I recently finished in Season 4, he literally watched a government agent die right in front of him after barely surviving a shootout, and he even helped bury the body himself alongside Jonathan, Will and Argyle. Let’s not forget that Mike has also come close to death multiple times. The list of what he’s endured is long. Yet through all of it, he was just a child, then a teenager.

While it’s true he’s sometimes hurtful or clumsy in his behavior toward El—primarily out of awkwardness—people forget that this is his first romantic relationship. And not just any relationship: one forged under extraordinary circumstances. El herself couldn’t initially distinguish between familial love and romantic love, and Mike was subtly pushed into seeing El romantically, thanks to a heteronormative society and remarks like Lucas’s, which suggested a boy taking care of a girl must mean he “likes” her. After all, in such an environment, a boy and girl can’t just share a bond of care without romantic undertones.

Another critical detail the fandom seems to overlook relates to Will. In Season 1, at just 10 to 12 years old, Mike had suicidal thoughts. He literally jumped off a cliff, unaware that El would use her powers to save him. He had no idea. He made a deliberate choice to jump, hiding behind the bully’s threat toward Dustin. But let’s be honest—anyone with a natural survival instinct wouldn’t so easily choose to leap to their death, even under pressure. Mike knew he had no chance of surviving that fall. It was deliberate.

So we must ask: What drives a 12-year-old boy to feel so hopeless, despite having friends and a family who love him? By now, we know that Mike, alongside Will, was a target of relentless bullying, much of it homophobic. Even Mike’s father made homophobic remarks in Season 1, adding pressure that Mike likely didn’t fully comprehend. At the cliffside, hope for finding Will alive was nearly gone. Mike had lost all hope. I genuinely believe that for him to have reached that point, the weight of his struggles was far heavier than we realized.

Mike has suffered immensely. He was already dealing with significant psychological distress in Season 1, which continued to accumulate. In Season 1, his focus was on finding Will. In Season 2, it was on protecting and saving Will. In Season 3, he acted like a “normal” teenager, but he was still targeted—being threatened violently by an adult who lashed out simply because Mike was behaving like any other boyfriend with El. Instead of questioning the why behind his actions, people just blamed him. In Season 4, rather than asking why Mike struggles to express his love for El, the audience blames him for supposedly not loving her enough.

But if Mike is confused—if he struggles to articulate his feelings—why is that? Mike has always been the devoted friend and boyfriend, but the series rarely highlights the immense psychological toll this has taken on him. His reactions, in truth, are quite logical and normal. Especially when you consider the more-than-plausible theory that Mike is either bisexual or homosexual. His internalized homophobia, combined with societal pressure in the 1980s, the fear of judgment, the fear of himself, and his confusion about his own feelings, all align perfectly with his behavior in Seasons 3 and 4. After all, adolescence is when most people begin to explore their sexual identity, desire, and emotions.

Take his words to Will, where he mentions their meeting in kindergarten as “the best thing that ever happened to him.”Mike’s connection to Will is profound. But being a gay teenager in the 1980s—while also not wanting to hurt El, whom he deeply cares for and feels responsible toward—would mean he’s carrying immense self-hatred, frustration, anger, fear, anxiety, depression, guilt, and the overwhelming sense of being “wrong” (a feeling Will also experiences).

All of this makes me believe that Season 5 could greatly benefit from focusing on Mike by making him Vecna’s target. Vecna would have plenty to exploit: Mike’s traumas, his unspoken suffering, and his struggles with his sexuality. It would be a perfect way to force Mike to confront who he is and what he feels for Will—while also allowing Will to learn the truth. Such a storyline would introduce rich internal conflict, both for Mike and for their relationship.

Considering how explicitly queer-coded Mike is in Season 4, it would be an enormous waste not to explore this as a central narrative thread in Season 5. Doing so would not only bring Will and Mike’s relationship to the forefront but would also give us a deeper look into Mike’s psyche—all the pain he has endured silently, all the while remaining loyal and supportive toward Will and El. Mike has worried for them, searched for them, protected them, and fought for them. It’s time the series recognizes that, even without powers, Mike is the heart of the group. Without him, everything falls apart.

[epickiya722]

Okay, I read what I can from the epilogue and I just want to put out that I'm not saying I'm right about anything I say here because it's not an official release and I read from fan translations.

『Also refer to this post and this one!』

So, again, I was right about Ozawa meeting Yuji again and they have a little heart to heart.

Talking about snow, what they're doing in the same place, bit about Shibuya, it was cute.

But the ending of it was more open ended (which isn't something I hate to be honest).

Before anyone goes "Oh, they pulled a MHA 431, it's so homophobic", I get that it might feel that way but... in no way did Yuji express anything romantic to Ozawa, let alone any kind of feelings for her. Like, let's take a step back FOR ONCE and analyze what's up here. Here, take my hand. Come on and follow along with me.

If anything, from his side, he thinks she is a cool girl. However, he still barely knows her and I doubt him if confessed to he would be like "Oh, I like you like that, too, Ozawa! Let's date!" She's, at best, an acquaintance. Someone in passing, someone he did go to middle school with.

So, her epilogue isn't even homophobic. At best, it's once again just Ozawa being all starry eyed over Yuji who doesn't know how she feels.

It's actually sad when you think about it.

In no way is her feelings are mutual. If Yuko was looking for love, Yuji may not be that person for it. I get it, sometimes you'll have feelings for the one person who was nice to you, but that doesn't mean it will be the only person.

Yuko being too busy hung up on Yuji may have missed a person who likes in the way she likes Yuji. What if there was someone else who did pay attention to the way she writes? Who did meet her at some point and got to know her and liked her for who she was?

And if not that, Yuko should have took Yuji's words to heart and realized how great she is and learn to love herself a little more.

The thing about the middle school flashback I feel, isn't just a flashback about her, but also to show the kind of person he is.

It shows that he's attentive and thoughtful. But also that his actions tend to be swayed by other people, even forcefully. Which happens often for Yuji. He told those boys he didn't like anybody and when asked again if he had to choose, he choose someone who he thought was a neat person. Those boys forced Yuji to give another answer despite him saying he didn't like anybody the first time.

If anything, that flashback serves as a more gentle example of who Yuji contrasting to Rin, another person who knew Yuji when he was a middle schooler (Rin is actually older than Yuji). In Rin's flashback, we see Yuji defend a kid that was being picked on.

Yuji was being attentive, he didn't ignore a kid being bullied. He stepped up and told them to leave him alone and when they didn't and decided to charge at Yuji, he was then forced to act violently. In turn, Rin was left with the impression he had of Yuji, just as Yuko was.

Bringing up the snow bit, it was cute. I liked it! Yuji being compared to snow. But this is not the first time someone has came across Yuji and thought of snow.

What was the incident they bring up this chapter? The Shibuya Incident, right. And who did Yuji have to fight and had cowering by the end of it? Mahito, yes, him. And other than a wolf, what else did Mahito imagine when he became fearful of Yuji? SNOW!

So like with Rin, Mahito's perception of Yuji is opposite of Yuko's. She got to experience a gentle side which she admires. Rin and Mahito got his violent side, which they feared.

With all that being said, even with this epilogue ending the way it did, it doesn't smell "canon" to me. Especially, on Yuji's end of things.

Yuji may have a type of girl he likes, but he is also someone who doesn't express romantic interest in anybody.

While this is Yuko's epilogue, I do feel like she is also just another character to showcase the kind of person Yuji can be. She being present shows a gentle side of him while characters like Rin and Mahito shows his violent side.

And no, again, I don't think this means they're canon. So I beg, certain shippers who like the same ship I do, don't jump on Yuko, Yuji or Akutami for thinking this is some homophobic chapter when the romance between a girl and a boy here once again went nowhere.

It really didn't feel like Akutami-sensei was really trying to make them canon. And given the track record of F/M ships in this series? Yeah... no...

[slowcatsisland]

Roronoa Zoro; “Big Guy”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A/N: Zoro having a flashback which is where the fic’s setting is, pre established relationship, during Sababody arc pre timeskip, reader was a pirate before joining the Straw Hats, reader wears a necklace normally, Zoro flustering easily. Also casually bringing up the Norse Gods as the reader’s religion don’t hate me they’re so interesting

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Zoro has often tried to deny his body’s reaction to you, but the heat that rises throughout his body when you call him, ‘big guy’ is so sinfully strong it challenges his self discipline.

He hasn’t told you how much the name affects him. Considering you use it sparingly, he’s under the impression you’re not aware of it either.

As he laid on his back sprawled out on the bed, Zoro couldn’t help but turn his head just far enough so that he could see you out of his lone eye. You were resting against him, using his arm as a headrest while you sunk lower and lower into the sea of dreams.

You looked peaceful. You looked vulnerable too, with your neck exposed to him so casually- he could smell your scent from the lack of distance between the two of you. The trust you displayed before him without effort, even in sleep, stirred a sigh from him.

Zoro eyed the beaded string dangling from your neck. It was the same necklace you wear everyday. You wore it that day too, the day you first called him ‘big guy’.

••

In Sabaody, Zoro just had a rather confusing encounter with some whack job wearing a glass bubble on his head and that pirate chick who doused him in ketchup. Though he kept walking, he couldn’t shake the growing sense of confusion that was slowly swirling in his belly like a butterfly.

He had seen you just up ahead of him in what looked to be the beginnings of a fight with two guys. He watched you slap the guy on your left. Zoro grimaced slightly before heading over to you. He’d received one of those slaps before and he knew they hurt.

He also knew that you could take these two, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want a piece of the action. You had one guy in a choke hold before a thudding sound came from your side. Turning sharply, you were met with Zoro clinging to one of his sheathed swords and the other guy on the ground.

“Well look who it is, my savior.” You joked while letting go of the limp man in your hold.

Zoro looked you over silently before putting his sword back and splaying his hands on his hips,“Not saying it’s wrong, but whatcha doing starting a brawl in the middle of the street? Ain’t your style.”

You deadpanned before responding, “Suppose it doesn’t matter,” You crossed your arms over your chest, “What are you doing away from the crew?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

You smacked your teeth. “Aye, it’s a good question indeed. Let’s walk to back yeah?”

The two of you walked a good distance before you mumbled, “Those,” you breathed heavily, “Those dogs said some stuff. Stuff that only gets said to you when you’re someone like me.”

From the way you said it, Zoro understood that you didn’t want to talk about it more. He couldn’t outright guess what they said, but he had a few hints. After all, you were a pirate, down to the definition of the word. It showed too- in the way you talked, the way you thought.

Suddenly, you swiped at his shoulder.

“It’s all golden though, after all, I got a big guy like you here for me yeah?” The way you said it like a secret only he could hear stumped Zoro a bit.

It was said like a promise, that you just knew that Zoro would be there to protect you. It was said with trust, cruel trust that spelled ruin if it was broken.

Zoro casted a glance at you only to be met with your own staring back at him. They looked like they were searching him for confirmation. Though, the way your pupils softened and became more mellow looked more like pleading.

A violent blush overcame his face as Zoro looked forward sharply, “Tch, it’s not like I’m gonna fight your battles for you. Grow up a bit will ya?”

You barked a laugh at his reaction, “Awh, what’s wrong with you? You look like you just saw Hel herself.”

Zoro coughed, “Who?”

“Ah, she’s one of the Old Gods. My parents told me her story and all the rest. She’s the one I chose to worship.”

Right. On your former ship, the crew worshiped the ‘Old Gods’. You didn’t talk about it much, though it wasn’t uncommon to see you partake in a prayer or a ritual of sorts. If he recalled, Zoro could remember you talking about them to Robin.

“But I believe in all of them.” You muttered, more to yourself than him. “Where are we heading?”

Zoro grunted, relieved that his face didn’t burn as much as before. “Grove one.”

“Aye, Grove one.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Help me he’s so squishy pre timeskip

I don’t know if I like this one or not

Mwah 😽

[cece693]

Hi, your tumblr is amazing, I loved discovering it. Can I make a request? About a slasher who discovers that the male reader is a serial killer as terrible as the ones in the real world. I'm not sure which one would fit best; I thought of Jason, Billy and Stu, maybe Michael or Norman Bates… whatever you think is best and/or are most familiar with.

Slashers With a Serial Killer Lover (Slashers x GN! Reader)

Sorry it took a while to complete this request but I was in a weird funk and uninspired. However, with this being more of a multi-character request/headcannon, it spurred me to complete it. I included the slashers you mentioned above, alongside Hannibal, Will (I'm aware he's not a slasher, but I just love him) and Patrick. I also changed it to be gender neutral because I want to be more inclusive :)

Norman Bates

Norman would be conflicted—after all, you're not only worried about his reaction but that of 'mother.' If your actions pleased her, Norman might be supportive. However, if they don't and 'mother' perceives you to be a threat, expect Norman to turn against you (with tears in his eyes.) However, even if 'mother' does approve of your hobby, this relationship is far from simple. 'Mother' might grow jealous of how much Norman is straying from her teachings and become vengeful. Expect a chaotic rollercoaster of guilt, affection, and psychological breakdowns.

Michael Myers

Michael would be indifferent to your hobby unless they interfered with his own objectives. He might view you as a tool or an ally in his pursuits, but wouldn't engage emotionally or ethically about whom you kill. Expect no romantic gestures, but be assured, Michael observes from the shadows whenever your out and about. He's ready to lend a hand when you need a show of brutal force or the tides unexpectedly turn against you. Michael doesn’t tolerate weakness, so if you proved to be cunning and self-sufficient, that would almost earn a silent respect.

Billy Loomis

Billy’s manipulative side would initially question if this is some trick or if he can use the situation to his advantage. However, deep down, he’d be excited at the idea of having a lover who’s just as twisted as he is. However, because you are a serial killer and Billy has this notion of being the 'brains' of the relationship, expect many fights. He wants to be the person in control, so he might never be fully comfortable in your relationship if he perceives you as greater than him. This relationship is a mine for mind games, but be assured when you find common ground, you're a deadly duo.

Stu Matcher

Stu wouldn't care about you being a serial killer. In fact he'll be ecstatic because it would be like living in a non-stop horror flick. Let's face it, he has murder tendencies but often allows you to take reign. He would join your hunts but see it more as a game: he'd want to do 'team kills', wear matching outfits, etc. Expect him to crack jokes non-stop or reference horror tropes, even if you're in the middle of killing someone. Stu is impulsive—“Hey, let’s kill that person!” or “We should totally sabotage this house party!” If you're down for it, Stu’s loyalty is intense, though erratic.

Jason Voorhees

Jason mostly kills out of vengeance or anger, and he’s not particularly intellectual about it. So when he discovers that his boyfriend is a serial killer, he wouldn't be bothered. In fact, he'll probably look up to you: learning how to better kill and dispose of his victims. However, he would get violent if you make a move unto his territory (Camp Crystal Lake) or disrespect the memory of his beloved mother. You are a serial killer and so is Jason, but a part of you likes to hide some of your more brutal and gruesome kills from him. He has a childlike mind so you thread carefully and are overprotective of your giant teddy bear :)

Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal, being a connoisseur of murder himself, would be intrigued and possibly delighted by having a lover who shared his proclivities. However, he would also evaluate your style and motives. If they matched his sense of aesthetic and intellectual stimulation, he would be supportive, but he might manipulate or dispose of you if deemed proved crude or unworthy. He has standards, after all. He’d encourage you to be more meticulous, to pay attention to the senses, to savor each detail. Hannibal would absolutely offer subtle mentorship—introducing more elegant methods, or guiding you toward “ethically chosen” victims. Expect a twisted sort of domesticity: lavish dinners, intellectual sparring, and an understanding that behind every polite smile, there lurks a dangerous mind. Hannibal would want a partner who challenges him intellectually and morally, even in their darkest impulses.

Will Graham

Will would initially be disturbed upon discovering that you're a serial killer. His empathy would reel from the moral violation. Yet, there might be a pull—something that resonates with the darker corners of his psyche. It would be a constant tug-of-war between love (or at least genuine care) and the horror of his partner’s violent acts. Will might try to “save” them, or rationalize why they kill, but he’d be tormented by guilt at the same time. Torn between turning you in or continuing to keep the secret, Will might become complicit in small ways—covering up your tracks or giving subtle advice to avoid detection. This would only deepen his internal conflict. However, once that love for you overclouds his morality, Will becomes a complicit partner and helps you with your kills.

Patrick Bateman

Patrick’s narcissism would initially cause him to feel threatened—he wants to be the center of attention and the “best” at whatever he does, including killing. But if your kills are stylish, impressive, or feed into his ego, he’d become enthralled. You best believe foreplay includes you killing one of Patrick's rivals and creating a tableau that fosters his view of superiority above everyone else. The relationship would revolve around status, wealth, and aesthetics. Your kills would become an odd game of one-upmanship: who can kill more creatively or remain more flawless in public. Patrick loves an audience—if you can provide him with the right blend of admiration and competition, you'll stay in his good graces.

[a-bad-case-of-the-stephs]

The idea of someone taking “Leslie Thompkins role” is SO interesting to me.

Because what is her role?

It seems like an easy question to answer, but it’s really not.

99.9% of the time someone in the Bat-Family is injured, Leslie Thompkins is completely uninvolved with their recovery.

She’s not really their “medic” then, is she?

Don’t get me wrong, Leslie Thompkins does absolutely have a “role”, but I don’t think it’s medic and it’s not even “emergency medic”. Her appearances don’t really coincide with severity of an injury. Where is she when Bruce’s spine is snapped during Knightfall? Doing her own shit at her clinic. What is she up while Tim is dying of the Clench in Contagion? Trying to save other lives. Alfred took the role of doctor in both of these examples.

My point is, Leslie’s role is tangentially related to medicine, but it’s not the determinant of when she appears.

Her role is that of a non-ignorable moral contrast to Batman. She is a foil and a point of comparison. This is clear because pretty much every time she appears, the scene will not end without a conversation about morality and a disagreement on ethics.

She is not the only character who can have a gripe with how Batman operates: so many vigilantes and supporting characters will disagree with or question Batman’s actions and ethics at times.

However, Leslie is pretty much the only character whose opinion holds significant weight to Bruce.

As his senior, someone who was close with his parents, someone who was there for him once they died Leslie holds a specific vantage point and power when she disagrees with Batman.

Because Batman is who he is, Bruce is never going to immediately crumble under the weight of Leslie’s disappointment, he will never suddenly change the way he operates as Batman. However, it’s obvious that her moral disagreements with him are deeply unsettling for Bruce, and not so easy for him to shake off.

For one, this is because Leslie knew his parents, they were her friends and peers, the parents he started a mad war on crime for, and if she doesn’t think he’s doing the right thing, what does it say about what they would have thought of Bruce? Additinally, her occasionally motherlike relationship to him futher gives her opinion a world which that we see shake Bruce.

Her arguements, her moral scruples, he cannot dismiss them as easily as he does others.

She also serves as a foil to Batman, they both are exceedingly almost obsessively fixated on one view of morality, and both see anything that fails to reach that standard as absolute moral failure.

Leslie’s ethics as a result, both mimic Bruce’s single mindedness in a way that calls into question his authority. Sure, Bruce seems pretty determined his way is the only way, but shit, so is Leslie in the almost exact same manner. And look, if Bruce is shaken by her disappointment, does that mean she’s right?

But at the same time, I believe Leslie’s ethical also points us to see the flaws in the anti-utilitarian bent to Batman’s ethics: the ridiculous results of her absolutist morals in turns ridicules Bruce’s similarly absolutist approach. She is unwilling to restrain Zsasz, a clearly violent man in a camp full of desperate sick people because she’s that against any form of violence for any reason. Her pure and absolutist arguement, to me, points to the strangeness in the absolutism of Batman’s “no death” rule. Both of them are operating little out of the norm: most people agree there are instances where violence, even if just restraining someone actively trying to murder you, is necessary. And, with exceptions, most people agree there are instances where death or even killing can be necessary or ideal. Leslie and Bruce respectively, do not.

All this to say, Leslie has a kind of complicated role. She’s not really a medic first. In Batman stories her role is some kind of point of Moral Contrast which encourages both the reader and Batman to question Bruce’s methods.

Its hard for me to think about how a character might be able to fulfill this same role, they would need some point of advantage which gives their opinion weight to Batman, and also probably her batshit insane ethics. I am very interesting in what that might look like however.

I don’t know if I can see Steph fulfilling that aspect of what I see as the Leslie Thompkins “role”, at least when Bruce Wayne is Batman, due to the sheer fact he has a long history of dismissing her and her opinions out of hand. I don’t know if she would be able to make him question himself, or the audience question him.

From just what we’ve seen of Damian’s decision to take up medicine, he kinda does seem to start to fit a similar role, at least with how Damian has also grounded his medical interest in an emotional connection with Thomas Wayne. However I don’t think he fits the role in the ethical qualm zone, but that could change and I could be wrong.

To me, the question of who could fulfill Leslie’s role gets even more interesting if we’re considering an instance where Batman is no longer Bruce Wayne.

I’ve always wanted Stephanie to take on a Leslie Tompkins role within the Batfamily but as of recently I think Damian might be more suited for that role.

Maybe Damian taking on an Alfred role, that would be fascinating.

[gauntletgirlie]

I happen to think his eyes are rather fetching…

[backjustforberena]

Corlys "Heart Eyes" Velaryon:

[marvelsswansong]

melting snow

summary: the subtle, obvious, sweet, and at times - dangerous - ways Coriolanus shows his love for you.

tags: coriolanus snow x fem!reader, possessive and lovesick!Snow, mostly fluff with light allusions to smut, significantly off-canon from movie (no lucy gray and no sejanus betrayal), CW possessive/dark behavior, graphic descriptions of murder, violence (it's only the last bit of this fic that's quite dark/violent, so feel free to read up until then. Please take care of yourself!!!)

☆ word count: 4.6K+ words ☆

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

one: subtle praise

At the beginning, he would mask his true feelings and physical urges towards you with a tight lipped grin and a reserved compliment. Something that acknowledges something you've done objectively well, with a genuine softness that didn't apply to any of his other classmates, but seemingly delivered in a nonchalant matter to feign indifference.

"Great dodge." he'd say to you, both of your chests heaving from adrenaline during fencing class. You'd nod gently, a shy "thank you" leaving your lips.

But when Clemensia wins the next round against him, Coriolanus doesn't go above simply shake her left hand in courtesy before leaving the arena briskly.

"Well played." he'd joke, when it was revealed during the final student appraisal that you'd beaten Coriolanus' marks by a few points. Despite Archane and Felix throwing subtle jabs at his way for "losing" the star student title, you'd just shrug off the compliment profusely, praising him endlessly.

"A mere fluke, really. You're the brilliant student. I reckon I just study hard and get lucky." you'd reply, straightening the cuffs of your jacket nervously. The blonde always found it so endearing how bad you were at taking compliments.

So different from the rest of the scum in Capitol, he thought.

Eventually, he'd start to turn his verbal compliments towards things unrelated to your capabilities and work. And more towards things that were of a personal nature, like your looks and dress.

"Your hair looks very nice today." he comments one afternoon late after school, his shoulders brushing against yours as you both await your rides home. Your hands fly up to your hair, to the small crown of daisies adorning your head, as if you've almost forgotten what you were wearing.

"You think so?" you shyly ask, looking up at him nervously. "I wouldn't have worn it to the academy if we hadn't been called down on immediate notice. It's just that the family I babysit for on the weekends, their daughter just turned six and... well, she was very insistent on making me a flower crown."

He finds your embarrassment awfully cute.

"But I swear, when Dr Gaul turned to look at me today, I thought she was going to kill me."

Coriolanus only rolls his eyes playfully at that, knocking his shoulders against yours.

"And what would she know about first rate fashion? You look amazing."

It's the nicest compliment you've gotten over a silly crown of flowers, your heart warming and your breath stuttering at his words. It's what motivates you to lightly squeeze his right arm before you get into the car, your touch lingering in his mind long after you depart.

A month later, Coriolanus runs into you at the farmer's market on a Sunday. His instructions by Tigris to "buy some bread and oranges for tomorrow" are almost forgotten in one fell swoop when he sees you. Free from your usual academic attire, you're wearing a flowy lilac dress which sits right below your knees, the silky fabric glowing in the yellow sunlight.

"This color really suits you." he decides to whisper in your ear after discreetly sliding into the space next to you, the action so sudden that it causes you to jump. Your shoulders soften when you recognize his striking blue irises, and then you pout, punching him right in the chest.

"You scared me, Snow." you jokingly scold him. "And where are your manners? You should always introduce yourself first to a lady."

He pretends to be wounded by that, hand on heart whilst leaning backwards.

"My deepest apologies. Would this help?" he asks, effortlessly pulling a white rose from his back pocket. He revels in how your gaze lightens up in awe and amusement at the gesture.

"Perhaps so." you reply back, fingertips brushing against his.

The blonde takes it as a sign to slide it behind your ear, the memory of your etheral form with his flower tucked behind your right ear etched into his mind before you're called away by your friends.

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

two: soft touches

Once he's sure that his feelings are reciprocated, Coriolanus would start to step the line over into something more serious. He's not willing to open up immediately nor is he necessarily a man of romantic prose. A large part of him is scared, even, of the way you make him feel.

After all, what is love if not vulnerability?

And how he could be vulnerable with you, a woman so far out of his league, widely adored and your family amongst the wealthiest in Panem?

So it would start off when the class seating arrangements are changed and you're seated next to Coriolanus for the remainder of the year.

He'd start to purposefully spread his legs a little bit wider than usual, his knees always brushing against yours.

He'd take every chance he could to lean over to explain something to you, his face a few inches away from yours, if you ever seemed stuck on a question.

He'd open the classroom door for you in the mornings and offer to carry your heavy textbooks back to your family's car after school, insisting that it was because he wouldn't want you to trip on your heels. And if you'd ever insist on carrying the books on your own, he'd keep a gentle hand on your upper back to keep you upright "in balance."

Once, whilst presenting a speech at your father's fundraising dinner that you'd stayed up all night preparing for, you accidentally lose track of your speech. You stumble on your words, voice cracking in panic as you start to scan the page of thick text, all of which suddenly seem jumbled up and nonsensical.

Sensing distress, Coriolanus' hand quickly moves under the table to squeeze your left hand (hanging by your side) in a reassuring manner.

It's only then, somehow, that you find yourself able to re-focus on the printed text and continue your speech. Afterwards, you squeeze his hand back and whisper your gratitude.

"I owe you, Coriolanus."

Another time, it's a formal ball being hosted by the academy to mark the holiday season. After a few drinks, you're tipsy and manage to drag your friends up towards the balcony, despite it snowing outside and being below zero degrees.

Cautiously watching your every movement by where he's leaning by the bar, Coriolanus quickly makes an excuse to exit the conversation he found himself trapped in, before walking outside towards your shivering figure.

Your dress certainly isn't helping your situation, it being a satin slip dress with sleeves and a conservative cut out by your shoulders. It exposes your chilled skin as you rub the naked space with your arms, your staggered breaths coming out in white puffs of smoke.

"Corio! What're you doing he-" you start to walk towards him but nearly trip, his arms coming to supporting your body last second to save you from falling completely on your face.

"You shouldn't be outside in this weather." he comments, amused, as he helps you find your balance once more. But you refuse to re-enter the ballroom, choosing to instead excitedly ramble about how wonderful winter in the Capitol is and how you can't remember where you've placed your bag.

Listening earnestly to your ramblings with a smile on his face, he quickly shakes off his blazer.

"May I?" he asks. You blink slowly, heart fluttering at the gesture.

"O-okay."

The boy then carefully drapes his blazer over your shoulders, the act immediately enveloping your senses in his signature smells - oakwood and rose. Your fingers clutch the lapels of the jacket, your nose burrowing in to the softness of the fabric.

"Are you sure you won't be cold?"

He's freezing, of course, but he keeps his posture straight and tuck his hands into his pockets.

"I'm just fine. Don't you worry about me."

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

three: nicknames

Once you two become an item, Coriolanus moves on to calling you affectionate names.

Of course, he'll prefer to call you by your name in professional settings - like during a presentation, in front of the Academy staff, at formal galas and dinners - but when it's just the two of you, or around people you both trust, or when he's jealous -

He almost never calls you by your name.

Darling is the classic, lovestruck expression he uses when he's being his most vulnerable. It's what he whispers into the gap underneath your neck when he's waking you up in the morning, landing kisses across your collarbone during sunrise. It's his greeting when he surprises you with a bouquet of flowers on your birthday, right before he whisks you away to a trip to district 1. It's what he cries into your hairline when you are hospitalized following a rogue rebel explosion on your trip home.

"Darling... darling, can you hear me?"

Coriolanus' voice is foggy, your head still ringing from the loud explosion earlier, but your heart still races at the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand on yours. Throat croaking, you try to respond with an affirmative "yes", to which your boyfriend responds by quickly grabbing a near by cup of water.

Gently guiding the glass to your lips, he treats you as if you're a fragile porcelain doll: smoothing down your hair gently and fluffing up your pillows to lay you back down. It's only then that you get a good look at him under the flickering lights - the bags under his eyes look heavy, his usually neat hair a complete mess, his blue irises blood shot.

"Have you been sleeping, Corio?" you ask, worried, your thumb rubbing circles onto his palm. He chokes up at that, shaking his head sideways with a sad smile.

"How... how could you ask me that, darling? You've been in the hospital for days."

"I hope that doesn't mean you haven't been sleeping for days." you quip back, raising your eyebrows. Your boyfriend opens his mouth to lie, but the twitch of his lips gives him away. So you instead shift towards the left of your bed, making space for him on the mattress.

"Come on you silly man."

He smiles a guilty grin before snuggling up next to you, letting out a heavy sigh of content at your warm body against his.

Petal is his sweet, infatuated name for you when he's referring to you in conversation or calling out for you in front of friends and family. Tigris never fails to tease Coriolanus for the name, but he doesn't mind it - you're his flower, his precious petal.

"I can't believe you think this is ugly." Tigris sighs at the dinner table one night, shuffling through the myriad of designs on the desk. "This was going to be the design I send off to the boutique tomorrow."

"I didn't say it was ugly, I just think this design is far nicer." Coriolanus responds, pushing forward the blue design in front of him. His cousin pouts at that, clearly unsatisfied with his answer.

"Petal-" Coriolanus calls out for you, where you're cooking with grandma'am in the kitchen. "Could you come in for a moment?"

When your confused face pops into the room, Tigris quickly calls you over, dramatically stretching out her arms to grab you.

"Mr Snow seems to think this design - the gold sweetheart dress with lace trimmings - is uglier than this blue version. What do you think, (Y/n)?" she earnestly asks, pushing over the two designs to your direction. You shuffle through the papers intently, studying each drawing up close, before ultimately taking Tigris' side.

"I'd say your eye for design is impeccable, Tigris. And that Coriolanus should perhaps stick to things other than fashion."

That makes both grandma'am (who is listening in from the kitchen) and Tigris, burst out in laughter, with the latter throwing her arms around your waist in a sideways hug.

"Ah, I knew you were my favorite for a reason." she jokes.

"Petal, you wound me." your boyfriend jokes, a small scowl on his face for show. Though, when you lean down to kiss him, the scowl easily melts away.

My doll is what he calls you when he's driven sick by jealousy and possession. As, much to Coriolanus' distate, you have many admirers - due to you coming from a wealthy family and being a well known socialite in your own right.

Coriolanus has never liked Felix Ravinstill, but he swears his hatred for the president's son only tripled after you and Coriolanus became an item. Felix was never shy about his attraction to you - the forward compliments, the invitations to his house after school, the rush to sit next to you during lunch periods. But now, the blonde thinks, it's getting full on desperate.

As you sit reading a book in the hallways of tha academy, waiting for Coriolanus to finish his talk with Dr Gaul, the dark haired boy decides to chat with you. When your boyfriend opens the door discreetly, upon hearing your voice mingle with someone else's outside, his vision nearly turns red at how close the other man is to you.

You're pointing out something in your book to Felix, your innocent eyes fixated purely on the black and white text and thus completely missing how shamelessly the man next to you is eyeing you up and down. It takes Dr Gaul's shout - "actually, Ms (Y/n), could we have a word regarding your last proposal" - for Coriolanus' rage to slowly fade.

Instead, he starts to feel cold, hardened logic putting a plan into motion.

And once you're inside the classroom, Coriolanus doesn't hesitate to slam Felix up against the wall, making sure to angle the boy's head to hit directly against a marble statute. The impact isn't hard enough to crack the man's skull, the last minute measurement in Coriolanus' head ensuring that he wouldn't be punished for injuring the president's son.

But he makes sure that the impact hurts enough to leave a mark.

It makes Coriolanus' heart twist in pleasure.

"You better leave my doll alone, Ravinstill. She's not interested in you. She's never been interested in you." he spits, snarling like a ravenous dog.

"You're delusional, Snow, if you think she'd ever want to stay with you." Felix manages to spit out, trying to wiggle his way out of the taller man's hold, but Coriolanus is too strong.

"You're the only delusional one here. It's pathetic, really. All that money and social connections in the world, and it'll never be good enough for my doll."

Coriolanus can tell that hit a nerve with Felix, so he lets go of the shorter boy, nearly throwing him away to the side in the process. Pride and ego surges through his veins when you appear and call out for Coriolanus, so the blonde makes a concerted effort to kiss you fiercely for show.

His arm snaking around your shoulder to pull you right up against him, a devious smile on his lips.

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

four: lavish gifts and deep marks

Things only escalate once Coriolanus' tribute ends up winning the hunger games and he's crowned the winner of the Plinth Prize. Now saddled with money, reputation and a full ride scholarship to the university funneled by the Plinth family - he finally finds himself able to spoil you in all the ways possible.

Fresh flowers adorn your windowsill every morning. The finest jewellery and newest luxury bags are delivered to your doorstep at random. Perhaps most impressive of all, he buys a two bedroom apartment near the center of the Capitol for you two to move into.

"How'd you..." you can't even finish your sentence when you first see the place: the prime location, the high arched ceilings, the stainless marble... He hadn't even allowed you to pitch in any of your own - or your family's - money to buy the place, insisting that it was to be a complete surprise.

His arms come around your shoulder to hug you close, swaying you from side to side.

"Generosity of the Plinth family and the spoils of being the victor, darling." he drawls in your ear.

You're still in awe, hands tracing the intricate patterns of the roman columns supporting the ceiling, when he starts to tug you up the stairs.

"Would you like to see the view from our bedroom? It's magnificent."

Of course, Coriolanus' new elevated status and recent memory of acting as a mentor in the hunger games - planning, guiding, and having a role in the extended play of human lives - it all makes him quite obsessive and possessive of you. Given that you're one of the few people in his life who has known him for years now, before he was a mentor and before had all this money and status...

He has to make sure to keep you in his life. He's made a lot of enemies, after all, many of whom would like to harm him. And with his undying love for you, hurting you becomes an attractive option for his enemies.

So Coriolanus gets more possessive by becoming more shameless in public. He'll gladly call you his love in front of crowds of hundreds. He'll kiss you breathless and squeeze your lower back if he thinks a man is staring a bit too long at you. And when he knows you two will be separated for a few days - usually due to him having to travel out of the Capitol on business matters - he'll leave bite marks on your neck.

You didn't even think about how noticeable the marks might be when you rush out of bed one morning, having promised to attend an engagement dinner of a fellow classmate, Clemensia's. Your rude awakening comes when, mid-way through the rehearsal, Sejanus leans over to quietly ask if you've brought your foundation with you.

You scrunch your face at the odd question.

"Uh, yes... I have a powder compact in my bag, why?"

Your friend smiles at you apologetically, before motioning to your neck.

"Because, (Y/n), it looks like a vampire has bit you."

And when you look at your reflection in your wine glass, it's clear that you have odd, dark, bite shaped marks littering your collarbone and neck.

Later in the week, when Coriolanus has finally returned from his business trip, you try and scold him for it.

"I nearly died of shame, Corio. Seriously, you should've seen how Arachne was looking at me the whole night." you sigh, just as he laughs.

"You're over thinking it, darling. Besides, you weren't complaining when I was leaving those marks on you on Tuesday."

You open his mouth to scold him again, but find yourself unable to mutter a smart response, your thoughts flying away when he's back to attacking your skin with his mouth.

After all, you're like a drug to him - he can never get enough.

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

five: killing for you

Once Coriolanus is sure that you're not going to leave him, he finds it appropriate to take it to the next level: marriage. He drops a few thousand dollars on a large diamond ring, a ring which he makes sure you never take off (except in the shower).

At this point, the thought of losing you nearly equals his fears of losing everything he's built so far: becoming wealthy, powerful and well known amongst the Capitol's elite. He's terrified of living in a world without you and so he considers anyone who is deemed a threat must be dealt with in a secure, efficient manner.

No mercy, no hesitation.

After all, Coriolanus thinks one night, whilst sharpening a spare knife in the kitchen: if you give a rebel an inch, they'll run a mile.

The first person he kills is a security guard who fails to do their job correctly in protecting you.

He'd been hired by Coriolanus to protect you in your daily transport from the mansion to anywhere outside the Capitol (most often, to districts 1-3 to support your family's business dealings). But the bodyguard had failed to protect you one fateful winter day, leaving you to stumble back home with a twisted ankle and a busted lip as your bodyguard was only able to neutralize the threat after a few minutes of tussling with the gang's leader in the snow.

Your fiancee was fuming, sending you off to a near by hospital with grandma'am, before he motioned for your bodyguard to come downstairs to the empty garden.

The blonde didn't even feel an ounce of sorrow as he pulled the trigger, simply ordering the next bodyguard he'd hired to do the messy job of disposing of the body.

The second person he kills is a rebel who attempted to sneak a bomb underneath the car transporting you to the Capitol, following Coriolanus' announcement as candidate for the presidency.

The rebel was apprehended by the security detail team pretty quickly, so fast in fact that you weren't even made aware of the threat on your life. All you're told that day by Coriolanus' subordinates is that "there had been a change of plans" and you were to go to a fundraising dinner at an art museum instead to raise funds for the campaign.

And whilst you're off at the dinner, making a passionate speech for his presidency, Coriolanus makes an order for the rebel to be dragged out into the fields.

"You dare threaten the love of my life?" he sneers into the rebel's face, which is already bloodied and broken beyond recognition. The animalistic rage pumping through Coriolanus' veins is unlike anything he's ever felt before, and the gun in his hands suddenly feels like too much of a merciful ending for the rebel's crime.

"Just kill me." the rebel spits, but that only makes Coriolanus let out a sinister chuckle.

"Don't worry, I will. But I think a gun shot will be far too quick."

Instead, Coriolanus orders the man to be placed into a cage - a prototype that was being designed as a trap for the next year's games - and for a tub of venomous snakes to be released.

Whilst the other workers in his campaign look away from the horrific sight, Coriolanus just stares in great interest and pride. Once the screaming dies down, he calmly disposes of his bloodied shirt and hails a ride to greet you at the museum entrance.

"All good?" you ask, noticing an odd expression on your lover's face. But he just kisses you lightly on the lips, chuckling.

"Of course, petal. Why wouldn't it be?"

And so on and so forth. Whether it's directly or indirectly, Coriolanus becomes ruthless in securing your safety and your love. And he's so good at hiding it, he thinks, until one day he becomes a bit sloppy.

It was supposed to be an easygoing dinner at the mansion, a wealthy donor - his top donor, his campaign manager had informed him - named Robert Hemingworth had requested a private dinner. Coriolanus intially wanted to refuse, hating the thought of inviting a stranger to his home, but both you and his campaign manager agreed that it was best to play nice given the money at stake.

"For your troubles." Robert had said on his way in, a snarky smirk on his lips. In his arms were a basket of wines and grapes worth a pretty penny, but Coriolanus couldn't help but think that there was something about the brunette's gaze that he didn't trust. But with pursed lips and a fake smile, he forced out a thank you and invited the man into the foyer.

"What a... charming little abode." the oil tycoon had drawled, his gloved hands tracing along the walls. The sly comments and odd compliments (in truth, backhanded compliments) continued through out the night, all the way from appetizer to the main course. Sipping on copious bottles of red wine in an effort to keep himself grounded, Coriolanus was managing to keep his temper down until the older man asked about your whereabouts.

"Will your charming fiancee not be joining us?"

He froze at the man's questions, the hungry look in the millionaire's eyes and the underlying threat weighing down the atmosphere. The desserts had now arrived, two maids scurrying in with small plates of bread pudding, both of whom Coriolanus quickly dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"She's out with Tigris. Dress shopping." he'd decided to leave it at that, his left hand squeezing his glass so tight the glass started to crack. Coriolanus had hoped the man would leave the discussion there, as he wasn't sure what he was capable of doing if the older man didn't.

But the man continued. A disgusting moan escaping his lips in satisfaction after biting into the pudding, a devious smirk on his lips to match.

"Ah. Well, what a shame. I was hoping she would be part of the dessert."

No sooner than those words leave the millionaire's mouth, Coriolanus' left hand grabbed the knife laying on the board in front of him, where moments ago the maids were cutting cheese and ham. He then brings the blade to swiftly meet the older man's stomach, white dress shirt staining crimson red, all the while Coriolanus refuses to break the man's gaze.

"You fucking disgust me. Everyone in the Capitol fucking disgusts me one way or another, but you? You dare invite yourself to my home?" he retracts the knife, before stabbing it back into the suited man's flesh, each pause accentuated by another driving force.

"You dare speak about my love in such a vulgar manner?"

"You dare insinuate such sinful acts with my beloved?"

"You dare try and buy your way into her body?"

The marble floors are now flooded in a sea of red, the man's dying chokes and Coriolanus' heavy breaths overwhelming the room. The room stings of the smell of copper when you enter the space, quietly closing the door behind you, as you were only able to see the man on the floor and your boyfriend standing on top of him from the entrance.

"Corio? Love?"

The blonde turns around at the sound of your voice, face etched with annoyance.

Annoyed that you'd have to be subject to a vulgar sight like this. Annoyed that he'd stained your new kitchen set with an unworthy man's blood... And most of all, annoyed that he can't tell what you're thinking: your face kept completely neutral as you slowly approach him.

"You're back early." is all he decides to say, testing the waters.

You look down at his hands, soaked in hot blood, then down at the man who is writhing on the floor.

"Found what we wanted quickly, I suppose." you reply, stopping next to Coirolanus before leaning down to get a better look at the dying man. "Right, what was his deal?"

"Hm?"

It's only then that your plain expression breaks, your usually light eyes swimming with sinister charm, a coy smile breaking out on your face.

"Come on, Corio. You don't seriously think I didn't notice the amount of odd stains on your cufflinks? Or the terrified looks the house servants give you since the beginning of our engagement?"

He blinks, surprised. Coriolanus had always assumed he was covering his tracks well. Or that, at the very least, you'd have something to say about it all.

"He was making rather vulgar comments about you, darling. The bastard seems to have been making donations in an effort to get closer to you." he slowly explains as you stand back up, nodding slowly.

"Hm... Yes, that is rather concerning. And I suppose you've gone too far ahead for us to save him, always the temperamental lover you are." you tease.

Your humorous response and your unwillingness to run away from the darkness of the situation, it awakens something fierce in Coriolanus that he hasn't felt for you before.

"I suppose."

The euphoria he feels when your delicate fingers lace his to grab the knife instead, before you finally drive the blade down and end the man's life, is indescribable.

"I think you owe me a new dress." you say quietly, dropping the knife onto the floor.

The blonde wastes no time gathering you up in his arms, kissing you so fiercely that it almost hurts your neck.

"I think I owe you more than that, darling. How about the entirety of Panem?"

He'd do anything for you. The entirety of Panem be damned.

a/n: omg this has got to be the darkest piece of writing + fucked up ending I've ever written in like years of writing on tumblr 😅😭 but idk I'm obsessed with an idea of Corio's partner being someone who embraces him wholeheartedly and surprises him by being darker than she seems on the surface.

please leave a like/comment/reblog/ask if you've enjoyed, your support is what motivates me to write!

ALSO I've just re-opened my requests bc I would love to receive some corio fic ideas, so please send in your corio thoughts if you have any 🥺🥺🥺

[gotta-winwin]

OT13 Reaction -- to you asking them what their fave juno pose is

a/n: hellooo!! im curious what juno poses you guys think the boys would be into... feel free to send an ask with the pose (asks with media + anon are open!) - favourite one gets its own spinoff oneshot :)

MINORS DNI

tw: sexual positions, allusions to sex, boner talk

not proofread, if you don't like it - don't interact!

seungcheol is initially taken aback at the question. you ask it so innocently, so out of the blue - and he can feel his heart skip a beat at the mere pictures that are being conjured by his mind at the mention of you in any of those poses. he regains his confidence quite quickly though, proudly pulling up his favourite pose and eyeing you as you splutter. so, honey? reminds me of that one night we...

throwing up a shit eating grin, jeonghan takes the question with ease. he's been expecting it - he knows you well and ever since you sent him that reel, he's been preparing his answer. i personally really enjoy this one he'd say while showing you, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively in a way that makes you snort in laughter. 100% expects action later. you were the one who brought it up babyyy...care to follow through?

you cannot tell me this man doesn't prefer missionary over anything else. joshua loves seeing your face through it all, so asking him this question probably isn't going to get you anything you didn't already know. he blushes at the thought of it, shyly muttering under his breath that he likes it best when he can see your pretty face and hold you.

jun blinks, not quite getting what the fuck a "juno" pose is. he nods along as you show him his "options," turning red at the particularly scandalous ones and cringing at the ones he knows ya'll can't pull off. i don't think you're that flexible, baobei. he'd say, more worried he'd accidentally break you if you guys attempted the pose.

like with anything else, soonyoung is excited to answer your question. don't be surprised if he pulls out a powerpoint specifically for the occasion, listing out the pros and cons of each pose and the probability of how much he'd enjoy it. he's passionate with everything he does - and what better thing to be passionate about than fucking the love of his life?? lowkey ends up not being able to choose just one favourite. he likes variety in his sex life, thank you very much.

wonwoo stares at you once you're finished asking, bluntly dropping his answer and moving on with his day. he lowkey thought it was already obvious what his favourite one was?? you guys do it every time?? it's his default?? he calmly (a bit too calmly for the topic) explains to you why it's his favourite, giving you all the stats. well, it's easier to move - and you're more comfortable, and- you'd think he was giving a persuasive essay by the way he goes on and on.

you know better than to ask jihoon without first sending him the reel, asking him to check his message and to watch it. he sends back a screenshot of his favourite pose, a little miffed that this was the reason you interrupted his recording session but answering you nonetheless because he loves you. he tries to return to work, although the thoughts of you in that pose is sending him reeling. ends up giving in to his urges and rushing back home to test out his theory. told you that was the best pose, he'd say after destroying your insides.

again, a strong believer that minghao is secretly very kinky but prefers missionary because it allows him to feel the closest to you. reveals to you that his absolute favourite isn't on the juno pose list because sabrina would be canceled for acting it out - gives you that look, silently challenging you if you'd like to try it. don't pretend it doesn't excite you, love.

seokmin's face is burning the moment you ask the question, stuttering violently through his words as his brain computes your question. shyly points to his favourite pose, cringing into his hands as he awaits your reaction. why would you ask me that right before i have to go to work? he'd complain, hating how inconvenient being turned on could be during practice.

mingyu's got that shit eating grin on his face similar to jeonghan's, although his is more of a i think we should test all of them before i choose one type of grin. you can tell by the way he's eyeing you that he's already picturing you in those poses. i don't know, babe, he'd drawl out, reaching over to grab your waist. i think you should give me a refresher before i pick.

seungkwan's the one that asks you for your favourite juno pose, curious to know which one you prefer yourself to be in. it ends up being a whole conversation - riling both of you up as you discuss the pros and cons of each pose, leading to you guys ending up in the bedroom. who's idea was it to talk about this again? you know what, i don't care - c'mhere.

by the way vernon's looking, you can tell he's thinking about his answer like it's the most serious thing in the world. you let him think, sitting there in silence as you watch the guy contemplate. anyone else would think he was making a major life decision, with the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are full of concentration. finally deciding, he picks one that surprises you. idk, i know we've never done it before but i feel like i'd enjoy it. and you'd look so hot like that babe.

chan sends you his favourite juno pose before you can even ask. a cheeky lil grin on his face, he asks if you guys could try it out, his eyes sparkling with mischief and his boner already prominent. he's imagining you fucked out in the position that he's chosen and he- well, it's not his fault he can't control himself. you'd look sooo hot, babe. he'd persist. i'll take care you.

[trulyumai]

unfit and disloyal

Pairing: Emperor Geta / Wife! Reader

Synopsis: Seeing your husband get so close with another woman, you confront him. But such an accusation of disloyalty makes anger swell up bubble beneath his skin. Until eventually it oozes out and onto you, his darling wife.

Warnings: Geta gets violent, angry.

A/N: This was highly requested, thank you all so much for the messages and comments!

A glass was thrown, shattered against the back wall of the chamber. Geta let out a surprised cry, still bent towards the ground in the quick action that fled his senses. He had expected a hug, maybe a kiss of welcome from his pretty wife.

“You idiot—you fool! You... you—!”

Another cup was already in your hands, and Geta barely made it behind a merciful beam that splayed out in the middle of the room.

“What are you doing, wife?!” Geta’s voice was hoarse with confusion as he peered from behind the pillar, his chest rising and falling from the sudden burst of chaos. He had prepared himself for an evening of peace after the long day—he had not been ready for war within his own walls. Where was his sweet wife to dote on him? To kiss and smother his face with little pecks, to hug his frame like it was the missing piece you were waiting for?

“What am I doing?" you snarled. "What am I doing?" Your hands shook with fury as dainty fingers fumbled for another object to throw. Your eyes, usually soft and full of warmth, were now blazing with a fire he had never seen before. “You dare to ask me that when I saw you with her? You let her touch you, let her throw herself on you like—like a dog in heat!”

Geta’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall how you could have come to such a conclusion. Woman? What woman? He was with you all night! The only time he wasn’t was when you had stepped away after the dessert had been devoured, kissing his cheek as you uttered a tired departure.

He meant to follow, but decided to finish his goblet first—and then it hit him. The realization sank in. The woman who had placed herself upon his knee, whispered generous actions and promises without batting an eye.

"Her? You mean the woman at the celebration?" He stepped out from behind the beam cautiously, raising his hands in surrender. A laugh already escaping him from such a deluded thought. “She meant nothing. Less than nothing. She was dealt with, pretty wife, without a second thought!”

You scoffed, laughter bitter and sharp. "Nothing? You looked like you were enjoying yourself, while I stood there, watching, like a fool. And in front of the citizens... Have you no shame, husband?" The words were spat with venom, the kind of harshness only Geta had spoken with before.

Geta’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “You left before you saw what happened next. I pushed her off the moment you turned away, threw her to the ground like the vermin she was for daring to disrespect you.” He took a step closer, trying to close the distance between you. “I grabbed her by the face and told her to remember her place—unless she wished to be charged with treason. Wife, trust me, I beg of you.”

Your grip faltered, and the third cup clattered to the floor. Your breathing was uneven, the anger mingling with something else now—uncertainty. “Then why didn’t you stop her sooner? Why did you let her touch you in the first place? Why bestow such a public betrayal onto me?”

Geta’s shoulders sagged. He was exhausted, emotionally worn from the day’s battles, and now here he was, fighting the one person he loved most. The shift in the air was palpable now, the sting of your words pressing further into his skin. The thought of you doubting him, even for a moment, sparked something darker within him. His eyes darkened, and his fists clenched at his sides.

“You accuse me of betrayal?” His voice, though low at first, began to rise, sharp and jagged as he stepped closer, each footfall deliberate. “You think I’d ever choose someone else over you?” The fury in his tone rattled the air between you, and his body towered over yours now, his shadow swallowing the small frame you stood in.

His breath came fast and heavy as he drew closer, his face inches from yours. “Do you know what kind of man you married? The kind who would crush anyone who dared stand between us!” His words came like thunder, reverberating against the stone walls, spit flying from his mouth in his rage. “I've killed men, burned them at the stake, slit their throats for weaker words. Yet you still sit there.. And look at me with such animosity, hm?”

Your body recoiled instinctively, shrinking away from his imposing presence. For the first time, there was fear in your eyes—fear of him. Geta’s breath hitched at the sight of you trembling beneath his gaze. He froze, his fury draining as quickly as it had flared. He blinked, his body suddenly stiff as realization set in.

He had never meant to frighten you.

“I didn’t...” He swallowed, running a hand through his hair, his jaw still clenched tight. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stood frozen, still shaken, your breath shallow. Geta took a step back, releasing a slow breath as he fought to control himself, his fists relaxing at his sides. “Pretty wife, listen to me,” he rasped, voice now gentler, though it trembled. “I was angry. But not at you. Never at you.”

“But you said-” 

“I know.” He interrupted, already regret bit at the seams of his mind. He didn't need a reminder.

Ringed fingers reached for your cheek, gently wiping away the spit that had landed on your skin. “I would never hurt you. You know that, don’t you?” His voice was soft, desperate, as though each word were pulling him further from the edge of the abyss he had been teetering on.

You looked at him, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “I saw you with her,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “And for a moment, I believed it. All the rumors. The lies. I believed you had chosen someone else.”

Geta’s heart clenched. He could see it now—how fragile your faith had become. He stepped closer, cupping your face with his large, calloused hands. “Never,” he breathed. “There is no one else for me. There never will be.”

You looked up at him, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Then why does it feel like I’m always competing with the world for you?”

His chest tightened, the weight of your words sinking in. “You aren’t competing. There’s no contest. I may belong to Rome, to the battlefield, to the politics of the Empire... but my heart, my soul, they belong to you.”

You searched his face for a long moment, and the anger finally faded, giving way to vulnerability. Letting out a shaky breath, you leaned into his chest, your voice small and muffled against his tunic. “I'm sorry, husband.”

Geta wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. His chin rested on top of your head as he whispered, “It's okay.” 

He breathed in your scent, sweet and intoxicating to his overburdened mind. 

“It's okay.”

[missmimii]

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌 | 𝐂－𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎

୨ৎ — 𝐂𝐖. 18+, Toxic!chris, fem!reader/sub!reader, smut, language, dirty talk, degradation, teasing, detailed intercourse

Soft gasps and whimpers elicited her mouth, the pornographic sounds accompanied with a subtle sound of skin slapping together. “－oh fuck,” Chris’s length pumped in and out of her at a languid pace, the occasional grunt fanning over her pulse as she squeezed her thighs around his waist. “Chris－I’m－I’m sorry－” Fuck.

Her eyes rolled back with a guttural moan as he buried himself in her to the hilt, the tip of his cock kissing her cervix in a bruising thrust as she struggled under his stronger stature. “Shut up.” The triplet’s arms placed on either side of the girl’s head, veins showing just a little more prominently every time he’d shove his cock in her further.

With his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, Chris pulled out just enough for the tip of his aching cock to be rubbing between the dip of her pussy. He heard her sigh of relief and wanted to laugh. did she think she was done already? Slowly pulling out, Chris took just then before drilling his dripping length into her tight, overstimulated cunt at an ungodly pace.

How many was she at? Four? “－Ah! Fuck－Chris!” His head dipped down as she bared her neck unintentionally, placing his lips against the mantra of her pulse as she sobbed out. “I saw you,” he grunted out, teeth gnashing together angrily as he brought a hand to her jaw. “-looking at the pictures. I thought you deleted them?” Chris’s hand cupped her jaw roughly, twisting her chin up so she met his eyes as he pounded into her. “Am I not good enough for you?”

Choked mewls escaped the girls parted lips as her eyes rolled back into her skull, the pain from his violent thrusts igniting a fiery pleasure in her core. Her eyes fluttered open despite the heaviness they felt as she felt the male slip two fingers between her parted lips, his middle and ring finger slowly sliding across her tongue as she breathlessly panted around the digits.

“Tell me,” She gagged softly, tears burning her eyes as drew his fingers further down her throat. “what is it about him that you just can’t get enough of?” Chris seethed, rocking his hips forward at a languid yet harsh pace as his hair fell atop his furrowed eyebrows. “Huh?” She babbled breathlessly around his fingers, speech slurred with the invasion as tears dribbled from her eyes.

Slipping the fingers from her wet mouth, he used the same hand to softly pat her cheek. “Nothin’?” The blue of his eyes burned into the side of her face as she turned her head away, chest moving up and down rapidly as she avoided his domineering gaze. “Fuck!” Chris groaned as he heard the girl’s breath hitch, sobbing out his pelvis grazing her ass as he rammed into her roughly. “Maybe you just need some help remembering,” he grunted.

Her neck ached as she threw her head back, a breathless scream escaping her lungs as he slammed into her with brutal action. “I’m not as strong as him,” thrust. “I’m not as big as him,” thrust, “and fuck, I’m not nearly as nice as him.” Chris chuckled hoarsely next to her ear, lowering his voice into a low whisper as his teeth grazed her jaw. “But I can promise you, Matt could never fuck you like I can.”

Her stomach knotted at his words, small moans and whimpers leaving her mouth as tears poured. She knew a sick part of her enjoyed this side of Chris, so maybe when he was behind her cooking as she sat on the couch, she decided to look back at a few pictures of her and her ex. Just to get a little rise out of him. “－I’m－I’m sorry.” She choked out, stomach clenching.

“I know you are, and now you’ll have to show me.”

୨ৎ－ @fratbrochrisgf @jetaimevous @sturniolosarethebest @stonermattsgf @imwetforyourmom @st7rnioioss @endereies @pkfferoo @mqttittude @mattsbrowser @conspiracy-ash

[goldfades]

WHO DID THIS TO YOU?──RAFE CAMERON

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

for this request, for my lovely jo! @wanderlusturous

─ summary | you and rafe are consumed by an obsessive love, where their madness is fueled by each other. you find exhilaration in pushing boundaries, testing each other’s limits, and the deeper you fall into your shared insanity, the tighter your bond becomes. when rafe finds you crying in your bedroom one day, he loses his shit and is thrown into a silent rage, seeking revenge. and you don't mind, not one bit.

─ pairing | rafe cameron x fem!reader

─ warnings | oh my god, where do i even begin?? obsessive rafe, like insane but reader reciprocates it. a few kisses but mostly just insane stuff. mention of drugging (not to reader), hacking (?), idk what else but this is lowkey insane...

─ ev's notes | im gonna be honest, i don't know if i like this... but lmk if yall enjoyed it. it's a little too dark-themed for me and i got into it until i reread it and realized that it was lowkey insane but hey!!! whatever!!! anyway, pls lmk if this was too dark.. or if you enjoyed it. also, sorry to any becca's out there, it was just the first name that popped up. any feedback is always very appreciated!

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

The night is suffocating, thick with tension that mirrors the pulse racing in your veins. Every sound, every breath, seems amplified, as if the world knows what’s coming. You stand by the dock, your eyes on the dark water ahead, but your thoughts are elsewhere—on him.

Rafe.

You can already feel him, even when he’s not here. The way your skin hums when you think of him, the way your pulse skips in sync with his name. No one gets you like Rafe does. No one makes you feel like the world is spinning off its axis just by looking at you. He’s chaos, destruction wrapped in a pretty face, and you... you crave it.

The roar of an engine breaks through the night. You don’t turn, but a slow smile curls on your lips. You feel the heat of his presence before you even hear his footsteps.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Rafe’s voice is a low drawl, but there’s something manic beneath it, something that sparks against the madness in you.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. There’s that look again. That wild, possessive look that sets your blood on fire. He’s close now, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him, feel the tension in the air tighten like a noose around your neck.

“Neither could you,” you reply, your voice low, daring.

He grins, a sharp, dangerous thing. “You’re right. I can’t.”

His fingers brush your arm, just a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to ignite something violent between you. This—this is what you live for. The thrill. The madness. The way Rafe looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane, and maybe that’s what scares you the most.

Because you’re not sane.

Not anymore.

You can’t even remember why you broke up with him a few months ago, but all you know is that it got overwhelming. There was something suffocating about it—about him. The way he always knew where you were, who you were with, what you were thinking before you even said it. At first, it was intoxicating, the way he could read you like no one else ever could, like you were the only two people on earth and no one else mattered. But then… it was too much. His intensity felt like drowning in quicksand, slow but relentless. And for a moment, just a moment, you thought maybe you needed air.

But standing here now, with the salt stinging your nostrils and the wind howling like some kind of omen, you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave him.

Because there he is—Rafe Cameron, walking toward you like the world is his and you’re his prize, eyes locked on you in a way that makes your chest tighten, your stomach coil in knots. He’s dangerous in all the ways that matter. Not just because he’s reckless and violent (though God knows he is), but because of how he makes you feel. Alive, in a way that hurts. Like the rush you get standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing one wrong step and it’s all over, but you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward, just to feel the thrill of almost falling.

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s so close you can smell the gasoline and smoke on his clothes, the wild energy pouring off him in waves. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters, like you’re the oxygen he’s been deprived of for too long, and suddenly it all makes sense again. The madness. The break-up. The inevitable pull back to him.

“Why’d you leave me?” His voice is low, rough like gravel. His eyes burn with something fierce, and you can feel it sinking into you, clawing its way under your skin. He’s not asking because he doesn’t know. He’s asking because he wants to hear you say it.

You stare at him, heart pounding, pulse thrumming in your ears like a warning. But instead of stepping back, you step forward, closing the small gap between you two. Your breath mingles with his, the night air thick with unsaid things, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something irreversible. Like if you take one more step, there’s no going back.

But isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? The danger. The thrill. The sick, twisted excitement of being so intertwined with him that you forget where he ends and you begin.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, even though that’s not the full truth. You do know. You left because you were scared. Scared of how much you wanted him, needed him, even when it hurt. Scared of the fact that the line between love and obsession blurred so fast with him that you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His jaw tightens, and his hands, those rough, calloused hands that have touched you in ways no one else ever has, reach out. He grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you swear you can see the wild, unhinged thing lurking just behind his eyes. It’s the same thing you see in yourself when you look in the mirror. The madness that ties you to him, binds you like a curse.

“You do know,” he says, voice dark and demanding. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, slow, like he’s testing how far he can push you before you break. “You just won’t say it.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but it’s not fear. It’s something else, something deeper. Something that feels like surrender and power all at once. You lean into his touch, letting his hand curl around the side of your face, the heat of him soaking into your skin like a drug.

“I couldn’t handle it,” you admit, the words thick and heavy in your throat. “You. Us. It was too much.”

Rafe’s lips curl into a smirk, but it’s not a kind one. It’s dark, possessive. “Too much? You know you liked it. You loved it.” His hand tightens slightly on your jaw, just enough for you to feel the edge of his control, like he’s reminding you who he is. What he is. “You loved me because of how fucked up we are. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

You swallow hard, heart thundering in your chest, because deep down, you know he’s right. You’ve never felt more alive than when you were with him, caught up in the madness of it all. The fights, the passion, the way you both pushed each other to the edge and then pulled each other back, only to do it all over again. It was twisted, dangerous, and wrong in every way, but that’s what made it irresistible.

“I did,” you confess, and it’s like a weight lifts off your chest, even as you feel yourself falling back into him, back into the chaos. “I do.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something darker, hungrier. His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of hesitation, any crack in your resolve. But there’s nothing. You’re not the same person who left him. Maybe you never really left at all.

Rafe’s hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until his lips hover just inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, and before you can respond, his mouth crashes into yours, hard and demanding.

It’s not gentle. It’s never been gentle with Rafe. His kiss is all teeth and tongue, like he’s trying to devour you, claim you all over again. And you let him, because deep down, you crave it just as much as he does. The fire, the chaos, the way he makes you feel like you’re spinning out of control but somehow exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, your lips swollen, your pulse racing like you’ve just run a marathon. His hands grip your waist now, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the heat of his body searing into yours.

“Tell me,” he says, voice low and dangerous, his eyes boring into yours. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you don’t hesitate. “I’m yours.” And you are, completely, utterly, unashamedly his.

And just like that, you’re back where you started.

───MONTHS LATER . . .

“God fucking damn it, if you don't tell me right now, I'm gonna lose my shit!” Rafe shouts, his voice cracking like thunder in the small living room as he throws the beer bottle against the wall.

Glass shatters everywhere, scattering across the floor, but you don’t even flinch. You’ve seen this before. Hell, you’ve lived it. The rage, the temper, the chaos—it's like a script you’ve both memorized by heart.

You lean back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him like you would a caged animal—wild and unpredictable. He’s pacing now, his movements sharp and erratic, the muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly you wonder if they might snap. His eyes are wild, blue like ice but burning with something untamable, something dangerous. He’s teetering on the edge, that fine line between fury and desperation, and you know it won’t take much to push him over.

But you don’t care. Not right now.

“Rafe, calm the fuck down,” you say, your voice steady, almost bored. You know that’ll get to him. It always does. Nothing makes him crazier than when you don’t give him the reaction he’s fishing for.

His head snaps in your direction, eyes narrowing as he stalks toward you like a predator honing in on prey. He stops just inches away, towering over you, his chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He’s so close now that you can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his skin. But you don’t move. You stand your ground, looking up at him with a calm that borders on defiance.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he spits, voice laced with venom. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. “I’m sick of your bullshit! You think you can just stand there like you’re better than me, like you’re not a part of this, but guess what, baby? You are. You always have been.”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing as a slow smile creeps across your lips. “You’re being dramatic, Rafe,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, you gonna break something else? Or are you actually gonna say what’s bothering you for once?”

That does it.

He slams his hands down on the counter behind you, trapping you between his arms, his face just inches from yours. His eyes blaze with fury, but beneath it, you see something else—something raw, something that makes your stomach twist in knots.

“Don’t play games with me,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “I know what you’re doing. You think you can just push me around, mess with my head, and I’ll keep coming back like a fucking dog, huh?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking, heart racing in your chest but refusing to show it. You can feel the tension crackling between you like electricity, the air thick with it, suffocating. This is what it always comes down to with Rafe—this toxic push and pull, this need to break each other just to see what’s left after the pieces fall apart.

“You think I’m the one messing with your head?” you say, your voice low, challenging. “Maybe you should take a look in the mirror, Rafe. You’re not exactly innocent in this, are you?”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he’s going to explode. But instead, he just stares at you, eyes flickering with something dark, something primal. Then, slowly, he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Innocent?” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Baby, I’ve never claimed to be innocent. You knew exactly who I was when you got into this.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your lips grazing the corner of his jaw as you whisper back, “Yeah, and that’s why I’m not scared of you.”

His breath hitches, just for a second, and you feel a surge of satisfaction. You’ve always known how to push his buttons, how to throw him off balance, even when he’s at his most dangerous. It’s a game you’ve played a thousand times before, and you both know how it ends—chaotic, messy, with both of you circling back to the same place.

But this time feels different.

There’s something darker in the way he’s looking at you, something that feels more like possession than anger. Like he’s not just mad because you’re fighting—he’s mad because he can’t stand the thought of you slipping away. Because he knows, deep down, that no matter how hard you push him, he’ll always want you. Need you.

“You don’t get to walk away from me,” Rafe says, his voice low, deadly. “Not this time.”

You feel his grip tighten on the counter behind you, his body pressing against yours as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together, like if he holds on tight enough, you won’t be able to escape. But he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that you’re already too far gone. That the very thing he’s holding on to is slipping through his fingers, and there’s nothing either of you can do about it.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you say softly, a cold smile on your lips. “I can walk away whenever I want. I just choose not to.”

And with that, you duck under his arm, slipping out from between him and the counter. His eyes follow you, wide with disbelief, rage bubbling just beneath the surface. You know he’s about to lose it, to completely unravel. But you don’t turn back. Not yet.

Because this time, you want him to come after you.

And he always does.

Rafe’s eyes darken as you slip past him, and for a moment, the room goes deadly silent. The tension is thick, heavy like a storm cloud waiting to burst. You know exactly what’s coming, and it sends a thrill down your spine. You can almost feel it—the moment he snaps, the second his control shatters. It’s a twisted game, one you’ve played too many times before, and every time, you push him a little harder, a little further, just to see how far he’ll go for you.

You take slow, deliberate steps toward the door, your back turned to him, feeling the heat of his gaze sear into you. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching, every muscle in his body tensed like a predator stalking its prey. The air feels electric, charged with a violence that’s always been just beneath the surface between you two.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp and biting. You stop, but you don’t turn around. Not yet.

“Does it matter?” you ask, voice calm, almost teasing. “I thought I could walk away whenever I wanted, remember?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You know you’ve hit a nerve. He hates when you challenge him, hates when you act like you have the upper hand. But that’s what makes it so addictive—pushing him to his limit, watching him unravel in front of you, knowing that no matter how hard he fights it, he’ll always come back to you.

Because he can’t help it. Neither of you can.

Suddenly, you hear his footsteps behind you, fast and heavy, and before you can react, his hand grips your arm, yanking you back toward him with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you. He spins you around, his face inches from yours, eyes blazing with fury.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. His grip tightens on your arm, fingers digging into your skin, but the pain only makes your pulse quicken, your breath hitch in your throat. There’s something about the way he looks at you—like he’s on the verge of losing control, like he’s barely holding himself together—that sends a thrill through you.

“Let go of me, Rafe,” you say, your voice daring him, even though you know you don’t really want him to.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you closer, his other hand gripping the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at him. His chest is heaving, his eyes wild, but there’s something else there, too—something desperate, like he’s terrified of losing you, like he’s clinging to you with everything he has left.

“You think you can just walk away?” he snarls, his breath hot against your face. “After everything? After all the shit we’ve been through? You really think I’m just gonna let you go?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking, your heart racing, but there’s no fear. Not with him. There never is. Instead, you feel the pull again—the twisted, sick need to see how far you can push him, how deep his obsession goes.

“I think you don’t have a choice,” you say, your voice steady, even though your pulse is hammering in your ears.

His grip tightens, his jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscles twitching beneath his skin. For a second, you think he’s going to snap—really snap—but then, just as quickly, something shifts in his expression. The anger doesn’t fade, but it’s joined by something darker, something raw and consuming.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers, his voice barely audible but laced with danger. “You don’t get to decide when this ends. I do.”

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours, rough and demanding, as if he’s trying to prove a point. It’s not a kiss; it’s a claim, a reminder that you belong to him, whether you want to admit it or not. His hands tighten on you, pulling you impossibly closer, and you can feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained violence simmering just beneath the surface.

But instead of pulling away, you kiss him back with just as much fire, matching his intensity. It’s always been like this between you two—this chaotic, messy whirlwind of emotion that neither of you can control. You push, he pulls, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you find something that feels like love, even though you both know it’s something darker, something more dangerous.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, your lips swollen and bruised. His hand stays on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that’s both possessive and tender, like he’s reminding himself that you’re still here, still his.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough, eyes blazing as he stares down at you. “You’ve always been mine.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to push him away and run as far as you can. But there’s a bigger part of you, a darker part, that knows he’s right.

You’re his. You always have been.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m yours.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick and heavy, and for a moment, everything else falls away. The anger, the tension, the broken glass on the floor—it’s all background noise now. All that matters is the two of you, standing here in this twisted, fucked-up mess of a relationship, knowing that no matter how many times you try to break free, you’ll always end up right back here.

With him.

Rafe’s grip on you softens, just slightly, and for the first time in what feels like hours, the intensity in his eyes eases. But it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next time one of you decides to test the limits again. Because there will be a next time. There always is.

“You’re not leaving me again,” he says, his voice softer now, but no less serious. “Not ever.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Because deep down, you know that no matter how much you might want to, no matter how many times you tell yourself you can walk away, you won’t.

You never could.

And Rafe knows it, too.

───

You don’t usually cry. Not ever. Tears are something you’ve learned to bury deep down, hidden under layers of indifference and biting sarcasm. But tonight, they come, hot and angry, streaming down your face as you sit curled up on the edge of the bed, hands trembling in your lap. The weight of the evening presses down on you, your mind reeling from everything that happened.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not tonight.

Your phone buzzes again on the nightstand, but you ignore it. You can’t deal with it right now. You don’t want to see the messages or hear the apologies. You don’t want to relive what just went down.

You wipe at your face roughly, trying to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. The shaky breath you let out only betrays you further, and you feel the tears well up again. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound, not wanting him to hear you.

But, of course, Rafe hears everything.

The door swings open, and Rafe steps inside, his broad frame filling the doorway. He looks at you, really looks at you, and in an instant, his expression darkens. His blue eyes narrow as they sweep over you, taking in the tear-streaked face, the hunched shoulders, the way your body is wound tight like a coiled spring, ready to snap. His jaw tightens, and you can practically feel the shift in the air around him.

“What happened?” His voice is low, dangerous, barely restrained. It’s not a question—it’s a demand.

You shake your head, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing, Rafe. Just forget it.”

But you know better than to think he’ll let it go. The second you met him, you realized Rafe Cameron isn’t the kind of guy who “forgets” anything.

He moves closer, the tension in his body palpable. He’s not pacing like he usually does when he’s angry. This is different. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s honing in on the source of your pain, ready to eliminate it. He crouches down in front of you, one hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch is firm, possessive, but not rough—not yet.

“Tell me what happened,” he says again, his eyes boring into yours. “Who did this to you?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should even bring it up. You know how Rafe gets—how he reacts when someone hurts you. And this time, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone close. Someone you thought was your friend.

“It’s—” You start, but your voice cracks, and you quickly bite down, trying to steady yourself. “It was…Becca.”

“Becca?” The name drops like a lead weight between you two, and you can see the recognition flare in his eyes. Becca, your friend for years, the one person outside of him you’ve always trusted. The one person he’s always been wary of.

Rafe’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb brushing over your jaw in a way that makes your pulse race. His voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper. “What did she do?”

You hesitate, but the words spill out before you can stop them. “She—she said some things. At the party tonight. She called me out in front of everyone, said I was using you, that I only stuck around for the money, the attention. She tried to turn everyone against me, Rafe. She made me look… weak.”

His face hardens instantly, and for a split second, you see something flash in his eyes—something dark and lethal. The kind of rage that makes your breath catch in your throat, even though you know it’s not directed at you.

“She said what?” His voice is so low now, it’s almost a growl.

You nod, swallowing hard, feeling the burn of humiliation all over again. “I don’t know why she did it. I thought she was my friend.”

Rafe lets out a slow breath, and the air around him feels like it’s vibrating with the intensity of his anger. He stands up abruptly, pacing the room, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from completely losing it. But you know it’s too late for that.

“I’ll fucking kill her,” he mutters under his breath, but you hear every word. “I’ll ruin her life.”

“Rafe—” You start to protest, but he cuts you off with a sharp look.

“No. No one talks to you like that. Not her, not anyone.” His voice is clipped, sharp, like he’s barely holding back the full force of what he’s feeling. “You don’t deserve this shit. Not from her, not from anyone.”

His protectiveness borders on obsession, but you can’t help but feel a strange comfort in it. It’s twisted, but there’s something about the way Rafe reacts to these things—like the whole world can burn as long as you’re safe—that makes you feel… seen. Important.

“I’m going to fix this,” he says, more to himself than to you, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “She thinks she can talk shit about you? In front of everyone? Humiliate you? Nah. She’s going to regret it. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Rafe,” you say softly, trying to reach for him, but he’s too far gone. You can see it in the way his eyes have glazed over, already plotting, already deciding exactly how he’s going to destroy Becca.

And part of you wants to stop him. Part of you knows that this isn’t the answer, that maybe you should handle it differently, like a normal person would.

But you’re not normal. Not anymore.

“I’m serious,” he says, turning to face you again, his expression deadly serious. “No one fucks with you. Ever.”

His intensity washes over you, and for a second, you feel like you can’t breathe. But at the same time, it fills you with a sense of power, knowing that he’s willing to go to these lengths for you. That he’ll protect you at all costs, no matter how destructive it gets.

You stand up slowly, crossing the room until you’re in front of him, your hand resting on his chest. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Rafe’s eyes flicker down to you, and for a brief moment, you see a softness there, a flicker of the boy beneath all the rage and chaos. “I won’t. But I’m not letting this go.”

You nod, knowing there’s no point in arguing with him. This is who he is—who you both are. Twisted, obsessive, reckless. But it works. Somehow, it works. And deep down, you don’t really want him to let it go.

A few months later, and somehow everything goes to shit for Becca.

It starts small—things that could almost pass as bad luck. First, her new car gets keyed, deep scratches across the side that no amount of buffing can fix. Then her social media accounts get hacked, posts disappearing, weird comments being left on other people’s pages, like someone is deliberately screwing with her life piece by piece. She brushes it off at first, because Becca’s tough. She’s the type of girl who bounces back quickly, who doesn’t let things get under her skin.

But then things escalate. Quickly.

She gets benched during a big volleyball game when her coach suddenly pulls her aside and questions her attitude. The team captain claims Becca’s been talking shit about the coach behind her back, stirring up drama with teammates. The problem is, Becca never said any of it. But now, she’s got a reputation, and people are starting to look at her differently.

Still, she fights through it, determined not to let it get to her. Becca’s always had her eye on the prize: her full ride to UC Berkeley, where she’s set to play volleyball at the college level. That’s her future. Her escape. Nothing can touch that.

Until it does.

The call comes one morning, out of nowhere. Becca’s shaking as she listens to the voice on the other end of the line, her heart plummeting as her coach tells her the news.

“We’ve received the results of your recent drug test, Becca,” the coach says, his voice stern but somehow apologetic. “I’m sorry, but you’ve tested positive for a banned substance.”

Becca’s head spins, her mouth going dry. “That’s impossible,” she blurts out, panic rising in her chest. “I don’t do drugs. I don’t—”

“I know this is hard to hear,” the coach cuts her off, his voice firm. “But the results are what they are. This disqualifies you from the scholarship and the team. UC Berkeley has revoked your offer.”

The words hit her like a sledgehammer. She feels the ground tilt beneath her, everything she’s worked for slipping through her fingers in an instant. She argues, pleads, tries to explain, but the decision is final. There’s nothing she can do.

And that’s when she starts to see it, to feel the weight of something much bigger pressing down on her. This isn’t just bad luck. It’s not a coincidence that her life is unraveling at the seams. No, this feels orchestrated, like someone’s been pulling the strings behind the scenes, watching her fall apart.

That someone is Rafe Cameron.

Rafe can be physical—he wouldn’t hesitate to swing on anyone he deems a threat. But Rafe isn’t a dumbass. He knows that not everything should be dealt with by violence. Some things are better handled with precision, with patience, with slow, deliberate destruction. He knew that punching Becca in the face wouldn’t satisfy him, wouldn’t give him the kind of control he wanted over the situation.

So instead, he used his connections, his money, his influence, all of the tools at his disposal to dismantle her life bit by bit. A hacked account here, a few whispers to the right people there. He didn’t need to lay a finger on her to destroy her. He just needed to plant the seeds of doubt, to set off a chain reaction, and then watch it all come crumbling down.

The drug test? Easy. A little slip of something into her drink at a party when she wasn’t paying attention, followed by a tip-off to the testing agency. The rumors about her trash-talking her coach? Carefully spread by a few well-placed texts to her teammates, pretending to be her. Her social media? That was just for fun, a way to throw her off balance and make her feel like her world was spiraling.

And it worked.

You know all of this, of course. Rafe never bothers to hide things from you. In fact, he’s proud of it, proud of the way he’s dismantled Becca’s life without so much as breaking a sweat. He tells you about it one night while you’re lying together, his arm draped lazily over your waist as he whispers in your ear.

“She thought she could fuck with you,” he murmurs, his voice dark, satisfied. “But now she knows. No one touches what’s mine.”

You should feel guilty. You should feel something for Becca, after all those years of friendship, of thinking she had your back. But all you can feel is a sick sense of satisfaction, like the universe has finally corrected itself. Becca messed with the wrong person, and now she’s paying the price. And as twisted as it is, you can’t help but feel a little thrill at how far Rafe was willing to go for you, how meticulously he destroyed her without you even asking him to.

“You really did all that?” you ask, your voice low, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Rafe shifts beside you, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your neck. “I told you, baby. No one fucks with you and gets away with it.”

You turn your head to meet his gaze, and there’s something dangerous in the way he looks at you, something possessive and wild. It should scare you, but it doesn’t. Not anymore.

Because the truth is, you like it. You like how far he’s willing to go for you, how far he’s willing to take it. There’s something intoxicating about the way he loves you—twisted, obsessive, and all-consuming. It’s not healthy, not normal, but it’s yours. And that’s enough.

You press your lips to his, kissing him fiercely, feeling the heat between you two ignite once again. Rafe kisses you back just as hard, his hands gripping you tightly, like he’s reminding you that you’re his and no one else’s.

As you pull back, your breath ragged, you glance at him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“She won’t come near me again.”

“No,” Rafe says, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. “She won’t.”

And in that moment, you both know it’s true. Becca’s done.

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[slut4thebroken]

Claiming Victory

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Scarecrow x vigilante!reader

Summary | An encounter with the infamous Scarecrow doesn’t go the way you expected.

Warnings | non con, smut, dry humping, degradation, rape threats (mentioned once), dacryphilia, fear toxin, groping, idk lol.

Words | 1.6 k

Notes | Lmaooo I almost didn’t think I was going to finish this by October 1st 🙈

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 1: dry humping

He stalked toward you slowly, savoring the sight of you screaming and staggering away from him, barely able to keep yourself on your feet. He ached to know what you were seeing, but just watching you like this was enough to satisfy him for now. When you tripped over your own feet and landed on your butt, he stopped and stared down at you through the mask, watching as you still tried to get away from him. Though now you were looking around yourself too, not just at him. With a sigh, he quickly walked forward, then nudged you onto your back with his foot and straddled your thighs, keeping you pinned in place. 

“It’s disappointing how easily you break.” He said calmly. You didn’t respond, as he expected, but when your screams turned into violent sobs, he sighed again. “I thought you’d have more fight in you.” His hand shot out to grab your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. He smiled when you brought your hands up to claw at his arm, trying to pull it away. 

“Should I see what the rest of this pretty face looks like?” He smirked, using his other hand to trace over the edge of your mask near your temple. Leaning down over you, he watched as you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to hide from whatever beautiful horrors you were being forced to see. But that only seemed to make things worse. Your crying intensified, echoing throughout the empty building, and you started writhing, trying to find an escape. 

When your hips bucked, he had to move his hand from your mask to the floor to stabilize himself. He let out a sharp breath as he remained leaning over you, the position making it easier for you to rub against his growing bulge. 

Tears streamed down your face and you started mumbling incoherent pleas. His hand moved from your face to your neck and he squeezed tightly— based on your reaction, his toxin must have made this action seem far worse than it actually was. 

He tilted his head as he watched you with morbid fascination. You looked so beautiful like this. 

Your hands started clawing at his face now, trying to push him away or hurt him enough to make him get off of you, but he just huffed and put both of your arms by your sides, under his legs. He leaned back over you and started subtly rocking his hips. 

“Isn’t it so much better when you don’t fight?” He cooed, his voice sounding far from comforting. “Always trying to be so strong… so brave.” He hummed thoughtfully as he placed a firm hand on your waist. 

“You think you’re untouchable, that no one could ever possibly beat you…” Slowly dragging his hand up your side, he watched your reaction carefully and continued, “Yet here you are... wearing this skin tight suit,” his hand finally reached your breast and he squeezed roughly, making you cry harder, “pinned down by little ol’ me… and not untouchable at all.” He smirked, groping you even harder as his hips sped up. 

“How about we see what we’re working with?” He asked rhetorically. You barely reacted when he grabbed the zipper at the base of your neck, slowly pulling it down to your navel. “Oh wow…” He grinned, pushing your suit open to expose your bra. “Let's get this out of the way though.” Grabbing the middle of your bra, he tore it in half easily, then pushed it open so he was finally able to see you. He couldn’t help the low groan that slipped out. 

“Look at you.” He cooed, placing his hands on your stomach and snaking them up until he could grab your tits. You sobbed louder, but your voice was becoming hoarse from all of the screaming and crying. “Do all of the villains you fight get to pin you down and grope you? Or am I just special.” He chuckled, knowing it was the latter. 

You started thrashing under him again, trying to escape him or whatever you were seeing. He removed his hands and smirked when he watched the way your tits moved. 

“You can fight a little harder… Come on.” He encouraged teasingly. When your body kept writhing and your hips kept bucking, he cursed under his breath, savoring the feeling of you rubbing against his bulge. “That’s it. Fight a little harder and maybe you’ll actually do some damage.” He laughed quietly. 

After another moment, he reached for your tits again, but focused on your nipples this time. You cried loudly when he pinched and pulled, rolling them between his fingers in a way that wouldn’t feel good even if his toxin wasn’t in your system. Based on your screams, he knew he was doing a good job, but you were starting to get just a little too loud for his liking. 

He paused and leaned back up, then quickly removed his tie. Your cry was cut off by him shoving the fabric in your mouth, effectively muffling your sounds. He didn’t bother tying it around your head since you weren’t cognizant enough to even realize what was actually happening. 

“That’s a good girl. Keep crying for me, but stay nice and quiet.” He cooed as he leaned back over you again, hovering a few inches above your face. His hips started rocking again, but his movements were faster and more eager. Moving his hands back to your tits, he resumed groping you, making you whine. 

“You like this, don’t you?” He chuckled, carefully studying your expression. “Finally getting put in your place… being humped and groped on the floor, the way a little whore deserves.” All you could do was cry— your body was barely even struggling underneath him now, just squirming weakly. 

“You know, I think I deserve a reward for being the first villain to actually vanquish you.” He said with a cruel smirk, reaching for your mask again. You didn’t even react when he slowly removed it from your face. “Oh, look at you…” He cooed, studying your face intently. He already knew you were beautiful, but seeing your entire face… it was even better than he thought. His gaze shifted between your eyes and your lips hungrily, getting worked up by the feeling of you squirming under him and the sound of your pitiful sobs. Then he shifted his focus down to your neck. At the sight of your smooth skin, completely untouched and untainted… he growled low in his throat and quickly removed his mask. 

“I think I’ll leave you with some reminders of what happened tonight...” He said, sounding almost smug, then leaned down to start kissing your neck. His hips were still rutting incessantly and he savored your muffled whimpers and cries as he sucked the skin into his mouth, leaving as many marks as he could. 

His cock was practically throbbing in his pants by now, begging to be released, but he kept his focus on you. He trailed kisses down your chest, still covering your pretty skin with evidence of his assault, then took your nipple in his mouth. You let out a muffled sob that turned into a scream when he suddenly bit down on the hardened bud. He chuckled softly against you and kissed his way across your chest to give your other nipple the same treatment. 

Your thrashing had died down significantly, as had your sounds. Now you were mostly just sobbing weakly and the sound was enough to send him barrelling toward his orgasm. He moved up so his lips brushed your ear, his hips still humping you frantically. “Next time I’m going to fuck you.” He whispered, moaning quietly at the thought. “Sorry… rape you.” He chuckled, not really knowing or caring if you were able to hear his promise with his toxin still in your system.

Jonathan leaned back so he was hovering over your face and took a moment to admire you. There was a light sheen of sweat on your forehead, your brows were scrunched together and your eyes squeezed tight. The tear tracks covering your cheeks were what finally sent him over the edge. 

Feeling his balls tighten up, he quickly lifted himself back up to open his pants and take out his cock. He shuffled forward over your body a little and stroked his length rapidly, then hot come was landing on your chest, covering your tits and even getting on your suit. He yanked his tie out of your mouth and moved up a little more to get the last few ropes of come on your face. 

With a satisfied grunt, he sat back on your stomach and caught his breath, listening to your hoarse, broken sobs as you thrashed under him, probably having a hard time breathing under his weight. He sighed and reached for your neck, squeezing as hard as he could while pushing on your windpipe. Your mouth opened and you were gasping for air, desperately trying to take in oxygen as your thrashing increased tenfold until finally it all stopped and you went limp beneath him. 

While you were knocked out, he tucked his cock back in his pants, then put his mask back on and pocketed his tie that was slightly damp with your saliva. He left your suit unzipped and your mask on the ground, satisfied that you’d know, or at least have an idea of exactly what he did. Then he got up and walked out, leaving you in the abandoned warehouse. 

He considered taking you, after all, he deserved a trophy for being the first villain to ever conquer you… But the chase was the best part, so he let you continue to roam free for now, building up anticipation for the next time you’d encounter him.