#why ? Bc I raised my voice at that spoiled brat to tell her to keep her name out of my mouth AND SHE TELLS ME TO SHUSH ONE HUNDRED TIMES

[kavehater]

I’m going insane I actually can’t believe them !!!!

[jackrrabbit]

Spoiled Rotten /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Request: What if Overhaul fucks spoiled rich reader because her dad owes the yakuza money and in exchange Kai takes the daughter as a form of payment using her as his personal stress doll whenever and wherever he wants making her into his perfect little doll

A/N: While I was writing this my roommate asked if I was okay bc cause I kept stopping to fan myself and blush lmaooooo god I’m such a brat. I did change the concept up a bit, hope that’s fine!

This is dedicated not only to the OG requester but also to everyone who read the excerpt I posted a while back and told me they couldn’t wait to see the finished product!! Love you guys ❤️

Tags/warnings: threats, dubcon/coercion, dom/sub, brat taming, degradation, exhibitionism, restraints, mentions of forced prostitution, verbal & physical harassment, kidnapping, kinda breath play?, long

The first thing you notice when you come to are voices. Multiple people talking to each other, speech overlapping in patterns you can’t make out. They’re quiet—not whispering for your sake, but quiet because you’re still half knocked-out and you can barely hear.

The second thing you notice is the pounding in your head and the lingering smell of something sweet spread over your nose and mouth.

The third thing you notice is the fact that when you try to blink your eyes open, your lashes brush against something soft and dark. You’re blindfolded…and gagged, and your hands feel like they’re cuffed behind your back. From what you can sense around you, it seems like you’re hunched in a kneeling position with your cheek flattened against the floor and your bare feet tucked under your backside.

At least you’re still in your nightgown. You can feel the frilly silk of it, a useless barrier between your skin and the cool air, and it reminds you of how you got here in the first place.

A loud noise in the night. Your father’s voice pleading. A heavy thump. The door to your bedroom banging open and a strange man holding you down to your bed…lifting a sweet-smelling rag to your mouth…telling you to “take a deeeeep breath, princess.”

“Hey, I think she’s waking up.”

An invisible hand fists itself in your hair and you whine in pain as your upper body is lifted off the floor. Once you’re properly upright, you hear squeaking, shoes against concrete, and the heat and breath and presence of someone behind you. Something rustles at the back of your head—you’re too scared to move so you stay still—and then the blindfold is being lifted off your face.

Once it’s gone, you have to blink for a moment even despite the low light of the dingy room where you’ve…apparently…been kidnapped. By the freaking yakuza. And for some reason, they’re all wearing bird-beak masks.

You close your eyes, almost wishing they hadn’t taken the blindfold off. You’d prefer to live in blissful ignorance of how decidedly unclean the floor is. How dare they let your face touch it? What happened to honor among thieves?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Against your will, your eyes flick up to the speaker. He’s the only one sitting, and somehow that gives him a position of power among the others. The leader?

Unsettling golden eyes rest on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for your answer, so you slowly move your head from side to side.

“Didn’t know about daddy’s bad habits, huh?” This time the person speaking is behind you, the one who untied your blindfold, a thin man with lank, greasy blond hair. He’s the one who drugged me, you remember in a surge of panic, and you try to stand up away from him only for him to step on the chain that connects your handcuffs, jerking you back and pinning you—painfully—to the floor.

“Careful, Setsuno. I told you not to leave marks. Let her talk.”

“Got it, boss.” The blond—Setsuno—fumbles at the back of your head and then he’s pulling the gag out of your mouth.

You open and close your mouth a few times to stretch out the stiff muscles. “Oh. My. God. Was that polyester you just took out of my mouth? Do you have any idea how bad synthetics are for sensitive skin? I’m totally going to break out.”

A hush falls over the little room. You could hear a pin drop.

“…Are you complaining about the quality of the fabric we gagged you with?” the leader asks after a second.

“You may be yakuza, but you don’t have to act like savages,” you reply primly, aligning your knees together and sending a proud look off to the side.

“Ohh…little princess deserves better, does she?” Setsuno coos. He edges closer to rub his cheek against yours and laughs when you cringe away from him. “Boss, you shoulda seen her bedroom. All pink and frilly, looked like royalty lived there. Bet they treat you like a real princess at home, huh? No wonder your daddy’s in debt.”

“Daddy isn’t—“

“Your father…took out loans from my gang. My men came last night to collect,” the leader says, drumming his fingers over the armrest of his chair impatiently.

He’s wearing plastic gloves. Why is he wearing plastic gloves? Immediately your mind is spinning, imagining all the different gruesome possibilities of what they’re going to do to you. “That’s ridiculous. My daddy doesn’t need to borrow money—“

“Clearly he does, because it looks like he pissed it all away on his daughter.” The leader’s eyes are cold enough to make you shiver—although maybe that’s just the icy temperature of the floor soaking through your nightgown.

“He had a couple payments overdue, so we stopped by to ask nicely for him to pay up,” Setsuno says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Didn’t find too many valuables in your house, but then we got our hands on a real treasure.”

“Don’t touch me—“

“You don’t seem to understand the position you’re in,” the leader says. “When I made my contract with your father, he understood that obligations like these are inherited. Since he can’t pay his debt, you’re going to be working it off in his place.”

Working it off? You swallow. Somehow you don’t think he’s talking about your little part-time job as a receptionist at your daddy’s company. “You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m not sure you’re getting the gist, princess,” Setsuno hums. “What we’re gonna do is we’re gonna put you in a room, and then men are gonna give us money, and then we’ll let those men fuck you. All that money’s gonna go toward paying what your daddy borrowed. Sound good?”

For the first time since you can remember, you’re shocked speechless. They’re going to…what? But you’re a quick thinker, and instead of letting these filthy, awful gangters boss you around, you raise your chin haughtily to look directly into the leader’s eyes. “I don’t think so. If Daddy’s the one who got himself in debt, you can make him whore himself out to pay it back. You can’t hold me responsible for something he’s done.”

Another brief silence, and then you hear a whistle echo out from the corner of the room (and you try not to look toward it, reminding yourself that this can only get worse if they know how scared you are). “She’s got a mouth on her, Overhaul,” someone says.

Overhaul. So the leader’s name is Overhaul. How ridiculous; it sounds like a villain’s name.

“Aww, princess,” Setsuno says, and once again his voice is too close for your comfort. “Little spoiled princess doesn’t know how to shut her mouth and suck it up when things don’t go her way? Well…you’ll learn.”

You don’t want to know what he’s talking about, although if you thought about it for more than a second it’d be obvious. You suck in a harsh breath and the cool, damp air stings against your dry throat. “You can’t just make me—“

“Ohh, I think we can. See, if your daddy’s been spending all of the Shie Hassaikai’s money on his precious daughter, don’t you think you owe a little too? Like, this dress—“ you jump as Setsuno’s hand tugs on the thin, floaty silk— “was bought with Overhaul’s money, so it belongs to him, right?”

You keep quiet, not wanting to prompt him to go further, but when his hands stroke up over your waist to grope your breasts in full view of everyone else in the room, you don’t really have to guess.

“And, y’know, your daddy’s been keeping you nice and healthy with Overhaul’s cash, making sure you grow up into such a pretty girl…” Setsuno’s voice is a purr in your ear as his hands squeeze your tits almost lovingly, then pinch your nipples through the fabric. “So hey—if you think about it, this tight little body…belongs to Overhaul too. Isn’t that right, sir?”

You squirm in place as best you can but with the metal cuffs digging into your wrists, there’s nothing you can do to get away from his touch. You’re desperate enough to shoot a terrified glance up at the leader—surely there are rules about treating an innocent girl like this, even for the yakuza—but he looks as unmoved as before. “Get her out of my sight. We’ll give her a rest for the next few days, and then…”

“No!” you yelp, too panicked to keep up the pretense of confidence. “I won’t, I can’t do that, please don’t make me—“

“Shhh. You’ll get used to it, princess. And if you don’t…” Setsuno’s hand combs though your hair and then trails down your neck, tracing the path of your spine between your shoulder blades. “…well, you won’t really have much of a choice, will you?”

And then he’s tugging on your cuffed hands, pulling you to a standing position, but you wriggle away from him and do everything you can to stay planted on the ground so they can’t take you away from here, away from the only man who is capable of stopping this. Overhaul. “Please! I’m— I can work it off another way! I’ll be useful— I’ll—“

Overhaul leans forward a fraction in his chair, and you wonder if you’ve caught his interest. “What, exactly? How do you think you can be useful to me?”

You bite your lip and wrack your brains, not knowing whether the question is rhetorical. What skills do you have that would be valuable to them? Suddenly all the knowledge you’ve gained in your short life seems so meaningless. You’re a decent receptionist (well, decent is a stretch), but if Overhaul wanted someone to answer calls for him you’re pretty sure he would’ve asked.

Why did you spend your life learning such impractical skills? The four-year weekend course you took on horseback riding jumps to mind and you want to hit your head against the wall. Why didn’t you ask your father to sponsor a class in something that would actually matter in the long run? And what would even be useful to these people? Accounting? Bookkeeping? Extortion?

There’s nothing valuable you can offer. You’ve wasted your life, and now you’re going to pay for it. Seriously, the only thing you’re actually good at is keeping your boyfriends (or, rather, the men you cycle through once a month) happy until the novelty wears off and you get bored and move on to the next lovesick target—

—wait. Keeping your boyfriends happy. That’s a skill, isn’t it?

Once, a little bit after you turned eighteen, you’d had a rather illicit conversation with one of your more sexually adventurous friends about being a sugar baby. Your friend had just secured a very generous benefactor, and you’d been so intrigued by all the designer purses and vacations to Cabo that you’d almost considered trying it for yourself. She’d even helped you set up a profile on Seeking Arrangements that listed your physical features and interests, but you’d blanched when it came time to post photos.

“But why do men even like this?” you'd asked your friend after your picture-less profile received its dozenth unsolicited offer. “Rich, successful guys shouldn’t have so much trouble finding girlfriends that they have to resort to paying for sex.”

“It’s a power trip,” she’d replied. “Most men never get the chance to have a woman who’s willing to do and be whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. You’re his ideal girlfriend, his therapist, his wife, and his stress relief all in one.”

At the time, you’d decided against it, deleting your profile and telling your friend you’d rather just keep taking advantage of your real father doting on you than have to fake orgasms for rich men in their 50’s. But back then, you’d had a choice; now that you’ve been kidnapped by a gang who wants you to get fucked by a bevy of strangers to pay off a debt you’ve never even heard of, you no longer have the privilege of a way out. Or, at least, the options are a lot less appealing than before.

You tilt your head back to Overhaul, eyeing him for the first time with real scrutiny instead of prideful disgust. Judging from what you can see of his face under the ornate bird mask (and again, what is with the freaking bird masks?), he’s fairly young, mid-twenties at the oldest. Short, sort of wavy dark hair (you’ve always had a thing for dark hair), a trim suit and tie, and those eyes. Like he can read your mind just looking at you.

He’s…handsome enough, you have to admit to yourself. But it’s not just that. There’s something pristine about him, something untouchable that commands discipline. He’s clean. You and him are probably the only clean things in this hovel of a room.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Overhaul says.

And now that you’ve got the idea in your head, it’s almost too embarrassing to meet his gaze. But you can do this; you have to do this. At least it’ll be your choice, and—you’re hoping—it’ll be better than the alternative.

“I could be yours,” you tell him, taking pride in the fact that your voice isn’t breaking.

His eyes narrow and you think god, his eyelashes are long. It’s not fair. Men never appreciate having long eyelashes. What is he thinking? Is he going to kill you for even suggesting it? But it’s too late now…you have to dig yourself a little deeper if you don’t want to go through with their original plan for debt fulfillment.

You force your muscles to relax, knowing this’ll be impossible to pull off if you’re tense and biting down on the words like they’re going to choke you. If you’re going to make him believe it, you have to make yourself believe it too. “You… This job must be hard. Even for a—a powerful man like you, it has to be stressful, right? Always looking out for the interests of the gang instead of your own…needs.”

Overhaul doesn’t move, but you’re so focused on him it would be impossible for you to miss the way a single muscle in his neck flexes. You’ve hit a nerve.

You take a cautious step toward him, trying to channel the sexually-liberated vixen you consider yourself when you’re not in your nightgown surrounded by men who could murder you with their bare hands and not miss a minute of sleep. “You’re always giving, aren’t you? Looking toward the future of the gang? Doesn’t it get frustrating when—when a pretty thing is in front of you and you don’t even get…a little taste of her?”

Oh god, you can feel the humiliated heat rushing to your cheeks. How can you be saying this? You’ve played the role of seductress plenty of times before, but never in such a risky situation. You just have to keep moving toward him and hope it feels authentic enough to convince him.

“You’ve worked hard. And…like he said, my—my body belongs to you.” Now you’re close enough to Overhaul and he hasn’t stopped you, so you lower yourself onto the floor, knees bumping softly into the cold surface. Kneeling between his legs.

Overhaul stares down at you, gaze as sharp and cold as before—and you’re sick with anxiety, so scared you can feel your hairs raising up on end—but if he wanted you to stop, he would have said something, right? So you shuffle a little closer and nuzzle your cheek over the inside of his clothed thigh like a kitten, then raise your head up to him to give him your best bedroom look, the one that says, I want you. I need you. No one but you. The look no man has ever been able to resist.

“…You deserve something to yourself, sir,” you murmur.

There’s a collective intake of breath as every person in the room simultaneously realizes what you’re offering. Overhaul’s expression doesn’t change, but once again, a tendon jumps out white under the skin of his throat and there’s a creak of latex on leather as his grip on the arm of the chair tightens.

“Damn,” Setsuno says under his breath from behind you. Someone whistles. You’re pretty sure you hear the word ‘slut’ being tossed around, but there’s reverence behind it.

“And what makes you think you’re so valuable?” Overhaul asks.

You close your eyes to ground yourself for a second. He’s interested, you know that much. You’ve never really had to convince someone to want you, but there’s a first time for everything. Besides, you only have to look at him for a second to know he does want you, which isn’t a surprise. Who wouldn’t?

“I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want,” you tell him, echoing your conversation with your friend back then. “Take out your anger on me if that’s what you’re into. When you’re tired of me, you can consider my debt paid and let me go.”

“And?” he prompts.

‘And’? And what? You’re offering yourself to him, your body and your mind—what more can he possibly ask from you? You cast your thoughts around, wondering what else you have to give him. “And…and I’ll do it willingly. You, um—you look like a man who appreciates obedience.”

And that’s it. Your last shred of pride is gone. Not only are you offering yourself up to a man to use as his personal stress doll, you’re saying you’ll be compliant every step of the way. Knowing yourself, you’re pretty sure that’s impossible, but you just need to make him believe it long enough for you to find a way out of here. You can pretend to enjoy getting fucked by a gangster a few times. You’ll live.

But you’re naive. And with the stream of thoughts pushing through your head, you never really consider one thing, one essential thing: how you look pleading up at him in that pale pink nightdress—soft, pure, immaculate against the filth of the underworld, the only clean body that Overhaul’s seen in a long time.

And you’re right. He is a man who appreciates obedience.

“Willingly…so you’d be willing to prove it.”

Your head jerks up and down in response. Yes! He’s taking the bait, now I just have to get him alone and—

“Then demonstrate.”

When a moment passes and you don’t move, Overhaul tips his head to the side, gaze still locked on you, and gestures vaguely at his lap. You blink and then shy back, shrinking under the hungry gazes of the onlookers. “You can’t mean—in front of them?”

“And here I thought you were going to be obedient.” There’s no mercy, no amusement in his voice. No hint of humanity.

So he’s serious. He wants you to give him a blowjob in front of—how many? one, two three, four—four other men!? Your first instinct is to jump back away from him and your next is to slap him for even suggesting it; you can actually hear the jingle of your cuffs as you attempt to raise your hand. You’ve gotten a little kinky before—blindfolds, vibrators, maybe a hand tied to the bedpost with a Hermès scarf once or twice, but this is a whole different level. And the way they’re all looking at you…like they’re itching to see you brought down. How absolutely disgusting.

But Overhaul’s waiting for your answer, and you know full well that you’re not going to deny him.

“O-Of course.” You lean forward over the seat of the chair so your face is just inches from his lap. “Um. My hands...?”

They’re still cuffed behind you, but it seems like they’re going to stay that way when Overhaul gives a curt shake of his head. “Use your mouth.”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How are you supposed to—? Without your hands? It doesn’t even seem like he’s going to undo his pants for you. It’s like he wants to humiliate you…oh, wait. As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it’s clear that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

You give him another doe-eyed glance, bidding him to at least undo his belt, but he remains unmoved. Bastard.

After aiming another glare at him (because as obedient as you’re attempting to be, you’ve never been good at concealing your emotions) you lean deeper in and take the stiff leather of his belt between your teeth, gently easing it out of the buckle and trying to ignore the mixture of earthy and metallic tastes it leaves on your tongue. It takes a few tries, but eventually you’ve got the tail of the belt out of the buckle and you pull your head back to guide the metal down until the belt is hanging open from its loops.

A rush of accomplishment surges through you when you get it open, and then you want to slap yourself. Accomplishment? From doing this with your mouth like an animal—like a dog? You can hear laughter and mocking encouragement from the men watching, but you steel yourself and dip back in to get Overhaul’s pants undone. The button is tricky, especially with your face nudging into the hard muscle of his abdomen through his shirt, but somehow you manage to tug the fabric slit over the button and then—delicately, delicately—clamp the zipper between your teeth and peel it downward.

“Oh, she’s good,” someone says from the background. Setsuno. You look up warily, but Overhaul’s eyes haven’t moved from you.

Now that you’ve got his pants open, you’re face to face (literally) with what you’re going to have to deal with. The outline of his cock is bulging the fabric of his boxers outward, and he’s not even half erect. You snatch a look back up at him—and damn it, you have to stop doing that, because every time you look into those golden eyes and that stupid bird mask you feel like a lamb looking at a bird of prey right before it snatches you from your safe little lamb-house in the meadow and—fuck, you just have to get on with it.

So you dip down and mouth over him through the fabric, spreading the flat of your tongue over the length of his thick cock. Your mouth feels like you’ve been eating cotton (probably because they drugged you earlier) but you force yourself to salivate, letting drool spill over your tongue and dampen his boxers. When you duck and spread your lips down on the place you can feel the tip stretching out, you know the friction must feel good, because despite the lack of even so much of a deep breath from the man above you, his cock is getting harder.

You nudge your mouth over the tent between Overhaul’s legs again, letting the heat of your breath wash over him—but when he doesn’t do anything, you pull back and blink up at his face. Does he expect you to get him off through his underwear? You could, but most of your moves depend on skin-to-skin contact. There’s no way you can get his cock out with your mouth like you undid his pants, so…what? “Are—are you going to take it out?”

Overhaul brings a gloved hand to his face to rub absently at one of the straps on his mask. “…Beg,” he tells you.

Your mouth drops open and you reel back from his lap like he asked you to lick the dirt off the floor. What!? He can’t seriously expect you to—to beg him to put his dick in your mouth when you’re clearly disgusted at the whole situation. When he doesn’t give any indication of retracting the statement, you can’t help the mocking sneer that forms over your face. “Please, sir,” you spit, and a deaf man could hear the spite in your voice.

Now, that gets a reaction. Overhaul’s eyes flash and you take a certain degree of pride back at the anger you’ve clearly inspired in him. But it’s extinguished as soon as you see it, and then he’s reaching down to cup your chin, tilting your head back and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip.

“I think you can do better than that, princess,” he says, and you can hear your own mocking tone reflected back in his voice. “Unless you’d like me to give my men a turn?”

This, more than anything, scares you. He must be able to feel the way your spine goes stiff, adrenaline rushing, your fight-or-flight instinct kicking in at the prospect of what he’s threatening.

“Each of them, one by one. Between the four of them, I think they could cure that smart mouth…although they might just break you in the process,” he continues, and then his thumb is pressing into your lip, into your mouth, and you loosen your jaw to let him in. You can taste the rubbery latex of his gloves and the other men mutter agreement, encouraging their leader to turn you over to them, and you want to cry.

But you hold the tears back. “Please, sir! Please, please may I s-suck your cock sir? Please!” Your voice is more terrified than obedient, but that’s probably what he’s into anyway. When he doesn’t say anything, you babble on, unwilling to let yourself get gangbanged by a group of men who could probably wreck your pussy in a single round. “Please, please, Mr.—Mr. Overhaul, um, boss? M-Master?”

“Sir will do just fine,” Overhaul says, apparently satisfied, and he pulls his hand away from your face to free his cock from his boxers.

You let out a hot sigh of relief and angle yourself back toward his lap so you can zero in on his cock (and, hopefully, do a little to block out how sickeningly degrading all of this is: how easy it is for him to threaten you; how he has all the power and you have none; how the men around you are goading you, taunting you and calling you things that should get their mouths washed out with soap). You can focus on this, and this, at least, you’re good at. You’ve always been good with your mouth.

It’s a nice dick, too, you have to admit to yourself as you stare at it. Perfect length, girth, and a thick, cut head that you know just by looking that you’re going to have to stretch your jaw to get around. All his hair is neatly trimmed and groomed, and he even smells good, clean and fresh like soap. You’ve never been in front of a dick that didn’t smell like day-old ball sweat, so this is a first. It’s got a nice upward curve, too, and there’s a bead of pearly precum oozing out of the tip. The kind of cock that’s made for penetrative orgasms—

No. Fuck. You cannot be thinking this. You cannot allow yourself to lust after a gang leader who thinks of you as little more than an interactive sex doll. A tingle of blood rushes to your cheeks as you feel wetness pool in your panties and you adjust your stance, shuffling your thighs apart under the pretense of getting closer and hoping Overhaul doesn’t notice.

If he notices, he does the merciful thing and keeps quiet (which makes you think he has no idea you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, because he’s probably never chosen to do the merciful thing in his life). He does, however, shift one of his knees farther apart to accommodate you as you crawl close enough to him to get your head all the way between his legs.

So now you’re staring up at that unfairly pretty cock and wondering how the fuck this is supposed to start, but—best just get on with it. Pretend it’s not him, pretend it’s…no, wait, pretend it is him, it is Overhaul, the same bastard who’s looking down at you like you’re trash, except pretend you’re in control. Because no matter how many orders he gives, once you’ve got his cock in his mouth he’ll have to be the weak one. Right?

Lightly, slowly, you trace the tip of your tongue in a wet path up the underside of his cock, sliding up from the hilt to caress every bulging vein with all the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. When you reach the tip, you flatten your tongue to curve it around that bulbous head and then slip it off, the suction providing a wet smacking sound as your skin leaves his.

The breath of his barely-heavier exhale ruffles your hair and you relish the knowledge that he’s getting impatient. Yes. The bastard can wait.

You kiss the tip of his cock, barely moving your lips around the slit, only enough to let your tongue flick out against the precum and gather the bitter liquid up in your mouth. And then—right when he’s getting annoyed, when you can tell by the tension in his body that he’s five seconds away from shoving your head down to fuck your face—you duck closer, relax your throat, and swallow.

Like a fucking python. Or so you’ve been told.

The exhale that escapes him isn’t light this time. You can almost hear the barest hint of a groan under his breath, but you’re more focused on holding down your gag reflex as you let that heavy cock hit the back of your throat. Once he’s all the way down (or at least as far as you can get him), you rock yourself back an inch and then take him deeper, forcing yourself to hold still so he can feel the walls of your throat convulse around him, sucking him in, dry-gagging on the mass that’s filling you up.

“Fuuuuck,” you hear someone whine, and it’s not even Overhaul. It’s one of the men watching, and you feel a perverse mixture of hatred and arrogance rise up in you.

Overhaul’s cock is too big for you to properly moan around it, but you give it a go anyway so he can feel the vibration of your voice through his skin. You’re rewarded with a tangible twitch with it sitting on your tongue, and—oh—your mouth is watering out of where you’re clenching down on him at the back of your throat.

Spittle slips out over your lower lip and onto your chin, but you ignore it in favor of jerking your head up and down in fractional strokes, trying your absolute best to get yourself down to his base but knowing that he probably doesn’t give a shit anyway, not with how good your throat feels around what you’re capable of stuffing in.

What were you saying about ‘valuable’, sir? you think, and then you pull your head off his cock, so slow it’s almost cruel, sucking your cheeks in and hollowing out so those wet walls are rubbing up on every millimeter of his skin. When you reach the tip, you savor it, letting your tongue do the dirty work and looking up at him through your lash extensions before you release him with a nasty wet pop.

“Holy fuck, can I have her next?” one of the other men says, but you and Overhaul are too focused on each other to even look and see who’s talking.

His gaze is trained firmly down at you, and—no way, damn it—he looks bored, like he could be waiting in line at the DMV instead of getting sucked off by you, a girl who’s been complimented by every man she’s ever been with (including her first) on her bj technique. You know he’s feeling it—he can fake calm, but he can’t fake the way his cock’s throbbing under your tongue as you lick up the shaft. Still, now that you’ve got it in your head that Overhaul’s not going to make a sound, all you can think about is forcing him to moan. Let him look weak in front of all his little lackeys.

With renewed vigor, you lap up the length of Overhaul’s cock in sloppy dabs, leaving strings of saliva dripping off your mouth and his cock only to slurp them up, audibly, wiggling your tongue over the tip when you reach it. And that, that gets him, because you feel more than see the buck of his hips into your face as he hisses out a curse.

And—oh dear, maybe you shouldn’t have done that—because the next thing you feel is Overhaul looming forward over you, hand gripping the back of your head, and is he going to force you down? You hate that—so you take the initiative, tilting forward to take him into your mouth again, head bobbing up and down so quickly that your hair is falling all over your face, but it’s okay, because he’s got you, he’s got you, got his hands combed through your hair holding it out of your face, pulling so lightly it barely even hurts, but it does hurt, and he’s guiding you up and down on his cock and it’s hitting the back of your throat every time, and—and it hurts.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

“Take it deeper,” Overhaul instructs, almost encouraging, although you’re not given the option to pull off because he’s holding you down, pushing you firmly toward the base of his cock. You sputter around it, gagging, and you’re almost fucking choking, and he won’t let you up.

God, you’re not—not breathing, you can feel your throat choking down on him—“breathe through your nose,” he says, and this man, this villain has no idea what he’s fucking talking about, because you’re trying, eyes stinging and then you can feel tears down your cheeks. You try to squirm back on your knees, but somehow the combined force of every muscle in your body is outmatched by his single hand on the back of your head—and—and—you squeeze your eyes shut, relax, open your throat as much as you can and—

Overhaul forces your mouth down to the hilt.

Fuck, is he going to keep you there? You can’t, you can’t—if you could move, you’d be shaking your head and begging him to let you stop and as it is you’re whimpering around his cock. Your throat is making gagging noises and you’re crying, actually crying, actually fucking crying on a man’s dick. So this is what it feels like to be used?

“Good.” There’s something lower and darker in Overhaul’s voice, a husky undertone from the growl he’s trying to suppress. “Hold still…remember, you asked for this.”

You did. You asked for it. Begged for it. Pleaded.

“Want me to forgive your father’s debt…? You’re going to have to earn it.” He pulls out an inch just to ram himself back in. You make a weak attempt to move your tongue around his shaft and you can feel the shudder all the way through him, his cock twitching where it’s locked in your throat. “Mm…good girl. Just a little—little longer—“

His fingers are tightening in your hair, curling around the strands and tugging instead of just applying pressure to your head. He’s close, you think, and then you struggle back, not wanting him to cum down your throat, what if you choke on it? Like, really choke? You don’t want it, don’t want his cum in your stomach, but then he sighs and tells you again that you’re a good girl, and ohfuckohfuck you must be so scared you’re desperate for praise because you feel heat rush into your cheeks and your cunt when he says it and you try to move your tongue like you did earlier and his hips jerk forward and—he cums. In your mouth.

It’s salty, you think. The next thing you think is that you want to gag, because you’ve never had cum in your mouth before. For all your sexual experimentation, you’ve never let a man cum down your throat like this, always telling them it shoot it on your tits or whatever because you are not a person who should have semen in her mouth, much less ingest it.

But right now, with Overhaul lazily dragging your head up and down for a last couple pumps on his softening dick, your choice isn’t spit or swallow. It’s swallow or choke.

Hot. Thick. The texture is slimy, so viscous you can feel it going down your throat in strings. Part of you wants to throw up. It’s repulsive. Filthy. You hate this.

Part of you has to shift your position again so you don’t have to feel your own wetness slicking up the insides of your thighs.

How. Is. This. Possible. You may have just had to swallow your pride (and not just that), but what about your dignity? You’re a good person…okay, well, even if you’re not a ‘good person’ per se, you don’t hurt anyone with your selfishness. You don’t deserve to be kept as a pet by a sadistic bastard who gets off on watching you almost pass out on his cock, and you certainly don’t deserve the humiliation of finding that you’re turned on by it.

And yet. Here you are. Still held securely in place until Overhaul slides you off him. As soon as your mouth is free you suck in a dizzyingly deep breath, but even that is too much for your battered throat and the breath turns into a cough; you instinctively fold down away from Overhaul so the mixed saliva and cum you’re hacking out spatters in cloudy white flecks across the floor instead of on his clothing.

“Stop that,” Overhaul scolds, hauling you back up by your hair and forcing your mouth closed with a hand on your jaw. “If you make a mess, you’ll be cleaning it up.”

Considering what he just made you do to him, there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s implying you’ll have to lick it off the floor. You clench your jaw, holding back the convulsions of your throat as best you can, and hope he doesn’t press the issue.

Now that you’ve got your coughing under control, you can start to sense things that you had been tuning out before: the men hooting and wolf-whistling and applauding your performance, the traitorously persistent throb of your clit pulsing under your panties, and Overhaul’s hand releasing your chin to pet down your neck. “Now. What do you say when someone gives you a meal?”

Just you wait, bastard. I’m going to tie you to your bed and set fire to it. But you’ve got the sense that that answer won’t go over well, so you take a deep breath and look up at him again, meeting those piercing gold eyes with your own. “Thank you, sir,” you say in a soft whisper because it’s all your abused throat can manage.

“That’s right.” His hands feel colder than the concrete under your legs as he spreads his hand down your neck, only to toy with one of the lacy pink straps of your nightdress. “Stand up.”

You stand shakily, too cowed to even consider stepping back from him. Without warning (much less permission), Overhaul lifts the hem of your stupidly short dress up past your thighs, exposing your panties and lower belly to view.

“Hold this in your mouth,” he says, and after only a few seconds of hesitation you open up and bite down on the fabric so you’re effectively holding up the skirt for him. Overhaul skims gloved hands down the sides of your hips and comes to a rest when he reaches your panties—and why did you have to wear these today? Shiny red satin in the front; the back is just flowers worked in crimson lace. You know exactly how good you look in these panties, and judging by the things Overhaul’s men are saying, they’re more than appreciative of the view.

But Overhaul ignores them in favor of hooking his fingers under the elastic and pulling the panties down until they’re resting stretched between your upper thighs. You don’t have to see them to know there’s a string of slick connecting the lips of your cunt to the fabric, betraying in full technicolor detail how turned on you’ve gotten just from sucking him off. He gazes down at your pussy and then up to you as if waiting for you to admit it, but you stay silent.

“Well, well. What a nicely-trained slut I’ve found myself.” He gracelessly pulls the panties the rest of the way down your legs and lets them fall to the ground. “Do you always get this wet when you let your boyfriends fuck that smart mouth?”

It takes you a second to comprehend that he’s expecting an answer. “N-No, sir,” you reply, voice muffled by the fabric you’re still holding between your teeth.

“I suppose I can’t leave you like this, not after you took me so nicely.”

Does he mean he’s going to get you off? No freaking way. You drop the hem of your dress, let it flutter down over your thighs, try to scramble back, but his hand on your waist keeps you from moving. “I— It’s okay, I don’t need—“

“No, I think you do. I think I’m going to reward my pet for a job well done.” He leans back, eyeing you without sympathy. “I’d have you touch yourself, but—“

The mere possibility that he might remove the handcuffs has you straining against them again, and the sound of metal against metal rings out from behind you.

“—but, I think it’s best to keep the cuffs on for a few days…until you’ve settled down.”

Days? He can’t leave you in chains for days, helpless and powerless, so easy to take advantage of. “You can’t,” you whimper, and even though you mean for it to be a decisive statement, with your throat ravaged and hoarse it’s downright pathetic. Overhaul doesn’t even bother reprimanding you for talking back.

“My men have been patient,” he muses, and an enthusiastic wave of agreement wells up from the others. “Any of them would be happy to do it.”

You may have been through a lot in the past hour alone, but there is no way you’re going to let those rowdy criminals have their way with you. You send a nervous glance around the room and as predicted, not a single one of them looks like they have the slightest shred of control over themselves.

None of them…except Overhaul.

Still eased back in his chair, he looks just as relaxed and unaffected as he did when he was explaining your father’s debts to you. But there’s something flickering in his eyes, something he isn’t going to say to you, isn’t going to say out loud. A challenge.

Maybe, once again, he’s waiting for you to ask for it yourself. And if it’s a choice between him and one of the grimy ruffians who’ve been looking at you like dogs look at meat, you know what you’d prefer. Well—really, you’d prefer option C: none of the above (your current state might be uncomfortable, but you’re not so wanton that you’d rather cum in front of strangers than keep your legs together). Unfortunately, you’re starting to come to terms with the fact that ‘no’ is no longer an option.

Overhaul’s stare flicks from you to an unseen figure behind you, and you can tell he’s about to summon one of them over so you force yourself to move, lurching forward and climbing into his lap to straddle one of his thighs with all the grace you’re capable of. You feel the stir in the air when he inhales sharply, surprised, and his masked face is so close to your neck that you wonder if he can smell the lotion you put on before you went to bed last night.

It’s one of your favorite scents: vanilla, lilac, orange blossoms. You bought it because it smelled pure.

“Please, sir, I don’t want them,” you breathe next to his ear, injecting every ounce of sexual frustration you’re feeling into the needy tones of your voice. “I’m yours. I belong to you, just you. No one else—please, sir…Overhaul.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and you think he’s going to hit you, or maybe even kill you for your disobedience. Push you off his lap at least. But just when you’re teetering on the edge of jumping back from him and begging for forgiveness for talking out of turn, you feel it—a low rumble of laughter from deep in his chest.

Big, cold hands wrap around the sides of your ribcage under your breasts and his fingernails dig into you through the layers of latex and fabric. He tilts forward, forcing you to arch away and all you can think about is how horribly weak you are compared to him. Are you trembling? Will he be angry if you feels how afraid you are?

“You know, I guess I’ll keep you after all,” he hums, stroking his fingers through your hair and down your neck. “How does that sound, princess? I think you’d like that very much, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The response comes all too easily, even if the words taste bitter in your mouth. You’ve never said the word ‘sir’ so much in your life…but as he repositions you on his lap and slides a single hand up the inside of your thigh under your dress, you bite your lip and decide to hold back your protest.

If you’re going to have to learn manners, you’d better do it sooner rather than later. Something tells you Overhaul’s not going to accept any less than your best behavior if you want to pay off your debt.

[slashersins]

Ok so, one of the best dates (in my opinion) is going to build a bear and each getting a bear! Like picking em out together n doing the little heart ceremony (and also putting scents in I love the scentss) putting the hearts in each others bears bc love~ picking out their clothes together, naming em, then afterwards grabbing something to eat! (Taking a picture together n setting it as your lockscreen) its wonderful and you get a bear to remind you of your partner!! 10/10!! -Scooby

jason voorhees 

this boy will dead ass put on his best clothes , his gloves , a hat , a face mask , sunglasses , and come to build a bear with you . he may not speak but fuck he is so excited to do this with you , and you look so fucking happy and excited . he will without a doubt do everything with such dedication and seriousness during the heart ceremony that the bear builder is a bit nervous . he gets his build a bear soft , barely stuffed so that it falls over when it’s sitting . he picks out an outfit similar to his , a bit sad there is no mask or little machete . he’s having so much fun and you can tell . and oh god , there’s little kids who can’t quite reach things and he is helping them , and somehow there are now two kids sitting on either side of him helping him make his birth certificate for his new stuffed animal and jason is just so happy and enjoying himself despite the fact that the children’s mothers look slightly terrified . he ends up naming his bear mr fluffington due to the help of the children who decided jason was their new best friend . the cashier takes a picture of you on the polaroid and jason is very happy with it . he may or may not make a small machete for mr fluffington so he can gaurd the cabin . 

michael myers 

somehow you got michael maskless and dressed in normal people clothes and inside of a mall . he’s intimidating , hair pulled back into a messy bun , face full of stubble , blue eyes cutting into everything and everyone . he doesn’t seem to care , picking his build a bear after staring at them . his bear is completely over stuffed and hard as a rock . he doesn’t move . doesn’t sing . barely holds the heart before dropping it onto the back instead of stuffing it in and watching it fall to the floor . the bear builder tries to pick it up , but michael steps on it , basically telling them to sew the bear up without it . after wards he takes the heart and pockets it . he doesn’t care what the bear wears . the bear has a black shirt and some jeans and that’s it , the clothes barely fit , and it is almost impossible to put them on . when he names it , he just sits at the computer and stares . he names it “no” . later that night , you find “no” stabbed , half of it’s stuffing on the floor leaving a trail to his body . michael is on the floor sewing the heart back inside of it . 

brahms heelshire 

you have to get one of those do it at home yourself build a bear maker kits shipped to you , but you try and give brahms the full experience . it actually scratches an itch of indulge on a childish activity that he didn’t know he had . and the fact that the bear that comes in the kit is rather small , makes him happy . he gives his bear to doll brahms . making it was fun , you taking on the role of peppy bear builder . he thought it was cute . his bear is medium full , and he wanted it dressed in a suit . his name is bearington the third . when you asked if he wanted to help you make your bear he lit up , using his adult voice and treating you like a child . he made you do a million and one things during your heart ceremony and you couldn’t help but laugh at how silly he was . all in all it was a super cute fun time and now bearington and doll brahms are never apart . 

thomas hewit 

you can’t really bring him to build a bear as i don’t think they existed in the time period he lives in , buuuuut you can make him one . you have him pick out a fabric he likes , not giving him any clue as to why . you ask him how soft he likes things . he tells you like his pillow . a little on the firm side . you make a little heart and you have him do a little ceremony with it to put his love in it . he humors you but looks at you with a raised brow as if you’re the silliest person he’s ever met . you ask him what his favorite outfit is and make him pick out more fabrics to get a clothes set out . when you present him with the bear he is shocked . he tries not to tear up . tries not to cry , but he’s so so so happy . he keeps it on his dresser and when he gets out of bed before you , he will put it in your arms so you won’t miss him . 

jesse cromeans 

jesse walks in like he owns the place . the prettiest most expensive bear is his . only the most fancy suit ( he will later order a suit from some fancy designer for his bear ) . he does the heart ceremony , smiling at you the entire time and bumping your hip with his . he promises that he’ll get a chrome heart to put inside of the bear later . and you best bet that jesse gets everything . sun glasses , boots , socks , underwear , roller skates , back pack . his bear is spoiled to shit . you’re is too , and you almost wanna laugh at the look on the other customer’s faces when the price rings up . jesse was being so showoffy that he forgot to get a birth certificate or name his bear . 

bubba saywer 

much like with tommy you can’t really bring bubba to build a bear . but unlike tommy , you already know all of bubba’s favorites . you know he loves textures , so the body , each limb , the head , and the tail are all different fabrics . different sensations so he can have those little stimming moments . you know he likes things extra soft , so that’s how you fill it up . during the heart ceremony you have bubba do so many cute little things and he is more than happy to bounce around and babble . then you have him close his eyes and sew the heart in . when he opens them his eyes light up . and when he feels over the bear he is in utter heaven . it becomes his stress reliever and cuddle buddy . and you’re so happy he finds so much comfort in it . bubba will be giving you so many kisses as a thank you .

billy loomis & stu matcher 

it’s pure chaos . they’re messing with the kids , putting things out of their reach , debating on what animal or bear to get . but they are the most creative . billy gets a bear , stu gets a bunny . billy gets his stuffed medium full , stu barely makes his stuffed at all . stu over exaggerates every fucking heart thing , billy just smirks and makes everything filthy despite the gasps of mothers around you . billy dresses his bear up like a bad ass punk , stu give it a dress and tries to make a thong for it . billy names his bich fuker and stu names his fuking bich . you don’t know how you made it out of the store without being kicked out but somehow you do . later , at lunch , both of them disapear only to suddenly see the stuffed animals pop over the table as they give you a weird stuffed animal porno scene that you try not to die laughing over . 

vincet sinclair 

surprisingly , vincent will go into town with you for this venture . and even more surprising , he will go maskless . his long locks will cover the damaged half of his face , and he might look just a bit annoyed with how crowded it is in the store and how loud it is . he’s used to peace and quiet and metal music . he spends a long time deciding on a stuffed animal , even if he doesn’t think that he’ll put it up anywhere . he tries and does convince you to only get one to share . you’ll both build it together . he choses two and lets you get the choice in which one to get . he does the heart ceremony with you , giving a soft look to you , amused at how much fun you’re having , memorizing the way you look so he can sketch it later . you both decide to try and dress up in cozy clothes , a sweater and pants and socks . you name the bear vincent jr and vincent shakes his head , looking at you amused and presses a kiss to your temple . 

bo sinclair 

bo is annoyed as fuck to be there and is glaring at the kids , calling them brats and ankle bitters . he doesn’t act like he cares , and much like vincent just wants to get one . he isn’t made of fucking money . though he does get pissy when you don’t pick the bear with golden curl fur and you end up changing it with hitting his chest with a limp bear hand . he talks down to the bear builder because at first it’s too soft , then it’s too fucking hard , and then there’s too much stuffing taken out . you end up tipping the poor girl when his back is turned . he almost fucking faints when he sees how expensive everything is for clothes so you only get one white shirt . you then convince him to get a pair of socks because that’s what bo wears when he’s being lazy . he names it ankle bitter . a few days after you get the bear you can’t find it and you think it might have been thrown away , and then you see it in bo’s garage on a top shelf holding a wrench . 

lester sinclair 

lester has a lot of fun . once he makes it inside he gets pumped and asks if he can give his to jonesy . you both decide that your gonna get on each for her . lester gets her a bunny because of how much jonesy loves them . its absolutely adorable . the bear builder has and issue understanding lester’s slurred country talk , and it makes you want to laugh so hard because it’s obvious they’re from out of state . you end up just doing your best to translate and only laugh harder when lester starts laying it on thicker for a laugh . the bear ends up between limp and medium , a good fluff for a cuddle and chew toy . he dresses the bunny up as you , saying that it’s good for jonesy to have a little version of her daddy’s love . and you can’t help but think lester is fucking cute . he doesn’t name the bunny . later , after you decide to eat in the mall , lester says he’ll be back and goes to the bathroom . when he comes back he hands you a little bear that is dressed up like him and tells you that he wanted to make you something to hug on to when you missed him too much . 

jacob goodnight 

jacob is nervous , overwhelmed . you go during a school day in the morning so no one is really around . he doesn’t what to do or what to chose , but decides on one that has eyes that can be removed , you understand that he has a bit of an issue so you promise that you’ll put pretty patches over the eyes when you get home , he’s very relieved by this . now , your boy is usually pouty or neutral looking , but watch him light up and smile during the heart ceremony . he takes everything to heart and is so happy . his bear is medium fluff with most of the fluff in his tummy . he takes his time cleaning it , and picks out a very basic outfit . just a plain shirt and shorts . he names it jacob , after himself and wants you to hold it , thinking that you look so cute with two soft stuffed animals in your arms . later , he’ll try to make matching cross necklaces for both your bears . he also wants to come back and make a bear each for all his dogs . 

martin ( 1977 ) 

this shy boy is extremely excited and nervous at the same time . he’ll be quiet , glancing towards you and back at his bear , one that is pure white . he does the heart ceremony , shy as hell about it , whispering the words and such . but the further into the store the more he comes out of his shell . he smiles and stands close , looking at clothes and wanting your bears to match . they both end up looking cute and fancy , his a girl he names angel , and he tells you it reminds him of you . he keeps it in his room , often looking at it when he thinks and misses you . 

carrie white

this girl is excited , eyes bright and smile wide and sweet . she picks out something soft and pink and colorful . she doesn’t want her bear to be plain , no she wants her to be beautiful and stand out . you can’t help it . you put your own bear away so you can spend all the money spoiling this happy girl you have . she does everything with gusto , even doing it with some shy kids . she’s so lost in the moment that it’s wonderful , she really needed this . her bear is so soft , nearly limp , and dressed in a pretty yellow sundress with ribbons on her ears . she names it sunshine . 

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Prince you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Amycus Carrow!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

There was so much obvious love and thought that you put into Amycus that your entire application was so beautiful to read through (although heartbreaking and terrifying at times too!) You crafted a villain who we can sympathize with, and gave Amycus a humanity that others might’ve failed at. We think that his relationship to his family, his father and Alecto in particular, was really well explored -- and you gave us a firm grasp on who Amycus is in a way that brought him to life before our eyes. We’re so happy you decided to apply and we can’t wait to see Amycus on the dash! *your faceclaim change to Ben Barnes has been accepted 

application beneath the cut ( tw: gore, torture, abuse, murder, etc.) 

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Prince 19 he/him

ACTIVITY

7/10 I work about half the day so I’m free early afternoon on/weekends.

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

the marauders rp tag, promo blog. was in this rp like, ~7-8 months ago??

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

I don’t remember much since it’s been such a long time since reading. I know I definitely always had a soft spot for Neville when reading the books though.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Here you can tell us everything else you have in mind like questions, concerns, notations or anything else you can think of

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Amycus Aldrich Carrow

Amycus; Amykos, Latinized as Amycus, in legend was the son of Poseidon and the Bithynian nymph Melia. He was a boxer and King of the Bebryces; killed ina boxing match.

Aldrich; A name meaning ‘a wise and aged ruler.’ With such a name, his family expects and predicts great things of their boy. He will one day be powerful, so very strong.

Carrow; “Carrow” in Norfolk, or “Carraw” in Northumberland. The first is assumed to have its name derived from the Old English word “carr”, meaning “rock”, and a word of Celtic origin; “hoh”, meaning “spur of a hill”.  

FACE CLAIM

Xavier Dolan, Ben Barnes, Mikkel Jensen

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I’ve played Amycus for, about a year’s worth, on and off, and I enjoy him because he’s his own person but also has the ‘dynamic’ of having a twin, and living/making decisions not only for himself but sometimes for the both of them, or having them being treated as ‘the same’ by others, because they are twins. Like, it’s interesting to have a character so closely linked to Amycus. And I love exploring his family dynamic bc he’s one of the characters that doesnt really have a ‘set’ past in canon, so there’s so many different ways he could end up because of what his life was like as he grew up.

—

Amycus could say his childhood had been. Interesting. Born the male of a pair of twins, he was favored, and it wasn’t hidden. He was given the love and attention his sister was denied, and the words that best described his as a toddler were ‘spoiled brat’. He grew up learning he could have whatever he wanted, and that ‘no’ didn’t really mean ‘no’, not to someone with power and money like him. Though his parents weren’t entirely interested in raising children. They wanted an heir to the family and had no time or patience to deal with a growing child, let alone two. A lot of Amycus’ childhood was spent playing his sister and hiding from his tutors and nannies.

Amycus was very young when he realized what the world was like. His father had never been a pleasant person, and the nights he would drink were the nights the whole family suffered by his hands. He and his sister learned the world was ‘dog eat dog’, and many dog eaters looked like humans. They learned to be vicious and bare their teeth at others. As they got older, they learned it wasn’t enough to look scary; you had to be scary. They must pit themselves against the world or die trying. Fear of his father and reality of the world drove Amycus to learn to defend himself, in anyway he should need to. Amycus learned to defend himself, he needed to be the monster he was afraid of, and very readily embraced it.

Amycus learned to be vicious, as did his sister, but didn’t learn to hide it behind polite smiles and good manners as she did. The words that best described him as a young teen were ‘cruel monster’. Amycus was mean, he was a sadistic monster that choked kids until their eyes pleaded with him for their lives, whose pranks turned from mean letters to disemboweled pets as Christmas presents. The voices that coo words to him in his head remind him what a monster he is. Sometimes, the voices are quiet, and Amycus is never sure whether he’s glad for the silence, or is afraid of it.

Amycus has dragged himself down into a rotten little hole now, which he knows will one day make his grave. His time in school in Slytherin house led to him to making friends with other ‘bad’ children, and is where he found his interest in the Dark Arts. Now working with the Death Eaters, Amycus has found a place where he feels more accepted, though he still garners dirty looks with his bloodied hands and maddened grins.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Amycus will sleep with whomever says yes. He’s not picky by any means whatsoever. Sex is sex, after all. A means to an end. Amycus identifies loosely as a cis-male, and prefers he/him pronouns but also answers to they/them as he’s used to being addressed as a pair along side Alecto. If he had the information, he’d probably identify something closer to agender, but as that’s all very abstract and not widely shared information at this time, he’s simply content with being called a male.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

Quotes and lyrics: -  “When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin’; but not to help.” – Mason Verger - “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time. Are we not created in his image?” –Hannibal Lecter - “ I love you crookedly because my heart’s been unhinged from birth. The doctors gave me strict instructions not to fall in love: my fragile clockwork heart would never survive.  “ –Jack and the Cuckoo Clock Heart -“ In the end You dig yourself the hole you’re in” –Dig Your Own Hole -“  God, I pity the violins In glass coffins they keep coughing They’ve forgotten, forgotten how to sing ” –All The Rowboats

headcanons;

-Amycus is surprisingly good at memorizing spells, and knows quite a few charms and curses, more than the average students learned at Hogwarts. He’s had a few private tutors at the behest of his father, and read quite a few books on magic in his spare time. He’s very good at martial magics, and can sustain a Fiendfyre for quite a long time without losing it’s control. -Amycus is photosensitive, and often gets migraines from being in the light for too long. Thus, he prefers being a night owl, or at least avoiding being outside, especially if it’s a sunny or bright day. He likes keeping his room and as much of the house dark as he can, which makes the place look pretty gloomy. -Due to very little social interaction beyond his sister as a child, Amycus has a hard time understanding sarcasm, and often take’s other’s opinions in a very ‘black and white’ way. He thinks people either like him, or hate him, and there’s no in between. Also, people are either angry with him, or enjoy him; he has a hard time knowing if he’s upset people, and struggles to read into tone of voice and other social cues. -Amycus is rather paranoid about noise, and enjoys the quiet. He very often moves around to avoid noise, and is easily set off into distress or anger over loud noises. He’s most afraid of the sound of footsteps, as it reminds him of the sound of his parent’s coming down the halls of their home as a child. -It’s more likely than not Amycus lies somewhere on the Autism Spectrum, but his parents only considered him a fussy child. Even he doesn’t think he’s autistic, mainly because mental illness is stigmatized and not talked about, especially among wizarding communities. -Amycus has schizoaffective disorder, and cycles between intense depressions and manias. He suffers from auditory hallucinations that started to develop during his time in school, and soon after he started having visual hallucinations, though those are much more uncommon to him. -Amycus is a very physical person and enjoys being able to touch objects or other people, but understands personal boundaries. He won’t continually touch those who’ve expressed discomfort about it. When idle, he often likes having something to hold on hold onto, or to be held himself. He wears heavy jackets often, even in the heat, because the weight of it on his shoulders is comforting. -Amycus usually has his wand up one of his sleeves strapped his his forearms; mainly to his right as he’s a left handed person. He also often carries a switchblade on him. Amycus often wanders off into the Muggle parts of town, and fighting with a knife leaves less clues to point back to him than using magic against them. Though due to his temper, he’s been known to try and stab anyone who upsets him, even other wizards.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

“Some kind of…Weaker Cruciatus maybe. I mean, hey, a good Cruciatus is great. But sometimes you only need a little, something to push someone off the edge. You have to stop a Cruciatus to get people to talk. Something a little less strong, you could torture them and get ‘em to give up whatever you want. Wouldn’t that just, be great?”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“Alecto, obviously. But it’d probably be her fault, why we’d be going into the Forest anyway. And bring. Well, besides my wand, how about Alecto’s wand? It doesn’t work the best, for me at least. But it’s something, isn’t it? And it’s not my wand so it’s not breaking the rules, huh? Twins don’t count.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“Very, puzzle like decisions. Where people want to trick you with their words. Saying one thing, meaning something that’s not what they said. People make things so much more complicated than they should be, almost all the time. Bullshit.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“That I’m the worse twin. Just look at Alecto. I’m even, better looking. There literally can’t be any way that I’m worse. I’m very obviously the better twin. Who would even think twice about it? Huh? Even Alecto knows, I’m the better one. Though she won’t admit it. Which makes her worse. She’s too up her own ass to see it, really. ”

WRITING SAMPLE

—Amycus hissed and withdrew his hands from the piano when it shocked him, looking over his shoulder at his father. “Start over.” Darius replied, leaving Amycus to quietly turn back to the piano and begin the piece again. The boy got tripped up at the same spot, and was shocked once more by the piano. He bit his tongue to keep from whimpering, and without being told started from the beginning. The third time he was able to play it, but only a few bars past made another mistake. He yelped when the shock hit him, and this time he turned to look at Darius. “Father.” The man stopped his pacing to stare at his son, and Amycus did his best not to let his voice falter, “Please, I-It’s very hard to continue learning the piece if I have to start again at every mistake. I w-won’t get good at the end if I only play the beginning, sir.”

“If you paid more attention to what you were doing, perhaps you wouldn’t have to begin again so many times.” Darius quipped back, leaving Amycus deflated. He bit his tongue again and gripped the piano bench tightly. After a few moments he turned back to the piano to continue playing. The nine year old could only endure the harsh treatment for so much longer, and after about another half hour Amycus stood abruptly after being shocked, the piano bench scraping across the ground. He stood with his hand balled into little fists, tears in his eyes and just beginning to tremble. “Sit down.” Darius warned with a hiss.

“No!” Amycus snapped back, glaring at his father with teary eyes, “I don’t wanna play anymore!” The boy began storming away to the door, and just before he reached for the handle he was thrown to the ground harshly, landing on his side. “I said sit down.” Darius had his wand raised and slowly moved to stand over his son. Amycus was crying by now, getting back to his feet slowly.

He stood there and hung his head, and just as his father began to speak again, Amycus shoved him as hard as he could and bolted out the door. Darius stumbled back a bit and almost fell in surprise, then snarled and yanked the door all the way open to storm into the hall. “Amycus!” He screamed at his son, who was just barely scrambling down the stairs out of sight. Amycus made it to the front hall, fumbling with the locks on the door. When he opened the door he only got one foot outside before he ran headfirst into his father who had Apparated in front of him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Darius hissed. Amycus sobbed, crying out when he was dragged back to his feet by his arm, feebly attempting to pull himself from his father’s grip as he was dragged across the marble floor in the front hall. His feet scrambled for purchase as he tried to stop his father from dragging him, screaming and tossing himself around like a trapped animal. Amycus was close to hyperventilating now, body shaking with fear as he desperately tried to escape his father. His head turned at the creaking of a door and he saw her there; Alecto stood in the door way, expressionless and staring. Blank empty eyes looked into his own as he began pleading for Alecto to help him, but his pitiful cries seem to fall on deaf ears as the girl didn’t so much as blink as her brother was dragged through the basement’s door.

Amycus knew what an Unforgivable curse was before any of his friends.

—Amycus stormed past his mother as he walked through the front door of the Carrow Manor, dropping his suitcases with a harsh clatter and climbing the stairs two at a time, quickly making his way to his room. He slammed the door behind himself and moved to stand in the middle of the room. He shook with anger, his nails biting into his palm as he made white-knuckled fists. It’s not fair. Why couldn’t he stay? All of his friends got to stay at school over break, but he had to go home. Amycus stormed to his dresser and swept his arm across the top, knocking everything to the ground and letting anything glass shatter. It’s not fucking fair! Why the hell should he be home? He fucking hated it here, and both his parents knew it. The boy strode to his desk and threw the chair aside, throwing the journals and books to the ground and chucking the inkpot at a wall. Ever since he began attending Hogwarts, Amycus had loathed returning home for winter vacation, and especially for summer vacation. He never wanted to be home anymore. He never wanted to be around his father.  

“You’re upsetting your mother, if you insist on throwing a fucking tantrum like a child, I’ll-” Darius yelled as he swung the door open, and a picture frame very narrowly avoided his head and shattered against the wall behind him. “Fuck you!” Amycus screamed, grabbing a book from the shelves next to his desk to throw at his father as well. “You fucking wanted me home! I’m here! What the fuck did you expect, father?” the boy’s tone was mocking, and he shrieked with pain when hit with a Cruciatus Curse. The fourteen year old crumpled to the ground writhing in agony as white hot pain shot through him.

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that you ungrateful mongrel!” Darius snarled at his son. Amycus could only scream, the pain terribly overwhelming. The Cruciatus Curse was more powerful the more hatred the user felt. The pain made him want to black out. The teen laid on the floor struggling to breathe when the curse was lifted, making no move to get up when his door was slammed close. Amycus laid on the floor for another hour, his body aching too much to move.

One night soon after, Amycus waited until late to leave his room, to make his way down to the kitchen. He grabbed the biggest knife he could find and took the back door into the yard, walking across the wet lawn in the moonlight. He grimaced at the sting of the cold, only wearing his pajamas and socks in the freezing weather. It took most of his strength to push open the door to the stables, and it took no time to walk over to the stall. Amycus stared at the horse, looking at the medals that decorated the wall behind it. Father’s prized racing horse. The stall door was easy to open.

Amycus said nothing as his father walked into the dining hall, staring the man down as his father stopped dead in the doorway. He watched the color drain from the man’s face as he looked at the crudely butchered horse that was strewn across the entirety of the long table. He sat back in his father’s chair, giving his father a cold and hateful stare. “Merry Christmas, father.”

Amycus always got the best gifts at Christmas time.