#your poems will simply never fuck

[roach-works]

Hi, I've been following you for a while now and I really like your blog! Today Tumblr showed me a screenshot of the "my name is Olivia" poem because you liked it. The poem makes it sound like the term "cisgender" is somewhat derogatory, am I misunderstanding it?

well, the reason i reblogged that poem (and i suspect why several mutuals did too) was because i found it amusingly naive and self-centered, as well as extremely generic.

see, there's a certain type of immature and sheltered person who also thinks of themself as deep, sensitive, and dignified. when that kind of person is also cisgender and heterosexual, they usually produce a very bad, self-righteous poem in high school about how their feelings and identity have just as much profundity as all the queer freakjobs who are having nasty sex ugly style and not coincidentally writing great poems that fuck hard.

a lot of people who are queer and trans and into poetry have met a lot of olivias.

god bless their clunky little cisgender souls.

[crossbackpoke-check]

Dysprosium, Mary Soon Lee

dysprosium, AN 66, is a silvery-white rare earth metal. its name is derived from the greek dysprositos, meaning “hard to get at”, owing to the difficulty in separating and isolating this rare earth element. dysprosium is used to measure neutron flux, to fuel reactors, and to activate phosphors. terfenol-d is a magnetorestrictive alloy, meaning that it changes shape when a magnetic field is applied, and is used to manufacture underwater acoustic systems.

jason “robo” robertson, dallas stars #21 for @simmyfrobby’s nhl periodic table poems <3

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[astralnymphh]

slight nsfw. waking up in jackson!ellie's bed, naked. sappy love. mostly fluffy. just thought-dumping atp.

“hmm..” a genial wind came brushing through the sun, courtesy of her cracked bedside window. you've a freshly awoken mind, so everything around you hasn't caught up to you. for all your awareness, the room feels materially kindred to home. you think you're in bed, at home, but nevertheless, you are not. closed eyes can convince you of anything.

it all kicks in the moment her voice cracks, “mornin' sleepyhead. tapped out on me so fast last night, hmm?” her tender and weak one floating around the corner. a throat just as weary as yours. then, a wrapped warmth is laid to your arm, nudging you lightly. “made some eggs if you're—uh, hungry?”

truth be, ellie is not hungry in the slightest. never was a breakfast person, never will be. but in the clemency of her own heart and fingertips, she will make this morning a pleasant one before you leave for patrol. “oh, shit. uh, right i forgot you were—” ellie swang 'round and faced the opposite wall in a fret when she realized you were still in the nude, from the torso up, sat still. the blanket shields you perfectly, but, that doofus thought it crass to look at you either way; hand quick to shroud her eyes, even turned around. “is my bra over there, by chance? could you—” you squint. “uhh, uh-huh! it's just.. right here.” her unoccupied hand collects your bra—luckily in her reach—and aimlessly tosses it in the assumed direction of your voice, ending in the twirled bit of fabric upon your head. simply because she wouldn't dare peek. “thanks. weirdo.”

morningtide trickles on. warm residue of a late-night's love creeps up your spine, waving a shiver through you. you remember the tightness, the biting, the panting, the words of promise left on your shoulder: “'ll come around again. this isn't like last time, i promise. you feel so fucking good.” and you fathom it in the same manner you fathom a love poem; coughing up doughy smiles and giddy instincts that you only feel when you're young and dumb. but, you swallow those cloying thoughts for later, and stick a spare toothbrush in your mouth, returning to an empty mind.

“can i hold you here?” like a pup—an awkward pup—ellie sneaks up on you and softly intrudes your space, questioning whether or not she was wanted there. her hands hover at your waist, and at your sanction, “go ahead.” both hands become both arms, enveloping you in a tight embrace that felt like it wouldn't be able to wait any longer. “i think you're like.. the best i've ever been with,” she rasps, and sways you side to side with slow rhythm, biggest grin to date pulling against your neck. “m'so fuckin' serious about you. it's embarrassing,” a chuckle tickles you.

how will you ever leave this room?

[c00kiesandcream]

just thinking about how Reth is obsessed with soup, which is such a wholesome hearty comfort food, that you often give to people when they're sick, because the only real way he could guarantee that his sister was okay growing up was to give her comfort food that he learnt to make from his dad from a young age. how that wasn't quite enough, and now he's permanently marked with a reminder that he was simply not good enough at anything he'd ever really tried before.

how his dad would have probably supported his dreams of being a chef, if he'd actually been honest with them from the beginning and not just done what was expected of him, especially when Tish got sick and she couldn't take their family's path herself, because he was always going to set himself on fire to keep his village warm

and how he gifts you so. much. food. when he fucks up, when he's happy, when he wants to flirt back at you. how his pet name for you is "sweet tooth" and how he compliments how sweet and tasty you are, because the highest form of love in his life was in the meals he shared with his family, the scraps he threw together to keep Tish fed, the times with his dad making impossibly tall berry-laden cakes for birthdays and holidays and Wednesdays.

how the fiteenth time he gave you a new soup you ate it all like it was the first, even if it was an experimental stew, and even if he knows you hated every mouthful, he has to hide his face, because he doesn't want to show you how much it means to him that you indulge his passion, and how this feeling carries him through every gentle complaint from Ashura and every mocking jab from Tish because you let him share this with you and you never once judged him for his love of stewed veggies and spices. he tries to goad you into mockery but you refuse to laugh at someone who cares enough about something to consider every possible angle involved in it's creation.

and how the further you push yourself into his life, no matter how many times he tells you he will disappoint you and let you down, he's broken when he does. the words he blurts out when you have to go betraying the image of the cool guy who invited you into his storeroom crumbling when he admits that he hopes you don't realise you made a mistake. you stay with him to show him that you meant what you said when you gave him your pin.

how he tells you that he sucks with words, and he always says the wrong thing, or how he would write you a poem but he likes you too much, but then he hands you a gorgeous blueberry pie, hand rolled and woven and sweet and perfect, and every bite tastes like gentle hands chilled to keep the butter cool, the gentle simmer of the berries in sugar, the sharp sting of chopped spice sprouts, and the patient eyes of the chef who never stops running around, sat for once in front of the oven, watching the pastry puff to perfection because he loves you and knows that despite his best efforts he can sometimes burn the edges.

yes healthy + normal enjoyment of a video game here

[mind-empty-just-fictional-people]

Poems

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist

summary: dean searches your room when you’re missing, and the love letters he finds break his heart

pairing: dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 1.9k (1.5k excluding poems) 

warnings: reader goes/is missing, language, 

author’s note: please don’t make fun of my “poetry”, i know it’s not good that’s why i don't write poems lol

“Hey Dean, I’m working a case near Wichita so I’ll probably be back home by the end of the week. See you soon, bye.”

“That’s the last I heard from her,” Dean told his brother after playing him the message you left. “It’s been over a week, I’m gettin’ worried here!”

“Do you know what kinda case she was working?” Sam asked, Dean shook his head. “Okay, well I’m sure she’s fine, Dean. Let’s call the hospitals around where she is and ask if she’s there.”

“You do that, I’m gonna head to Wichita,” Dean replied.

“I think we should call the hospitals first, Dean. She said she was near Wichita, she could be anywhere from here to there!”

Dean sighed but agreed with Sam’s plan.

**

The boys had no luck with any of the hospitals so they decided to head over to Wichita and look for you. They searched for a few days before heading back to the bunker, hoping you might be there waiting for them. You weren’t, of course, and that only made their worry grow.

You’d been missing for nearly two weeks!  

Dean thought there might be some kind of clue in your room and decided that searching it was next on his to-do list. Though he knew he was grasping at straws, he did it anyway.

Opening the door to your room, he smiled at the poster near your bed. It was the one he’d gotten you for Christmas last year. It was a kind of gag gift—it was his favorite band. (His real gift had been much more thoughtful.)

He began his search at your desk, digging through the mess of papers splayed out on the wood surface. His brows furrowed when he found one paper in particular. It looked like… a love poem?

The way your hair looks in the morning

The way your laugh adds life to moments boring

The way your breath hits my neck when you’re standing just behind me

Reaching over to grab something off the table

A lore book, of all things to be

And the way your eyes light up when you look into mine

I swear I almost see a hint of love

Behind those piercing starlights

Your lips on mine is what I need

Did you hear me? 

I said kiss me, you fool!

We’ve not got much time

In this line of life 

And I need you at my side.

Dean didn’t know if the poem would be considered “good” in the public eye, but he knew it made his heart clench. You were in love? But… with whom?

To him, the words were beautiful, and the thought that you wrote them about someone else broke his fucking heart. He knew there were no clues to your whereabouts in the next poem, but of course, he read it anyway.

I think of you when I drive and spot a classic car

I think of you when I eat a cheeseburger 

And I’ll turn it upside down when I’m missing you

I think of you when I hear a Zepplin song

And I turn the music up when I’m not with you

I think of you when I see anyone wear flannel

Or a leather jacket that’s clearly a size or two too big

And I love to think of you

It just makes sense to me

I love to picture you beside me

At night when I can’t sleep

Or when I get scared of what I’m facing

I think of what you would do

Day or night

Night, day, or noon 

I always think of you

Whoever this mystery person was, they were fucking lucky. Dean had never felt so jealous in his entire life. He always thought you two had a “will they won’t they” side to your relationship but at that moment he realized it was completely one-sided. The fun, flirty side to all your late-night conversations had just been friendly. Two friends playfully talking as if they both wanted to be more.

Of course Dean wanted to be more. Of course he knew he wanted to be with you. But now? Now he knew he’d either missed his chance or he simply never had one.

You were in love with someone that wasn’t him. And the love you’d been writing about wasn’t the kind someone gets over. It’s the kind that sticks—for life. The kind that people write songs about, the kind that people fight wars over, and the kind that makes people go crazy in the best way. 

He knew he’d found that love when he first fell for you, but it turned out you had found that love in someone else.

“Anything?” Sam asked, walking into your room.

“Uhm,” Dean cleared his throat, hoping his eyes didn’t look as cloudy as they felt. “No, nothing important. Just some love letters or something.” 

Sam furrowed his brows and picked up one of the poems off the desk, one that Dean had not read yet. As the taller Winchester read what you wrote his eyes grew wide, practically popping out of his head as his mouth fell open.

“Oh my fucking god!” Sam exclaimed. “Y/n’s in love with you?” He looked at his older brother in shock.

“Me? No, these poems are about whoever she’s been seeing recently, they aren’t about me. We’re just friends.”

“You haven’t read this one yet, have you?” Sam asked with a small smile before handing it over.

You asked me today; “what’s your favorite color?”

And I just shrugged; “I don’t know, blue?”

Cause how could I have said the truth?

The color I love most in the world

The color that brings me nothing but joy

In this sad, awful little life

Is the green and hazel of your eyes

The emerald diamonds that shine

When you look into the sun

The soft hazel that looks over at me

When we’re reading in the library

How can I tell you all of this 

When the question is so simple and plain

How do I go into such specific detail

About the color I’m in love with

Without freaking you out

Or scaring you away

Or making you laugh at me

Because I know your favorite color 

And I know it’s not the color of my eyes

“You…You think this is really about me?” Dean asked his little brother, hoping Sam was right.

“Dean in all my life I have never seen anyone but you eat a burger bun-side-down,” Sam chuckled a little having read one of the poems Dean had read earlier.

“Oh my god.” Dean furrowed his brows, looking back down at the paper in his hands. “We’ve gotta find her, Sammy, I gotta tell her!”

“Tell her that you went through her stuff while she was gone? Don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“No! Tell her I’m in love with her! Tell her that the color of her eyes is my favorite fucking color too! And every time her favorite band comes on the radio I turn it up, and every time I see a woman wearing her type of clothes I think about her. Tell her that all I do every waking moment of every day is wish I was with her, wish I was holding her in my arms so I could never let go.”

“I think you just told her.” Sam smiled, nodding to where you now stood at your door. Dean turned around quickly. Tears of joy stung your eyes as you looked at him and smiled.

“You love me?” you asked.

“More than anything,” Dean admitted as he hurried to you. He wrapped you in a tight hug, kissing your temple quickly before he tucked your head under his chin. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call, it’s a long story,” you mumbled. “When vampires ban together with twisted humans, they’re a lot harder to kill.”

“We were really worried about you,” Dean admitted. “Like…fucking terrified.”

“Is that why you decided to dig through my personal shit?” you asked. You were one hundred percent kidding, but Dean was still nervous.

“Yeah…sorry,” Sam cringe-clenched his teeth, “it was my fault.”

You and Dean pulled back from the hug, but you took his hand in yours as you narrowed your gaze at the younger hunter.

“I know your tell, Sammy,” you said. “But it’s sweet that you’re trying to cover for Dean.” 

“Yep, all Dean’s fault,” Sam admitted before heading for the door, giving his brother a pat on the shoulder on his way out. “Good luck.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, I swear,” Dean told you quickly. “I was looking for something that might tell me where the hell you were.”

“How many did you read?” you asked.

“Three,” Dean sighed, still thinking you were pissed at him.

“So…you know, then? That I’m hopelessly in love with you? And you think I’d be mad at you for looking through my stuff?”

“I mean, I know you value your privacy.”

“Dean,” you started, putting a hand on his cheek and turning his face to look down at you, “would you please just fuckin’ kiss me already?”

He seemed almost surprised by your question but he quickly smiled as he bent down and kissed you. His one hand stayed clasped in yours while his other went to your waist and then trailed to your lower back. The hand you had on his cheek went to the upper back of his neck so you could tangle your fingers in his hair. The smiles on both of your faces only grew before you both pulled away.

“Wow, I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Dean mumbled before he let out a short, breathy laugh.

“Me too,” you replied. 

**

You’d been back home for a few days now and you had explained the whole missing situation to the brothers. You told them how the simple vampire hunt turned sour quickly when you realized the small-town’s sheriff was in on it and helped the vamps with making humans just disappear. They’d made you as a hunter instantly and held you hostage for a few days before you killed your way out. 

Dean never left your side so when he saw a new poem on your desk his brows furrowed. Curiosity got the better of him as he sat down to read it.

My god aren't I lucky

Now that you're holding me at night

And that first time we kissed in the doorway

I could’ve sworn I was kissing pure sunshine 

When your lips hit mine it was better

Then I could’ve ever imagined

And the love poems I've written became

Manifested words of affirmation

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered

And the blood rushed to my head

Think I could stay like this forever

Won't overthink it, I’ll just go and kiss you instead

“Well, well, well.” You came up behind him, and put your hands on his shoulders before you trailed them down and clasped them together over his chest, leaning your chin on his shoulder and kissing his cheek. “Look who’s digging through my shit again.” You smiled against his skin. He turned his head and placed a deep kiss on your lips.

“I’m not even sorry this time, because I think this might be the best thing I’ve ever read.”

“I love you,” you said and kissed him again.

“I love you so fuckin’ much,” he mumbled back.

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type AU.

Soap is the long forgotten god of death.

Ghost is his first follower in a very long time.

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

————

At first, Soap had been seen as kind and benevolent. The one to end someone’s suffering and help them along to the afterlife. However, as more wars began to break out, his perception changed into that of a bloodthirsty warmonger. The type that you sacrifice the blood of innocents to for luck in your upcoming battles.

Soap had simply ignored the brutish offerings. But then they spread. Like a plague, soon everyone was murdering their chosen victims in his temples in the hopes that it would bring them even more fortune.

Realizing that his presence was just causing more and more to die, he let himself fade away. He was reduced to nothing more than a comforting feeling people felt before they died. Over time, the so-called offerings stopped. Scared of what would happen should he return, he continued to fade.

A god is only as strong as their followers believe them to be. With no followers, no offerings, they are nothing. While mortal weaponry may hurt a god, may even get them to bleed, it cannot kill them. A god can only truly die when they are no longer remembered.

Soap is waiting for the day that he is truly forgotten and can pass on when he gets a feeling. One he has not had in an age. Though his worshippers have abandoned him, his temples and statues remained, though now significantly worse for wear. And someone just provided an offering of a single slice of bread on one of his statues.

A meager offering, sure, but it’s enough to get his attention. He has almost no power nor any energy left, but he sees a soldier sitting next to the statue as he ate his meal.

Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t the faintest clue what god he just gave an offering to, but he felt a little better afterwards and so just hoped they weren’t evil. He took note of the statue’s appearance and when his troop was encamped near a town, he snuck away to a local library to see if there were any books he could find about it.

He was not apart of the army willingly, but he owed them a life debt and they had decided that it would only be repaid upon his death. Just a glorified prisoner, he was kept at the general’s side as his favorite weapon. Sneaking away was difficult, but definitely doable. The few times he was caught, he made enough of a disturbance that it was easier for everyone involved to let him do his thing.

They did not need to worry about him running away. If he was able, he’d have run the second he was given the chance. However, he was stuck. As long as he owed a debt, he could not leave.

The statue, at the very least, gave him something to do.

He was intrigued. He did not recognize the features at all, and his research confirmed that it was not a well known deity. It takes a long time of asking the right people and finding the right books to uncover the story of the forgotten god.

Having read everything — from loving poems about the being helping sickly children find comfort in their last moments to angry anecdotes about desperate townspeople sacrificing themselves in the hope that the god would show them mercy — he decides to give the god the benefit of the doubt.

He figures the world is shitty enough, why not find some good that had been tucked away? Ghost himself was seen more as a weapon than a person and couldn’t help but sympathize. He was never one for gods or worship, more likely to curse the heavens than ever sacrifice something of his, but he almost felt bad for the being. So, the next day, from one bloodthirsty monster to another, he gives the forgotten god more offerings.

It’s still not much, just an apple and a ring the general wouldn’t notice missing, but he sets them there anyways. He damn near jumps out of his fucking skin when the feeling of an accepted offering floods through him. He stares at what would have originally been the face of the statue, but nothing happens. The trees behind him continue to sing their song in the faint breeze, with the sounds of a lively woods never fading.

There is no outside sound, no out of place movement, no indication that he hadn’t just imagined the feeling. A leaf falling from one of the branches and landing on the pedestal, where the offerings were now gone, snapped him out of his staring contest. He muttered out a gruff thanks and sat down to eat, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

[freakspectors]

EDGAR ALLAN POE SMUT HCS.

E. A. Poe | BSD x Gender-Neutral Reader Smut Headcanons .

warnings ; smut, my pussy wrote this and its 3 am prepare for errors, body worship, cunnilingus, blowjob, face sitting, breeding mention, praise kink, cowgirl position, etc.

authors note ; hi guys .. im a bsd fan .. a big one ... and i fucking love poe so much im obsessed with him . this entire thing is self indulgent i swear to you (which is why female anatomy is mentioned more in this . sorry guys TvT) . sighs deeply .... anyways go read ttyl ! ^_^

✦ Poe's a Sub. 100%. But occasionally, he's not -- and on those occasions he's a Service Dom.

✦ He acts high and mighty, yet nearly crumbles from the slightest bit of teasing from you. He stammers and whines so pathetically from just a simple touch. If you leave Poe alone after that, later you'll feel him wrap his hands around your waist and meekly grind against you to show how hard he is for you.

✦ Poe loves when you gently place kisses on his body, especially his neck. He's the most sensitive there. Bite him there and you'll receive the most pitiful whimpers you ever heard. His tip gets all sticky from just that alone .. please stroke him off , he deserves it :((

✦ Speaking of Poe's dick, it's HUGE. It's a little girthy and very long. He simply has big dick energy I don't know what to tell you. He cums so much, too. Hot, sticky, salty ropes always gush out load by load, emptying himself out. He has so much more, though .. <3

✦ A pillow prince when he's subbing. He's an absolute mess when you suck his dick, his whimpers and babbles filling the room while you bob your head and swirl your tongue around him. He begs to cum, even if you never asked him to.

✦ Service Dom Poe isn't entirely different.. But you can easily tell them apart.

✦ Poe always does body worship. He'll kiss you all the way down your body like you do for him, mumbling praise as his lips touch your warm skin.

✦ His favorite part of you to kiss is your thighs. If you're plus sized or have larger thighs you're putting him in pure bliss, I'm telling you. Poe would bury himself in them if he could.

✦ On that note, Poe is into face sitting. Heavily. He likes it when you close your thighs around his head when you cum, along with you grind on his tongue and make a mess on his face.

✦ He himself isn't exactly a messy eater, though. Poe's slow and calculated, sucking and flicking your clit with his tongue exactly the way you like it. He doesn't mind if you squirm either; it lets him know how well he's doing. The same applies if you have a dick - he sucks at a reasonable pace, and doesn't mind if you start to facefuck him.

✦ Poe's so focused on pleasing you he denies his own needs. He'd deny his own orgasm just to feel you cum around his cock a little more .. He just wants to make you feel good :((

✦ Please praise him. Doesn't matter if Poe's subbing or dominating; just do it. It's his favorite thing ever. He loves to give and receive it.

✦ Poe likes to make you read his novels when he's giving you head or fucking you. The way you stammer and sputter always makes him smile.

✦ Poe writes out the fantasies he has of you nearly all the time. They range from you topping him, fucking him until he can't cum anymore to Poe breeding you, his thick cum pouring out of your stuffed hole. He never lets anyone read them - not even you.

✦ His favorite position is Cowgirl. It works for when he's a sub and a dom -- you can take control, riding him while he grips the sheets desperately, or he can hold you by your hips to help you bounce on him; yanking out your fourth orgasm for the night. Poe loves the duality of it.

✦ Aftercare with Poe is very sweet! When he subs he's tired as fuck, so he ushers you to join him for bed and whispers about how much he loves you as you both doze off. When he doms, he's not as tired, but he's all over you making sure you're okay and if you need anything. He's infatuated with you, his various love poems for you has proof of that.

@ HELUVAKU 2023 . do not share or repost .

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

Draco had got barely halfway across the Entrance Hall when it happened. He felt the Trip Jinx round his ankles before he saw his assailants, and he went sprawling hard onto the cold stone floor, the wind knocked out of him, his wand spinning away to clatter out of sight and well out of reach. He lay on his front, coughing and gasping with ugly laughter ringing in his ears.

"Nasty tumble, there Malfoy," jeered someone behind him. "You want to mind where you're going, or you could hurt yourself."

Draco pushed up onto his hands and knees, still trying to get his breath. There was no way he could reach his wand before they jinxed him again; he hadn't even seen where it landed. He never was any good at muggle duelling. He got one leg under him, bracing himself to be knocked flat again, and heard a shout from above him.

"Protego!"

The jinx bounced off the Shield, and Draco got to his feet under its protection. Harry Potter was striding down the marble staircase toward them looking like a thunderstorm. Halfway along he stooped and picked up Draco's wand. He hardly glanced at Draco as he passed him and marched up to the little knot of seventh years picking themselves up from where they'd been hit by the rebounding jinx.

"Think it's funny to knock people down, do you, McLaggen?" snarled Potter, glaring up at the biggest of the lot.

"Oh don't get your wand in a knot, Potter. It's only Malfoy," said McLaggen in the sort of tone you might use to say 'It's only a slug.' "No love lost there, eh?"

"It doesn't matter who it is! We're not doing things like that anymore," Potter said furiously. "We just got done with a fucking war, and you want to keep fighting? You lot want to keep it going just for fun? Well, I don't, and I better not see you do that again! Now clear off! Twenty points from Gryffindor!"

"You can't--"

"Too fucking right I can! Now get back to your common room!" And, perhaps because Potter was Head Boy, perhaps because he looked like he could spit nails, or perhaps simply because he was Harry Potter, they did clear off. Potter watched them go, then turned to Draco. He still looked quite angry, but he was clearly trying to gather himself, "You okay?"

Draco had grazed his palms rather badly from throwing his hands out when he landed; his left wrist and forefinger were throbbing mightily, and his chest still ached, but he shrugged, "Fine."

Potter grabbed his sleeve and pulled Draco toward him to inspect his injuries, "Liar. You should go to the hospital wing and get that sorted out."

"I'll live," said Draco, but he didn't withdraw.

Potter frowned at him, chewed his lip. "I heal it for you if you'd rather," he offered after a moment.

"If nothing else will please you."

Potter pointed his wand at Draco's bleeding hands, "Episkey." The scrapes vanished, and Draco felt the spell heal his sprained wrist and finger as well. Potter pressed something into Draco's hands. Draco's wand. Draco had already forgotten he'd picked it up.

______

Excerpt from my new fic Queen of the Weeds! Drarry, Rated E, 60K. This is a coming of age story about figuring out who you're going to be and what you're going to do after your life very publicly falls apart. Draco and Harry become friends and more after they both return to Hogwarts for their 8th year after the war.

This fic is not a WIP, it is complete. I will be posting new chapters on Sundays and Thursdays until the whole thing is up.

Also gratitude to Allie @oflights from whom I got the poem that I took the title from.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Yandere! Valdor

Valdor, the most loyal, the greatest of the Custodes, a Primarch in all but name. Who else can obsess more than him, whose every function besides loyalty was beaten out? A/N: Playing “fucked up obsessive twinks” on easy mode here, aren’t I? I’m sorry, SCP-XXXX who requested this, but you told me Valdor was a twink, and evil twinks are the best kind of men, so therefore this is your fault! Full throttle ahead, let us be damned together! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Relationships: Valdor/Gn!Reader, mentioned Valdor/Emperor Mentions: @kit-williams would you like some food?

Valdor does not love. 

The Custodes simply can not love. Their love perished beneath treachery and fire, ten thousand years ago, and they simply cannot piece the remnants that was a heart back together again. 

The Emperor took away their ability to love any but Himself, and what else could be left but a hollow void, an immortality without substances, a heart that beats while it lacks its other half? 

There was simply nothing left of him to spare when the Emperor had brought down his claws. His love, his joy, his dreams, all gone, wiped away like sand upon the sea. Leaving behind nothing more than a hollow without sustenance, a phantom vestige of a dream crushed long ago, its corpse entombed within perfected flesh and bone and blood. 

He loves no one, not even himself. When the Emperor died ten thousand years ago, he lost his way. He lost his tether to life itself. And for ten thousand years he wandered for the corpse of his master. There was a poem once, a poem so long ago about the loyal dog that stood guard before his master’s bones, who licked the once-petting hand once, and laid down to die. 

Valdor’s loyalty is no weaker than that dog’s.

He loves no one, not even himself. But he loves the Emperor. He loves Him, so brokenly, so obsessively, so utterly insane in his adoration, the First Custodian would have let Him tear him apart if He wished. 

He loved the Emperor. 

And that is why he loves you. He thinks you to be his Emperor. If not Him, then at least a shard.

He doesn’t care who you were, he doesn’t care whether you were once a captain, a Chapter Master, a Thunder Warrior even. He thinks you to be his master, back from the dead, one of His shards caught in life and flesh. 

He thinks you’re Him. Or, if not Him, at least a fragment of His former glory.

Valdor calls you his Emperor, his shard, his beloved, he ignores any name you had once in favor of calling you his master. A name is only a word, after all, and you are nothing but his Emperor reborn, in his mind. A guardsman, an Astarte, a Thunder Warrior, you are all mortal beneath his eyes. He only smiles that cold, humorless smile of his when you attempt to correct him, when he brushes off your words with the same cold, humorless disinterest. 

Valdor thinks you to be his Emperor. And he doesn't care that you were once someone else, you were not always his beloved, you were not the master he imagined, that you are not the master he built from memories and bones. 

You were nothing before his master, he reasons, you will be nothing after his master, and you were his Emperor once upon a time. It is doubtful if he can even know love, if he had not projected his own delusions of his Emperor upon another. Valdor failed Him once and only now the fates have judged him fit enough to protect a shard of Him, one that is so frail compared to himself, so unspeakably mortal, his atonement for the master he failed so long ago. 

He failed the Emperor once, and watched Him die. He will not do so again.

Protection. You will never walk free again, never without his cold presence by your side, that effortless, confident stride as he accompanies his master. You will never know the taste of sunlight, the easy voice of another conversationalist before their words taper off into uncertainty, and then fear, beneath the jealous glare of your bodyguard. How their sentences trail off, how Valdor looms like some ancient, murderous harpy, his shadow constantly overcasting yours.

He knows nothing of love, of human emotion. But he knows protection. And he knows obsession. 

Valdor is not a passionate man. But he is neither a cruel one either. Of course, Valdor will never raise a spear nor blade against his adoration, to strike his master would certainly mean death, but he will slaughter your loved ones without even horror. He will whisper litanies of loyalty on his knees while his Custodes sink in the knives. He will speak ironclad promises and gilded oaths when they label your soldiers traitors and slaughter them upon the snowfields, when they hail for unity, and hear the blade fall. 

He seems to like walks in wintery fields. It reminds him of what he lost long ago, when the Emperor took him atop Ararat, and he enacted His first vengeance upon the Thunder Warriors. He sometimes brings you there, to altitudes higher than even what a Space Marine can withstand, and gathers you beneath his cloak, whispering memories that were never truly yours, asking for your orders, asking for your forgiveness, asking if you can remember what it felt like ten thousand years ago.

(Sometimes, you can nearly believe him when he says you’re a shard. It’s flattering, almost, to be under the eye of the captain-general.)

He can kill. There is nothing left of him if he could not. Nothing but the Emperor’s spear, a sharpened tool meant to kill and to serve, and to be cast away when its function is complete. You have nothing to fear from him, of course, he would rather end himself than raise a blade against his master. But he loves no other. He does not know how to love. And that makes him dangerous. You know it when you gaze into his eyes, you are sure you could imagine him covered in the blood of your loved ones, guardian spear flashing as he hacks through them without even the shadow of hesitation. He will take no fear, no regret, no relief, barely even satisfaction in the grim act, and yet that is somehow more profane than joy in slaughter. Not even a single hint of joy, wild and unfettered in the sheer cruelty, not even a single hint of an ambition for why he would lay such altars of blood before his master’s feet, only simply because He wanted it to be so, and simply because he loved Him. 

In his eyes, you are his Emperor. But he does not always obey you. He does not kneel as he would’ve knelt before his master. Because he knows, Valdor knows that to protect Him, to serve Him properly, sometimes he must smother Him for His own good. It’s the twisted rationale of a dog who has lost his master, whose death had rocked him so thoroughly he was willing to kill to save Him again. 

Valdor kneels, of course. He’ll kneel before you and speak his words of loyalty, he’ll give you his names one by one if you only ask. Valdor has never considered himself eloquent with words, but he’ll listen to you, he’ll even let you command him as the Emperor would have done. Rank be damned, he cares not if his Emperor had been reborn as a guardsman or an Astartes or even a Thunder Warrior. 

But he does not hide his obsession. To obsess is the only way he knows to love, after all. He’ll smother his beloved with his protection, with his adoration. He’ll hack his way to be their only protector, their only bulwark before the madness, the only man they can trust to defend them. Gaze upon his Emperor once, he’ll tear them apart. Love the Emperor more than him, and he’ll bury their bones beneath the snowfields. 

And be loved by the Emperor more than him….and he’ll betray them as he had betrayed the Thunder Warriors. He’ll sink in golden knives and golden spears in turned backs without even the hint of remorse, Valdor will remind his beloved that it is he who is the servant, it is he who serves to be praised for his duty. Valdor can take you from your family as the Emperor took him from his, he’ll so effortlessly ensure the utter protection of his new Emperor, all for himself. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

It is he who should be the favored servant.

No one can love you more than I, my Emperor.

He’ll croon those litanies of loyalty to you. He’ll whisper those promises of protection, of ambition, he’ll promise you an eternity while standing atop the frozen ashes of your loved ones. He’ll promise you a throne if you don’t cry, if you’ll love him as his master did. He’ll bring you a crown of gold, he’ll strangle the living storm for you, if only you promise to let him protect you, if you promise if you’ll be his Emperor. 

You died once. I will not let you do so again, my Emperor.

And his obsession would never be checked, and much less ended by the true power behind the Imperium.

You are his Emperor. In that mind He broke so thoroughly long ago, you are the Emperor, reborn. Heavy is the head that bears the laurel, bloodied is the hand that holds this mad dog’s leash.

It is Valdor who should be the favored servant. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

He will protect you. 

He will protect you, obsess over you, guard you with the hollow that is a heart. He’ll bring you a throne, a crown, an army, an eternity, if only you promise, if only you’ll be his Emperor. 

The Emperor died ten thousand years ago. And in turn, he casted you in His corpse.

[depravitycentral]

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer NSFW Profile

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, non/dub-con, manipulation, I know I might break some hearts but I actually think Chrollo is very vanilla, loud sex, begging, h*nd holding, voyeurism, exhibitionism, unethical usage of a copying nen ability, masturbation, stalking, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

HABITS:

Generally speaking, sex hasn’t been a huge part of Chrollo’s life. Of course, being a man with charisma and questionable goals, he’s had his fair share of partners to woo and use for information, sneakily extracting names and facts from them as he kisses and touches them, a husky, whispered question of and where might those gemstones be exactly against his temporary lover’s lips seeming strangely erotic, though the intent is anything but.

He’s never really viewed sex as something meaningful; rather, it’s simply a tool, a means to an end for whatever it is that he wants to steal next, and thus it’s never been much of a concern. Why should it be, when Chrollo finds connections and genuine human interaction something of a chore, unless it’s towards his own Troupe members?

Sex is a means to an end, and while there’s something strangely alluring about the idea of having sex for pleasure, he’s not one to simply go out and find a hookup to relieve himself. He likes to think he’s more refined than that – besides, while he isn’t especially wearing of intimacy or touching others, he doesn’t want to touch anyone he isn’t at least needing to, for some job or another. Casual sex just isn’t his thing.

Of course, then you come along, and just with everything else in his life, you’re to blame for his sudden change in opinion, his sudden changing belief that maybe, just maybe, sexual desire and intimacy has more of a purpose than he originally believed.

It’s not instantaneous, his desires to be touching you and making you moan so prettily and feel your skin against his. He doesn’t see you and immediately imagine bending you over and fucking you until you’re sweating and panting and spent. He doesn’t immediately imagine spreading your legs and getting you gripping at his hair, your pretty slick smeared all over his lips.

It’s not immediate, but rather a culmination of his obsession with you deepening over time. It takes him a long time to develop his feelings for you, and even longer to make sense of them – he’s not particularly hostile towards them, but it takes a while for his obsession to fully set in, for him to realize that he wants you in a romantic, genuine way. It will be a solid few weeks after his obsession form for him to get to the point where he’s fantasizing not only about the way you’d smile at him and softly sigh as he reads passages of his favorite gothic poems to you, but also about the way you’d quote certain stanzas as you kiss his neck, run your fingernails against his back, tug at his hair and keen his name.

It’s slow going, and to be honest Chrollo doesn’t even really notice that it’s happening until he’s suddenly so pent up that he just can’t take it, his hand itching to reach down and quell the dull throbbing coming from between his legs.

He’s never been one to masturbate much, the act seeming tiresome and without little reward, and as a result he’s more curious than anything that you’ve managed to inspire within him such primal urges, animalistic desires to see you stuffed full of his cock, cum leaking from your spent, sore pussy, your eyes dazed and hazy as he kisses you breathlessly.

He’s impressed, more than anything, but Chrollo isn’t too surprised once he thinks about it – you’re something of a breath of fresh air to him, someone real and interesting and oh so intriguing, so why wouldn’t he want to fuck you until you’re crying?

Why wouldn’t he want to map every inch of your skin out with his lips, feel your muscles clench and stiffen up under his fingertips?

He’s mildly surprised by your ability to essentially get him horny, and while it doesn’t happen too often (maybe two or three times per week), it’s still sizeable – and so is the amount of time that he begins spending in the company of a candle, a novel, and symphonic music in the background, blending in with the airy gasps and groans of the evening. 

When it comes to actually touching himself, Chrollo has a bit of a dirty secret; his nen ability (and its extensions, of course) comes in handy to the extreme in a lot of ways regarding you, but as soon as his more sexual desires towards you begin emerging, he’s suddenly so grateful for the sheer amount of nen abilities that he’s accumulated over the years.

That is, he’s particularly grateful for a certain one he picked up towards the beginning of the Phantom Troupe’s existence: an ability allowing partial recreation of an individual’s body parts, up to the whim of the wielder.

Guilt has never been something he’s given too much thought to, and so as he lights the few candles surrounding his place at the edge of the queen sized bed he's used the last few evenings, he merely closes his eyes and smiles, the aroma of a blissful, peaceful evening settling around him, the feeling of moonlight hitting his pale features and the crackling of the flames relaxing his body and preparing him for the next few events.

Chrollo is nothing if not a man of culture, and so as he carefully removes his jacket (folding it on top of the Victorian style chair in the corner of the room) along with his pants, he lets out a small sigh and grabs the book laying atop his nightstand, the golden cover with its black lettering making a small shiver run down his spine.

The book is, admittedly, a bit more graphic than his normal tastes, but there’s something about the way the narrator describes the female lead that makes his mind immediately shoot to you – something about the description of her hair, her body, her mannerisms, her everything, though Chrollo could say without a hint of hesitation that you were still better in every possible way. He’s read the novel dozens of times; it’s a classic, cliché love story of a dashing, mysterious man who swoons a sweet, traditional daughter of some nobleman, their romance dark and swift and taboo.

It reminds him a lot of his situation with you, really – he’s the handsome, dark man who comes and sweeps you off your feet, tempting you into leaving your good-girl, righteous persona and instead letting him taint you. Just the thought gets him throbbing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and wills himself to calm down, to not ruin the ambiance he’s diligently set up for the night.

He flips to the marked section towards the middle of the book, the chapter detailing the night of passion and romance that ensues between the two characters. He’s quick to begin pouring over the words, and though he’s read this multiple page passage easily hundreds of times, the image still comes together in his head as if it’s fresh – the woman pinned below the man, the collar of her silky, white nightdress pushed down to just above her breasts, collarbone exposed along with her neck, half lidded eyes staring up at the lead while she gulps and breaths a bit raggedly.

Her wrists are beside her head, her whole body open and exposed for his future pleasure, and immediately he’s imagining you in a frilly, white nightgown, the material short and sheer and making you look angelic, like something for him to ruin.

Chrollo licks his lips, eyes still rapidly scanning the page as a hand snakes down to the slowly stiffening length resting against his thigh, the tip turning a deep shade of red, the trimmed forest of black hair standing out against the pale skin surrounding. A brush of his fingertips against the sensitive base has him exhaling slowly, the fantasy of the heroine’s knee slightly rising to brush against the lead’s clothed cock making a blush rise to the back of his neck, images of the way you’d bite your lip and whisper his name making him feel hot, every nerve on fire as the excitement and anticipation of pleasure – of you – rolls through him.

He knows the passage by heart, knowing every event taking place between what he pretends to be you and himself, his own imagination even filling in the details, imagining little additions to the plot that the book doesn’t even mention – you whispering his name and tracing the tattoo across his forehead, the feeling of your soft fingers against his skin making him groan ever so lightly. And with that thought in mind, he’s gently bookmarking and placing the book back on the stand, instead taking a deep breath, black eyes appraising his throbbing cock desperate for attention and stimulation, your attention and stimulation.

He spends a moment stroking himself, the pulls of his wrist languid and slow, just barely enough stimulation to feel good – hesitant, almost, like he imagines you being. Would you be nervous, the first time you see him naked? He likes to imagine you’ve never been with a man before (though he knows it’s likely untrue), or at least that you’ve never cared so much about pleasing one, about making him feel good and pleasured and satisfied.

(He decides you would be a bit anxious – your touches small, unsure, your pretty eyes always flicking back up to his, your soft lip caught between your teeth, your thumb just barely brushing over his tip and making him murmur your name with a slightly strained voice.)

He’s quick to pull up his book of nen abilities, flipping through the pages until he finds the correct one, the familiar black lettering describing the ability making him shiver in anticipation. It’s easy to conjure up the familiar image of your face in his mind, the corresponding physical image appearing before him immediately, and as he opens his previously closed eyes, he sucks in a sharp breath at the image of you, your lashes and cheeks and pretty eyes staring up at him.

It’s perfect – a complete replica of you, down to every last mole, hair, and scar decorating your face. It’s a bit disorienting to see a version of just your head and hair floating, your eyes gorgeous yet lifeless, muscles unable to move freely on their own, but Chrollo moves past it quickly – how can he not, when you’re right there, so pliable and beautiful and for his use?

He swallows harshly as his free hand comes down to lightly run over your strands of hair, the texture familiar and pleasing to the touch, and he watches with unblinking eyes as he slowly pushes your head down, further until your unfocused eyes are level with the now pulsing erection sitting between his legs.

He bites his lip as he recalls the words of the passage, the eloquent language not diminishing the meaning behind the words. She kneeled before him, a servant to her master, lips parted and eyes appraising him as if he were a work of art, the single most valuable thing to have graced her gaze.

He imagines the way you’d stare at him, your eyes raking over his sculpted chest, the ‘v’ of his navel, your tongue flicking out over your lips as you appraise the pale length of his cock, the soft, smooth set of balls attached.

He hopes you’d be impressed, but impatience gets the better of him as he once again moves your head further forward, so that his tip brushes against your lifeless lips.

They’re cold, a stark difference to what he’s sure is an inviting, riveting, and wet mouth you possess, but he’s in no position to complain – certainly not when he remembers how the woman swallows him as if he were the most divine, succulent meal, savoring his taste as if it were her last.

It’s difficult to recreate the scene with your unresponsive mouth, but he’s carefully pulling your lower jaw down, your lips parted and tongue lolling out as he slowly, ever so fucking slowly, pushes inside, the small groan fighting its way up his throat telling of how even your cold mouth can affect him.

He shivers, the sensation climbing up his spine, and his fingers gently scrape your scalp as he gets a good grip, his head lolling back slightly and his eyes closing as he begins moving your head up and down, up and down, your cold saliva coating his length as he sighs and whispers your name under his breath.

The music in the background is soft, romantic, orchestral and something Chrollo very much imagines fucking you to. He likes to imagine the way your moans and breaths would blend in with the melodies and crescendos – though, the sounds you’d make when he’s got you creaming all over his fingers and cock would drown out any sort of background music, he’s sure.

Once again musters up more aura, conjuring up a replica of your hand that he quickly intertwines with his own, his fingers joining yours in shakily holding up his nen book. The pace is slow, soft, the moment feeling sweet yet erotic, and as he opens his eyes and stares half liddedly down at your unseeing eyes and unresponsive mouth, Chrollo curses, a small l-love, you’re so beautiful��

His fingers tighten around your hair as he comes closer, the book’s scenes flashing through his eyes as he picks up the pace of his wrist, your head coming down over his throbbing, sensitive skin quicker, the sensation climbing and climbing as his breath steadily gets harsher, soft groans tumbling past his now puffy and overbitten lips, the light flush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose almost endearing.

He’s fairly quiet, only the occasional deep groan or murmur of your name, and as he gets closer, his grip around your fingers tightens, his breathing getting more ragged and uneven. His complexion reddens, his skin shining with a light sheen of sweat, abs clenching and twitching as the pleasure grows stronger, more acute, the feeling of you and your spit and your soft skin only spurring on the twitching of his cock.

The music climbs to a crescendo, his eyes peeling open to see the way your lips suck him in again and again and again, his cock glistening with spit and his hips bucking to get even deeper inside you, the visual of him fucking your face just too much too much –

He’s coming with a strangled gasp of your name, dark eyes blowing wide as his hips start thrusting on their own, plunging forward and down your throat, untimed and uneven.

He imagines the way you’d gag, your throat tightening up and your pretty eyes dotting with tears as he shoots load after load of watery, semi-bitter cum down your throat, the thought only making his hips jerk harder, his body spurred forward by the motivation to get as much of his cum as deeply down your throat as possible, to claim you as his in the most carnal, natural way.

He’s panting by the time the feeling dies down, a few strands of his carefully gelled back hair loose and framing the pale skin of his forehead and the tattoo decorating it. Beads of sweat frame his temples, his chest heaving still, his nipples hard and pebbled in the cool air of the bedroom.

It takes a moment for him to slowly regain his composure, giving your floating facial replica a gentle, long kiss on the forehead, his eyes fluttering closed and eyebrows scrunching up as he kisses you harder, more fervently, more desperately, trying to express every ounce of love and appreciation and want he has for you, even if it’s merely a cold, carbon copy of you that he’s kissing.

Then, he’s shutting the book and watching you disappear, a cold, familiar sense of loneliness settling into his chest.

The music is still on in the background, lulling him into a relaxed state as he lays on his back, body nude while he thinks back to the way the novel describes the post-sex cuddling, soft touches and sweet, affectionate words, lulled promises of loving each other forever, claims of ownership and commitments to stay together.

He sighs softly, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he imagines the way he’d hold you, your sweaty bodies pressed against one another, cum seeping from your cunt as you clutch onto him, your hair tickling his chin and neck, your soft breaths as you drift into sleep, feeling safe and protected by him…

Occasionally, on nights where he feels particularly restless for you, where the stress of running a wanted criminal group begins to get to him, he’ll conjure up your full body, and while it’s cold, unresponsive and unable to speak or look at him, it’s enough. Cuddling you, kissing your freezing skin and running his fingers over your jawline, collarbone, your supple curves is enough to have him slowly drifting to sleep, secure in your arms and dreaming of the day when you’re finally there to enact the scenes of his romantic, smutty novels with him in person, just as you should be. 

(He’ll never actually fuck your nen-conjured self, however. He feels it would be crossing the line – as if fucking your mouth isn’t – and although it wouldn’t feel nearly as good as the real you, he wants your first time together to be special, to be a true exploration of each other’s bodies and genuine reactions. So, rest assured, he doesn’t use the fuck doll he makes of you as a stand in for actual sex – he’ll just use your hand, or your mouth, or your breasts, or your thighs. Never that perfect cunt between your legs, the one that makes his mouth water and his fingers twitch.)

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Collarbone

In a lot of ways, Chrollo is a traditional man. Surely not with his profession, nor the company he keeps, and certainly not the way he feels for you – but still, some aspects of how he views intimacy are very classical.

That is, while he adores the sight of you in revealing, slutty clothing, with your tits nearly bursting out of the pathetic, stringy bralette and your pretty, puffy lips clearly visible through the sheer thong, there’s an appeal to the more sensual parts of your body that aren’t as oversexualized.

Specifically, Chrollo finds himself drawn to your chest – of course, your breasts are alluring and wonderful and fit in his hands so very perfectly, but his favorite spot of all is right above them.

The expanse of your collarbone is a sight that always manages to catch his eye, his dark gaze lingering on the symmetrical, pretty bones. He likes to trace them with his finger, his touch light and soft but insistent, running over the lines and pressing his thumb into the dip in the center.

It doesn’t matter if your collarbone is prominent or not – there’s just something about the intimacy of it all that makes him giddy, the fact that no one except him gets to feel this part of you making his possessiveness flare up and shivers race up his spine.

When he’s kissing you, his lips always find purchase there, traveling down your neck and the juncture of your shoulder, before settling heavily against your collarbone, soft lips pressing kisses and hickeys and biting against the skin.

When he’s pressed you up against the wall, his figure looming over you and his presence making you feel small and weak, he’ll leave a hand at the base of your throat, the heel of his palm pressing against your collarbone so that he can feel your pulse, feel the way you breath, feel you you you.

You’ll often wake up after nights of long, passionate fucking (love-making, he likes to say, though the way he loses control after his first orgasm and fucks you so hard it nearly hurts really only resembles an animal, not a man) with dark marks all over your collarbone, the entire area bruised and swollen and aching, a constant reminder of Chrollo’s presence.

When he kidnapped you, it was a very spur of the moment, rushed affair, and as a result you weren’t able to bring any of your own clothing – which means, outside of just roaming around naked (something that Chrollo certainly wouldn’t argue against), you’ll be left to dress with whatever he deems appropriate.

More often than not, that means shirts with very low necklines, off the shoulders, or with wide necks that show off your collarbone.

(It also means skirts and dresses, sheer tights or thin materials, things that show off your thighs and the curves of your legs – Chrollo’s second favorite spot on your body.)

You’ll catch him staring idly, his eyes hyperfocused on the area even when you’re speaking to him, and sometimes you can even actually see the way he zones out ever so slightly, an internal war taking place inside him because he wants to hear what you’re saying and watch your lips as you speak to him, but he just can’t stop staring at where he’d left a large, prominent hickey on the right side of your collarbone, feeling your pulse under his lips while he made you cream and squeeze and come all over his fingers, just for him.

He thinks you’re beautiful, and even if you aren’t, Chrollo finds your body to be elegant, truly a work of art, and your collarbone is the crowning jewel of said art.

So don’t be surprised when he’s forcing you to wear chokers and tight necklaces, the combination of the jewelry and the sleeveless top leaving the expanse between them open and vulnerable, perfect to suck on and kiss.

He’s just in love, and is it so wrong to find your body perfect, wonderful, so damn alluring that it drives him insane?

His fingers

From the moment his sexual urges towards you begin, his fantasies tend to revolve mostly around using his hands to please you.

Of course, he likes the idea of using his mouth on you or stuffing you full of his cock, and those fantasies are most definitely present, too.

(As are the ones where you’re pleasing him – he has to be careful with these fantasies, though, because if he’s in public, any thought of you dropping to your knees for him or pressing your pretty tits together and moving them up and down his cock gets him hard immediately, his orgasm already halfway there from just the thought of you wanting him to feel good.)

The majority of what he imagines in detail is really just him working at your body with his hands. They aren’t too terribly veiny, but they’re the perfect amount, just enough to get your gaze lingering on them, and seeing the way the tendons and muscles flex when he moves will make your throat feel dry.

Even the way his hands are connected to his forearms, veins dancing up the expanse of his pale arms can get you staring, embarrassment making your neck feel hot when he catches your gaping with a knowing look, that prideful, cocky smirk on his face making you feel hot in anger and a bit of excitement.

(He’s noticed your staring, and makes it a point to roll up the sleeves of his shirts to expose his wrists and forearms, even purposefully flexing the muscles when he sees your eyes on them, his own gaze eagerly examining your face for even a hint of awe, or attraction, or enjoyment.)

But the real draw of his hands are his fingers; they’re pale, nimble and surprisingly smooth, given his past and occupation, and they’re long. They’re always cold, the feeling making you shiver, and Chrollo has them pressed against you as often as possible.

He’s touchy, really, and while this often manifests as his hand sitting on the small of your back or your shoulder or brushing against your cheek, this habit certainly doesn’t change in the context of intimacy and sex.

When he’s got you underneath him, staring up at him with wide eyes and your lips all swollen and bruised from his harsh kisses, he’s immediately touching you, his hands coming up to rip off the shirt he’d picked out for you this morning, tearing the flouncy skirt he’d helped zip you into cleanly in half in his desperation.

He can’t control himself, really – he’s gripping at your thighs and the fat of your stomach, squeezing and kneading and wanting, and while that entertains him for a while, eventually he’ll be nudging your legs apart, fingers immediately tracing up the insides of your thigh, tickling you and making you suck in a breath as he gets closer and closer to where you need him. (Or, at least, where he thinks you need him.

He’s convinced he knows your body better than you do, though, so any amount of denying this claim will result in that same, familiar patronizing smile and a soft murmur of it’s okay, darling, your body says what your mind won’t.)

He likes to tease you, even though it ends up teasing him too, by pressing feather-light touches against your folds and sensitive clit, dark eyes flicking between your cunt and your face, eagerly taking in every expression and sound you give him.

He’ll ask you if you want more, for you articulate what you want, all because he needs to hear you say please Chrollo, I need your fingers inside, I want to feel you fuck me with your fingers! Eventually, though, his patience will snap, and he’ll push them inside, listening to your little gasps and moans as he immediately curls them, rubbing and pressing against the spots he knows make you moan and writhe.

He’s unfairly good with his fingers – he’s got the pacing and motions down perfectly, his stamina high enough to keep going throughout the entire night.

He’s always got a finger steadily working at your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles against the sensitive area until you’re coming for him, and while a lot of his desire to make you feel good genuinely comes from the place of wanting to please you, a lot of it is selfish, too.

By constantly stimulating your clit or loosening you up with his fingers, he’s making sure you’ll enjoy him, that when he’s fucking you and stuffing you with his cum, you’re wet enough and receptive enough, and god, the feeling of you coming on his cock, the constant pressure against your clit tipping you over the edge?

Well, don’t blame him when he’s gasping into your ear, a strangled sort of noise that almost sounds like your name, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you, before you feel warmth spilling into you, his black hair tickling your cheeks as he rests his face in the crook of your neck.

DRIVE:

In general, Chrollo’s libido isn’t the highest. Obviously, he desires you sexually and loves to kiss you, touch you, fuck you, make you scream his name and clutch onto him like you’ll otherwise die, but he doesn’t need to be in bed with you at all times. He doesn’t have to be making you cream and stuffing you full of his cock, fingers and cum every day.

(Every other day is ideal, or – if he’s particularly stressed or busy – maybe every two days, but that’s pushing it.)

No, Chrollo isn’t that sexually driven – though, he is that clingy, even if he’s good at not showing it. In general, there’s something about you that makes Chrollo feel, and he’s found that any sort of physical contact brings this strange, fluttering emotion in his chest, one he’s fairly sure is love – which ultimately results in the conclusion that in order to feel good, wanted, loved, touching you is something that he must do often.

The reality is that he’s never really had a partner, someone to give and receive genuine love and affection with, and the moment that he realizes how wonderful a hug can feel or how good of an experience simply locking pinkies can be, he’s hooked. Suddenly, those cliché, overt couple actions that used to intrigue him in a clinical way are much, much more interesting, the idea of wrapping his arms around your waist enticing in a way he can’t quite describe.

From pretty much the beginning of your time as his captive, Chrollo will be forcing affection onto you. It’s little things, mostly – things that make your skin crawl because they’re so innocent and sweet and pure that it makes you sick.

He’ll gently intertwine your hands with his, staring down and marveling at the sight of your fingers wrapped around his own, your smaller hand looking perfect against his.

He’ll press a kiss to your cheek or forehead after he compliments you (though, the compliments are always a bit strange – slightly threatening, or too specific, or just weird).  

Of course, while this affection and surplus of physical contact is generally innocent, slowly Chrollo’s tastes and urges begin to change slightly, going from wholesome, sweet acts to more questionable touches, actions that have you slightly cocking a brow, slightly not comfortable with the implications of his behavior.

Because really, while you’ll likely be just fine with him lacing his fingers with yours (though, it’s likely that you’ll be less happy with it and more just complacent, figuring that with his criminal status and abilities, there’s far worse he could do to you), things will get a bit complicated when his hands start resting at your waist, dipping ever so slightly lower to your hip, his fingers pressing just a bit tighter against your skin than you’re comfortable with.

What starts out with a mostly tolerable chaste kiss to the cheek will turn into his lips against yours, his tongue running along your lower lip, a small groan tumbling into your mouth as he forces his tongue inside, running it along your teeth and coaxing your own tongue to participate.

What begins as a simple pair of hands resting against your shoulders will become him running them down the length of your sides, thumbs pressing circles against the area right underneath your breasts, those dark eyes seeming to shine with something that makes your breath hitch.

Because really, while Chrollo does absolutely bask in the innocent affection he can garner from you, there’s just something about you that makes his more natural urges kick into gear, the area between his legs feeling warmer, more insistent, more desperate the more he kisses you, the more he holds you and whispers to you that he loves you so much my dear, won’t you let me show you the extent of my feelings? 

However, Chrollo is a smart man – when it comes to actually having sex or any sort of intimacy on the same level with you, he’s willing to be patient.

He doesn’t want to force you into anything, to make you uncomfortable or dislike him, to reverse any progress he’s made in getting you to fall utterly, completely in love with him, so he steels himself, mentally reminding himself every time he sees your plush thighs that he must wait.

He’ll chastise himself for almost losing control when you stretch, the sliver of exposed skin of your stomach and your cute little grunt nearly making him throw caution to the wind.

He has remarkable self control, and while you likely won’t know it, you’ll be seeing it in action nearly every moment he’s around you, especially when you’re already doing something affectionate, like hugging or sitting in his lap.

(He’s the one that’s forced you into these things, of course, but it doesn’t matter – if you make any sort of movement that isn’t prying him off or swatting his hands away, Chrollo considers you as being willing, happy, enjoying touching him, and the thought makes this pleasant, warm feeling bloom in his chest.)

He’s working incredibly hard to not push too far, but after some time of you not seeming to come around, not voicing any desire to go further, Chrollo decides he must resort to certain measures in order to speed up your progress.

Thus, he begins subtly trying to plant the idea in your mind, trying to tempt you into admitting that yes, you want him to reach underneath the frilly, white shirt he provided to you and cup your breasts, to roll your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, to feel you shiver and hear you sigh against his lips.

He wants to lay seeds in your mind so that you’ll come to the conclusion sooner that you want him to rest between your legs and use that talented, smooth talking mouth to make you talk, to hear you babble and cry out his name.

He’s talented at being discreet, and so as he moves his hands to rest closer to your ass, squeezing the plush of your thighs, leaving fluttering kisses against your neck, he’s hoping you’ll slowly come to the conclusion on your own, your own body and desires betraying you.

And quite honestly, while you’ll likely be uncomfortable at first, confused and a bit scared, eventually it’ll work – after all, charisma is something Chrollo possesses in mass quantities, and while you’re obviously not happy that you’ve been kidnapped, that the leader of a mass group of international criminals is holding you in his lap and nuzzling against your mouth, whispering to you that you’re so lovely, won’t you say my name darling, it’s difficult to not let the ideas form, the lack of human contact forcing you to imagine paths you rationally have no desire to.

It’ll make you feel dirty, like you’re betraying yourself and letting Chrollo win, but he’ll ultimately get exactly what he wants – he’s observant to a tee, and so once he notices the way you start clenching your thighs together ever so slightly as he tells you that he’d love to take care of you tonight, he’s inwardly smiling, pride swimming in his chest because finally,  finally you’re beginning to be affected by the subtle touches and words, things that could leave you second guessing, the possibility that maybe he wants to go further unrelenting in that sweet little head of yours.

And so, as he begins probing you, asking you how you’re feeling, if you’re satisfied, if you’re feeling like I give you everything you desire, he’s waiting with baited breath for you to embarrassedly admit that you want more, that you want something only Chrollo can give to you.

He’ll goat you into admitting it, telling you to be more specific, to tell him exactly what you want, because otherwise he won’t know, and then he can’t improve, now can he?

He’s calculating, smart, analytical and damn good at getting what he wants, and so ultimately you’ll cave, admitting that you want him to fuck me please, I just – just please…

He won’t outwardly be affected, but just know that the speed with which his erection makes itself known is directly tied to you, the eagerness of his body and his movements to undress you betraying him.  

And as he starts breathing a little heavier, stripping you of your clothing and his as well, it becomes hard to miss the way he’s eager, anxious, frantic to touch you.

You’ll see the signs of months of repressed sexual tension, months of desiring you but needing you to consent first, even as pressured as your admittance may be.

But in the end, does it matter?

Because when Chrollo’s hovering over you, those dark eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that’ll make you shiver, you’ll feel oh so taken care of, the small signs and subtle pushes making you insatiable for something you didn’t even know you desired. 

And Chrollo will be happy to keep providing for you – what kind of lover would he be if he didn’t? Besides, no one else canmake you feel like he does – not even you – he’ll make sure of it.

You only need him.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Loud Sex

Generally speaking, Chrollo is a quiet man. He’s polite and personable, yes, but he doesn’t bother with unnecessary chatter – when he speaks it’s purposeful, calculated, commanding, and this is true even when it comes to you.

 You make him feel the closest he’s ever felt to being nervous, but he’s still not especially loud around you. He never shuts up, that’s true, always asking you questions and telling you about his day, about a flower that reminds him of you (a petal or two was missing, making him think of how you aren’t truly complete unless he’s with you), or even, on rare occasions, telling you a reason why he’s in love with you.

(It’s not as romantic as it sounds – the way he speaks about romance is too clinical, and the reasons he’ll give you are far too specific and detailed to really make you feel good.)

So yes, he speaks often, but he’s not loud.

And during sex, this stays true – the most you’ll get out of him is a low groan and a few heavy, drawn out sighs, or a few chants of your name when he’s getting close and he’s particularly pent up. He’s still not quiet though – he’s talking the whole time, dirty talk spilling from his lips about how you’re so beautiful, especially when you’re falling apart around my cock or that he loves when you moan, can you feel how I’m throbbing inside of you? It’s all for you, does it feel good to know you’re affecting me like this?

His voice is always sultry, always whispered directly into your ear, and while his particular brand of dirty talk is, more or less, mediocre (it’s always too long and makes you think too much; you’d prefer something shorter, something more explicit, something coming from anyone aside from him), Chrollo likes the concept of sex not being quiet. Specifically, he likes when you fill in the silence.

There’s something about the noises you make that make him absolutely feral – similarly to his curiosity about you in everyday life, he wants to understand you sexually. He wants to hear every sound you have to offer – he needs to understand what’s causing you to make that noise and how to keep you making it. He needs to hear every little thing, to have a mental catalogue of the different noises and cries he can pull from your pliable body.

It doesn’t matter if you’re naturally loud or quiet – he will be expecting you to put on a show for him, your body a canvas for him to create a masterpiece on, your every gasp, moan, and sigh a paint stroke that eventually comes together to form you, a piece of art Chrollo wants to keep stolen away from the world forever.

He’s not particularly shy about this desire of his, either – it’s very easy to tell that he’s striving to get you to moan for him, because you’ll feel his fingers work in that certain way, grinding and rubbing in that particular spot, those dark eyes wavering in excitement because he absolutely loves the way you sound gasping his name.

You can tell he’s aiming to get you vocal when he’s pressing his face between your legs, dark hairs tickling your thighs as he diligently works his tongue against your clit, the sensation partnered with the insistent thrusting of his fingers inside you not stopping until you groan his name, and then only getting harder, that same motion being repeated over and over because he needs to hear it again.

He’s like an addict, really – once he hears a noise he finds pleasant (every noise you make, really), he’s trying everything in his power to get you to make it again, wanting to have auditory evidence (to match the slick coating his fingers and the smell of your arousal) that you’re enjoying this, that you’re enjoying him and the way he’s touching you. It’s selfish, really, because while giving you pleasure is great and brings you a step closer to desiring him as he desires you, it quells his possessiveness.

It makes him feel good because it’s proof that he’s affecting you, that the motions and pleasure his body is bringing you is making you feel good, that your brain is mush because of him. It’s proof that your thighs are trembling and shaking because of the way he’s massaging and toying with your clit.

It’s proof that your lips are swollen and puffy and parted because of the way he’s kissing your neck and kneading at your breasts. It’s proof that he’s the only one on your mind, that your every thought is revolving around him him him, that your body and brain can only focus on Chrollo alone.

It makes him feel good, knowing that no other man could possibly be in your thoughts in moments like these, and the more he can get you moaning and screaming and sobbing in pleasure, the higher the likelihood of you focusing solely on him. So really, any time the two of you are intimate, expect your voice to be hoarse the next day – he needs you to be making noise, and he’ll even tell you as much.

He’ll tell you to show me how badly you need me inside you, moan my name and cream on my fingers and I might consider adhering to your wishes.

He’ll tell you to say his name, to tell him that he feels good, and even to narrate exactly what you’re feeling.

(That last one is a favorite of his – it’s so dirty, and it fills him with pride and arousal to hear you say that he feels s’good, your fingers are so big and it’s making me feel so full and good and fuck, Chrollo, please let me come!)

It’s an obsession, truly, one that rivals the one he holds for you – so really, just give him what he wants.

Fake the moans (but be careful, because he can normally tell – though, as he gets closer to his own orgasm, his façade slips and the true lustful, crazed man underneath his carefully constructed exterior rears its head, his snapping hips and messy hair evidence of just how much you affect him. He’s less able to tell apart your fake moans from real ones in these moments, and when he’s right on the edge, any noise from you will have him toppling over, gripping onto you and coming, filling you so fully that it leaks out, white spilling all over your thighs and dripping down his balls.)

He just wants you to be vocal, and it’s in your best interest to meet his demands – the night will be long and very, very painful if you don’t; Chrollo knows your body well enough to overstimulate you past your threshold, the pleasure melting into pain with each orgasm he tears from your body.

Begging

While Chrollo is a difficult man to decipher, one thing you’ll learn about him is that he’s very, very susceptible to your begging.

Of course, he doesn’t always give in to what you want – your escape and freedom, for example, are things he’ll never grant you, no matter how incessantly and long you beg. (And no matter how you offer your body or your fake affections or any number of things.)

He’s stringent about many things, but in the bedroom he’s more or less easy to win over – you just have to know how to do it correctly.

It takes a very specific methodology to get him to listen to your wishes, to have him do exactly what you need in order to feel good. And that methodology is mostly rooted in begging him to do what you want, what you need in order to seek the pleasure you’re wanting.

And frankly, just hearing you say his name and beg him for literally anything has his hips stuttering, arousal spiking through him because god, you must really want him, huh?

There’s something so riveting and right about the power imbalance that you begging him for pleasure sets up; he’s the one in control, giving you what he deems as the right amount of pleasure, controlling your orgasm and deciding when – and if – you’ll be allowed to come.

It’s a power trip that gets his heart racing and his cock flushing bright red, his chest swelling with pride and greed because god, every fucking inch of you belongs to him, and when you acknowledge that it makes him want to fuck you hard enough to make you scream his name.

You’ll need to beg, but even more than that, you’ll need to mix the begging with some sort of compliment. He’s good at telling when you’re lying, though, so the compliment must be somewhat genuine – tell him his fingers feel so good, oh Chrollo you’re gonna make me come, don’t stop! Tell him that he’s so big, you feel so – so big inside me, oh god, please harder, I need you harder!

If you intermix the compliments in with your begs, Chrollo is almost certain to at least consider your wishes, fucking you harder or deeper or angling his fingers just right, anything and everything to get you to keep talking, to keep paying attention to him and telling him how much you need him.

He may not show it, but he really, really wants you to enjoy sex with him, both because seeing you writhe in pleasure gives him pleasure, and also because it means you’re giving him all your focus and attention. So really, if things aren’t going quite as they should to really get you off or to make you feel good, using this master formula will often yield the results you desire – he’s a sap, even if he doesn’t show it, even if he’s not fully aware of it himself.

What he is aware of, though, is this little strategy of yours.

He’s figured it out; you’re not as smooth as you think, and although it boosts his ego and makes his heart race when you compliment him, Chrollo knows there’s an ulterior motive behind your words. And so begins a game of cat and mouse – he likes the way you beg for him, and he doesn’t want you to stop, so he’ll only slightly give in to your request.

This will, in turn, make you beg for more, a new compliment and moans slipping from your lips that get Chrollo gulping and steeling his resolve, his fingers moving slightly to the spot you want them, his pace getting slightly faster, only half-assedly doing what you’d begged for.

The cycle repeats, Chrollo managing to milk you for every last possible bit of praise and desperation for his touch, until he’s eventually giving in, doing things just as you ask for so that you’re a shaking, moaning mess for him, completely falling apart on his fingers. He’s aware of the game you’re playing, and frankly, as time passes Chrollo will begin purposefully not touching you like how he knows you like.

You like to be fingered quickly, with a certain angle and a certain rhythm? Well, he’s finger fucking you at a moderate pace, aiming for a certain spot an inch or so away from your sweet spot, the rhythm just slightly off.

It’ll be enough to get you squirming, your face scrunching up in pleasure and need, your eyes teary and watery as you beg him to go just a hair faster, because it always feels so good when you go fast, please make me feel good, Chrollo!

You’ll go through the cycle three or four times, but he’ll almost always eventually give in – with one big, glaring exception.

Chrollo really likes to bring you to orgasm, it’s true – however, he really, really likes when you beg for permission to orgasm, waiting to fully let go until he’s given you the okay to make a mess all for him.

He wants you to beg him to please let me come, please Chrollo I wanna come for you, all the while he’s holding off just a bit, not quite pushing you over the edge with his thrusts or flicks of his tongue.

He knows your body so well that he’s able to hold you right where he wants you, right on the brink of coming but not quite, just so that you’re unbearably close but needing that one final push. And he’ll milk this out of you, too – he’s unashamed with how he asks you to repeat yourself, to tell him exactly what you need, to moan his name and show him just how badly you want to come for him.

He wants you to be prickling with embarrassment at how unabashedly you shame, loving the way you get all shy and bashful when he tells you to beg me to fuck you into an orgasm, love, and then you’ll get it.

It makes him giddy to see the way you writhe and cry out his name so wantonly, your desperation to find your high trumping over any bit of self-respect you pretend to have, because ultimately you’re choosing him and the pleasure he can give you over this stupid, rebellious side of yourself that’s unwilling to accept his love.

It’s good, a step in the right direction, and by forcing you to beg him permission to orgasm (an orgasm caused by him, no less), Chrollo simultaneously gets to push you a smidge closer to willingly being his, and he also gets to feel you come for him.

(A sight that normally pushes him unbearably close to his own orgasm – just a few thrusts inside you and he’s blowing his load, cum spurting inside you as he gasps your name under his breath, the warmth settling into his stomach both a result of his orgasm and giddiness that you’re starting to come around, aren’t you?)

He just loves when you beg, and although you think you have the power in the situation, thinking you’ve got him figured out, you really, really don’t. You never do, after all, and Chrollo will always outsmart you.

So just tell him you want his cock, beg him to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and he’ll give you just that – not without a few caveats, though.

Oral Fixation

While your collarbone may be his favorite part of your body, Chrollo really, really grows to love your mouth.

He’s always been entranced by the gentle curve of your lips, the shape playing behind his eyelids as he sleeps at night, driving him crazy when you aren’t yet by his side, making sleep – already elusive enough for him – nearly impossible to find.

(You’ll never know, but on nights where he can’t stop thinking of your lovely lips and how soft and warm and bitable they’d be, he’ll begrudgingly turn to his pillow, his own pale pink lips pressing against the silk, his eyes fluttering closed as he presses hesitant kisses against the material. As he gets more comfortable, he’ll move towards using his tongue; letting it flick out against the pillowcase, imagining it’s actually pressing into your mouth, brushing against your own and coaxing it to rub against his, to suck, his own tongue running along your teeth and reaching deeper and deeper into you until there’s not an inch of space he hasn’t touched and licked and tasted -)

He’s thought endlessly of how you might taste; would your saliva be sweet, or perhaps a nice, neutral taste? He’ll lick his lips while he contemplates, unconsciously salivating himself as he imagines how you’d taste as he kisses you, your scent and feel and everything else about you overwhelming him and making him dizzy in the best possible way.

He’s thought of the way you’d place kisses against his skin, how soft your lips would feel against the hard planes of his chest, against the firm, defined muscles of his thighs, against his neck.

He’s spent many, many nights imagining the way your mouth and lips would worship his body; he imagines you’d start with his own lips, kissing him and moaning into his mouth with fervor, your tongue slipping out to meet his, saliva and spit getting all over your chins because every time he imagines kissing you it’s messy, sloppy and earnest and dirty.

He likes to think you’d move onto his jawline next, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the sharp line, tracing it from his chin all the way back to the juncture of his jaw, leading up to kiss and lightly suck at his ear.

You’d take his lobe gently between your teeth, lightly pulling and tugging just to hear him harshly exhale, your tongue even coming up to lick at the shell of his ear, your breath warm and sensual as you breath and whisper his name.

You’d move onto his neck, next, sucking kisses and hickies against the pale skin, the perfect canvas for you to leave your artwork against. He wants you to mark him up – he may be the dominant one in the relationship, sure, and he may the one indisputably in charge of everything, but there’s something endearing about wanting to stake your claim on him. It makes him feel good, desired, possessive over you, and he’ll proudly don his coat with the dark marks all along his neck, perhaps even pulling the collar to the side a bit so that others can see that he’s yours.

Then you’ll move down to his chest; he wants to feel you press fast, quick kisses all over the plain of his chest and abdomen, your tongue tracing the lines of his abs and making him shiver. He wants to feel your lips wrapped around his nipples, sucking and running your tongue over the sensitive skin, leaving a wet pop noise as you pull back.

He wants you to kiss along his thighs, the kisses here more harsh and demanding, maybe even sinking your teeth into his skin just to get his eyes rolling to the back of his head, your sudden display of dominance (or brattiness, rather) making something primal sound from the back of his throat.

And of course, Chrollo’s fixation with your mouth extends towards your ability to suck – before you two reach a point of sexual contact, he’ll firmly trace your lips with his fingertips, only to push past them and situate his fingers against your tongue, a small smile on his lips as he sighs softly and tells you to suck, my love, I’m sure you know how.

He’ll watch with wide eyes and baited breath as you work your tongue along his digits, slipping between them and letting your lips suction, the warmth and wetness making his pants tight and his cock ache, desperation nearly sending him over the edge as precum drools from his tip. And god, when you use your mouth on his cock?

Chrollo is a fairly composed man, yes, but even he can’t keep up that image when you’re sucking on him like you’re trying to suck out his soul, your lips gliding up and down his length, the suction and feel of your tongue rubbing against that sensitive spot on the underside of his tip making his abs clench and contract, his hips getting a mind of their own as they thrust and buck and hump.

He loves when you use your mouth on him, and although he tries to let you set the pace yourself and do things at your own leisure and speed (mostly because he likes seeing what you come up with, how you think he’ll be pleased), he’ll reach a point as he nears his orgasm where he takes over, his hands grasping onto your head and physically moving it up and down, controlling the depth and pace as he groans lowly, his orgasm powerful and heady and numbing as he comes, cum spilling down your throat as he holds you tightly against his pelvis, the short black hairs sitting at his navel ticking your nose.

Another spot that makes him melt when you lick and touch is his balls.

They’re always full, heavy, swollen, aching and begging to be fondled and licked and emptied, and what better way than with your soft, pretty lips and your nimble tongue? He likes to watch the way you stroke at his shaft and move your attention to each sack, tongue coming out to lick and tease, the sensation making him suck in a shaky breath – the sound so quiet you very nearly miss it.

He wants you to take on in your mouth, the warmth making his knees feel weak, the feeling of you lightly sucking making him have to clutch onto whatever surface is nearest just to steady himself.

It’s so dirty – seeing the way your lips stretch to accommodate something so big, and by the time you’re through with them he wants his balls to be positively smothered in your spit, glistening in the light and sensitive to the touch because you’ve worked him up so well.

Of course, Chrollo enjoys when you touch him in pretty much any way, but there’s just something about your mouth that he finds himself gravitating towards, because while it’s intimate and wonderful to fuck you, when you use your mouth – something that feels more taboo, more personal, more sacred – well, that’s a different thing, isn’t it? It means you want him, you want to taste him, that you like his aftertaste of musk and cum to linger in your mouth long after you’ve finished him off.

Chrollo just likes the implications of it all – and seeing you on your knees or feeling your lips against his neck will just make him shiver, excitement and lust and love pooling in his gut, all directly at sweet, perfectly little you.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Holding your hand

It’s not really a kink, but you’ll notice quite quickly into your sexual relationship with Chrollo that he has a habit of always managing to interlock your fingers when he’s fucking you.

The first few times you’ll think it’s sweet, deciding that although it seems out of character for a mass murderer to want to hold you hand when he’s already stuffed as deeply inside of you as possible, it’s kind of endearing.

It seems like a manipulation tactic at first, honestly – you don’t trust Chrollo, not at all, and despite the fact that you’ve caved and given into your bodily desires to have him touch you and pleasure you, you don’t like him. Maybe this is some ploy to get you to fall for him – you’ve seen him reading articles and researching on ways to make women feel loved and valued during sex, his dark eyes diligently and eagerly scanning the words.

(You didn’t bring this up to him, however – the conversation that would’ve ensued would’ve been unbearable, and what would you even say? Chrollo, why do you want me to feel wanted during sex? What are you playing at? Is it not enough for you that I’ve already admitted I want you to touch me?)

The truth, actually, is none of those things – of course, he does view sex as a way to bring you closer to him and get you closer and closer to returning his feelings, but the hand holding actually isn’t something he’s meticulously planned.

The constant stimulation and attention to your clit, he’d known from the beginning – making you come feels good, yes, but he needs you to enjoy it, to realize that he can give you pleasure consistently, that he knows his way around your body. But the hand holding?

Well, the first time he fucks you, he’s genuinely gone – you can’t tell, not really, but from the moment he slips inside of you, he’s fighting to keep his composure, his hips begging him to just ruin you, to fuck into you as hard and fast as he can – even if it means spilling himself inside of you in as little as two minutes. He finds himself drifting away and getting lost in the pleasure that first time, and subconsciously his hand is finding yours, needing something to grip onto, something to ground him and keep him from coming much too early.

His cold fingers lace with your own, pressing your hand against the mattress as he continues humping his hips into yours, and he’ll squeeze your hand when the pleasure gets especially strong, his grip so tight it nearly bruises you.

He needs to hold your hand – it’s comforting, but more than that it keeps him connected to you.

It feels intimate, like something reserved only for you, because even though he’s slept with other women before, never has it been like this. Never has he actively been trying to make them feel good, and never has he actively been hoping they’ll want to fuck him again and again and again, something that he ardently, feverishly hopes you feel.

Holding your hand becomes something of a tradition; it gets easier to not immediately orgasm when he slips inside you, but still his hand moves on its own, capturing yours and squeezing, his dark eyes boring into yours and the veins on his hand standing out.

It’s romantic, he thinks, and even when he’s kissing you and throwing your legs over his shoulders, balls clapping loudly against your ass as he pants and whispers your name under his breath, his hand will stay in yours.

And his grip is tight – you can’t pull your hand out, he won’t let you. You’re not allowed to, because this makes the sex special, intimate, meaningful – it makes the two of you closer, your bodies truly united in more ways than one.

He loves you, he promises, and frankly, it’s best if you don’t mention this habit – he won’t tell you the truth, instead letting a small smile flit his lips and telling you cryptically that it helps me know if you’re feeling good.

That’s bullshit – it’s all for him, but you don’t need to know that gripping your hand like its his lifeline is the only thing keeping him sane when he fucks you – it’s the only thing keeping him from bucking into you like a wild animal, filling you full of cum like some sort of predator.

Voyeurism

Chrollo has a rather nasty habit of watching you. He’s not quite as overt as some other members of the Troupe, but it’s not hard to notice the way those dark eyes are always trained on your figure, observing, scrutinizing, staring with an intensity that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope.

He just finds you utterly fascinating, and he honestly finds himself unable to look away from you. You’re captivating in every sense of the word, and his feelings don’t change when it comes to the bedroom – he’s constantly, constantly looking at you.

The eye contact can be sexy, sometimes, in the right circumstance, but most of the time the intensity makes you nervous, embarrassment settling in your gut because you feel like he can see every inch of you, every imperfection and flaw.

He’s always looking at you while he’s fucking you, those eyes boring into yours as his hips snap into you, faster and faster and harder and harder, watching your face as you get close to coming, seeing how you fall apart for him and cry out his name.

He’s staring and breathing a bit harshly when you’re taking him down your throat, mesmerized by the way your lips slot around him, how his cock appears and disappears again and again, your little gagging noises when you take just a bit too far down making him near feral.

He’s even staring at you while he sucks on your clit, fingers curling inside you as he looks up at you from under his lashes, the eye contact making you shy away and close your thighs around his head, just wishing he'd stop staring at you like you’re some slab of meat for him to devour.

But more than anything, Chrollo likes to observe the way you look when you’re feeling good – pleasure looks good on you, and especially before you allow him to touch you in an overtly sexual way, Chrollo will have you touch yourself for him, all the while he gets a front row seat.

It’s thrilling, the way you spread yourself open on your fingers, tugging your lip between your teeth as you rub small, tight circles against your clit, your thighs trembling from both the pleasure and the weight of his gaze.

He’ll settle himself into a chair at the end of the bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his fingers digging into the armrests, his eyes trained directly on you. He’ll alternate between staring at your face and staring at your cunt, too entranced by it all to fully commit to one or the other.

He likes seeing the way you work yourself, how you flick your fingers or turn your wrist, the pace and tempo and precision of your movements.

He likes to stare at your breasts, watching them heave in time with your chest, seeing your nipples perk up and pebble up, looking hard and pinchable and suckable, like the perfect spot to rest his lips.

He’ll stare at the way your thighs tremble and jerk together occasionally, the pleasure and risqué of being Chrollo’s entertainment making everything feel heavier, stronger, more intense.

He’ll request that you finger yourself or play with your clit or touch your tits, anything and everything because he wants to see everything.

 Of course, it’s nothing new to him – he’d watched you masturbate countless times before he stole you away, enjoying the vulnerability of it all, your weak, alluring form totally unaware of the eyes watching your most intimate moments.

But now, now, it’s different – you know you’re being watched now, and that adds a certain layer to your actions that makes Chrollo lick his lips, because while seeing your naked body and hearing your barely contained moans has his cock standing at attention in mere seconds, the fact that you’re reacting so strongly to knowledge that it’s Chrollo staring gets his ears feeling hot and his hands twitching, aching to reach out and touch you.

There’s something alluring about the fact that you’re acting all shy and bashful because it’s him that’s watching you like a hawk, his cock clearly hard against his stomach as he stares, obviously enjoying the sight.

He likes to know that he’s affecting you, that you’re thinking of him, that he’s on your mind as you play with yourself and make yourself come – it’s hot, frankly, and although it’s a test of his self control (one he struggles with far more than you’ll ever know), watching you bring yourself to orgasm is the best foreplay he can imagine.

Because then, he can watch himself bring you to orgasm, and isn’t that just the prettiest, loveliest sight?

Isn’t you falling apart for him, moaning and writhing and scratching down his back, the single most valuable thing on this Earth?

He’s a thief, after all, and anything valuable is his for the taking – including you.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Chrollo is, without a doubt, extraordinarily possessive. You’re completely and utterly his, his property and under his ownership, to the point where he’ll often refer to you as such in passing with another Troupe member, no matter how demeaning and belittling his hummed response of yes, she’s my most prized possession may be.

You’re the only thing he’s ever wanted this badly, the only thing he’s ever wanted so much that it physically hurts, and he has no qualms with acting on these possessive urges, claiming you as his and only his.

However, Chrollo presents an odd juxtaposition in bed – while he absolutely does not want anyone else to ever see you in such a vulnerable, intimate position, there’s a certain allure to the idea of fucking you in public that he simply can’t shake off.

Of course, he’s thoroughly unwilling to allow you to be seen by other people, for your perfect, lovely body to be ogled by other human beings, those who are completely unworthy of being graced by your soft curves, your pretty moans, your twitching thighs and dripping hole.

You’re his to ogle and play with and make a mess of, and although the idea of another man watching you fall apart for Chrollo is appealing in its own right, he’d never be willing to stomach the idea of you seeing another man – or another man seeing you – when you’re in your most vulnerable, intimate position.

And these conflicting desires lead him to a sort of problem. On the one hand, he wants more than anything to fuck you in front of an audience, because what signifies ownership more than claiming you publicly, and what more can he do to show the world that you’re his, that he’s made his mark on you and you’ll never be loved by another?

But on the other, he can’t stand the thought of actually fucking you in public, which leads to a compromise – that is, it’s just so easy to spend a night in a bedroom high, high above the streets, the city skyline out the window and from the balcony mesmerizing, the dark night making the lights shine and the people they illuminate shine as well.

It’s not ideal, but Chrollo has found that the only way he can think of to satisfy this intense sexual fantasy with you is to simply fuck you in a space where no one can see you, but you can see everyone – thus, the window of some fancy, swanky hotel should do the trick, right?

Then everyone, whether knowingly or not, will be witnessing Chrollo claim every fucking inch of you, right?

It’s perfect, and something he’s so, so desperate to try out with you – just the thought gets his body feeling hot, his pants uncomfortably tight, and this strong, dizzying excitement brewing in his chest.

“The room is really lovely, Chrollo.” You compliment, appraising the room bathed in maroon and gold, the intricacies of the wallpaper and bed sheets catching your eye. It’s a simple one bed room, an adjoining bathroom to the side, but the real showstopping aspect of the horribly overpriced room is the set of floor to ceiling, pristine glass windows facing the night city, the various buildings too far to truly make out any specifics. It’s situated downtown, but Chrollo has made sure to secure a room on the fiftieth floor – towering above any nearby skyscrapers, thus giving him the privacy he’s been fantasizing of. 

            “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Comes his response, smooth and suave, though you think you can hear the smallest smidge of pride.

            Making your way towards the windows, you stare across the sleeping city skyline, trying to memorize every detail you can, while Chrollo watches you from across the room, excitement swirling in his chest at the prospect of what’s to come. 

            He’s quick to join you, standing beside you and glancing towards your awed face, chuckling softly and using his thumb to trace the line of your cheekbone. “You’re staring, love.”

            You blink a few times, before throwing him a playful glare. “And so are you.”

            He’s silent for a moment, before he leans down to press his lips against your own, his dark eyes fluttering closed. “How could I not, when something so beautiful is standing before me?”

            His words are sweet, and they have you bashful despite yourself – something Chrollo doesn’t hesitate to exploit, as he pulls you in deeper to the kiss. His hand rests snugly at your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, his lips working faster against your own, though the kiss is still softer, less insistent. 

            That changes quickly though, as your hand reaches out to brush against the growing bulge resting in his black slacks, a small hum pressed against your lips as Chrollo unconsciously moves closer to the action. Soon you’re unabashedly groping him, fingers idly squeezing and lightly pressing against him as he deepens the kiss, lips getting needier as the minutes fly by, small gasps and breaks for air the only sounds reverberating through the night air of the hotel room. 

            Insistent hands grasp onto the hem of your shirt, pulling upwards and exposing the expanse of your stomach, the soft skin immediately felt and caressed by the man before you, his fingertips oddly soft for his line of work. He pulls back slightly from the kiss, dark eyes slowly opening to meet your hazy gaze, a small smile quirking on his lips as he moves forward to your ear, breath ghosting against the sensitive skin. 

            “Undress for me, darling.” His words are sin, his voice smoother than silk, the timbre making a shiver race up your spine as you gulp and follow his instructions, peeling each layer of cloth separating your body from his wandering touch. Chrollo’s dark eyes take every movement in, excitement burning in his chest as your body is slowly revealed to him, your skin soft and supple and touchable. 

            His fingers twitch. 

            He’s quick to follow suit, sliding off his jacket, pants and undergarments, leaving him nude in all his glory, prompting you to rake your eyes across his sculpted chest, the lines of his biceps, the sharp ‘v’ of his navel, and of course, the eager, flushed cock pressing harshly against his lower stomach, practically begging for your attention and touch. 

            “You’re beautiful, my dear,” He starts, approaching you and bringing a thumb up to trace your cheekbone, that same small smile decorating his lips. His lashes are long, easy to see from this distance, and as your lips part to respond, he cuts you off with his thumb placed against your tongue, his eyes shining brighter. 

            “Why don’t we show the world just how beautiful you really are?” His voice is oddly uneven, the excitement dancing in those dark depths of his gaze making you arch your brows slightly, confusion lacing your features as Chrollo gently pushes your shoulders. The glass hitting your backside is cold, the smooth surface alien against you as you squeak slightly.

            “What – what do you mean?” You ask, voice small as he sharply inhales, his other hand coming down to run along your side as his eyes trail along your lips and down to your breasts. He smiles as he takes in your nipples, the skin puckering. 

            “Wouldn’t it be such a shame to keep a beauty like you hidden from the world? Don’t you want everyone to know,” he starts, leaning into your neck before kissing down until he reaches the juncture of your shoulder. “That you belong to me?”

            He bites down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to get you gasping out and throwing your head back slightly, the glass cold against your scalp. 

            “Would you like that? Do you want the world to know how much you crave me?” He asks, his voice low and husky. 

            You bite your lip and nod, murmuring out an agreement. 

            “Can’t hear you darling, try again.” 

Embarrassment creeps up your neck as you tell him in a louder voice, “Yes Chrollo, please, want everyone to know that my body was made for you, please!”

He shivers against you, his bare skin against yours making your head spin. His eyes are wide as he stares down at you. “Good, because I’m going to fuck you hard enough that no one will question who owns you.”

And with that, he’s spinning you around so that you’re face to face with the glass. The material is cold, your nipples rubbing against it and making your thighs rub together at the strange sensation. A sea of lights fall before you, the city glowing from so many meters in the air. 

His hands settle at your waist, squeezing slightly before sliding down over your hips, the smooth breath he exhales by your air making you shiver. Every sense feels heightened, and although you know no one can see you from so far below, it still sends a thrill through you at the idea that someone could, if they tried hard enough. Eventually his hands lightly pull at your hips, pulling your ass back towards his pelvis and making you bend over slightly, so that your cunt is poised out for him while your breasts still press against the cold glass.

Chrollo hums from behind you, a finger tracing down your spine and ending up right over your fluttering hole, slipping inside carefully and feeling the way you clench down on him, the sharp little gasp you give him only making another bead of precum drool from his tip, his groin throbbing and pulsing with the need to bury himself inside you, to thoroughly fuck the tight, warm cunt he’s feeling around his fingers.

He pulls them out abruptdly, making you whine a bit and wiggle your hips, the sight forcing Chrollo to tightly shut his eyes, grappling for control over himself. “Now love, in order to let everyone know just who you belong to, you’ll have to be loud enough to hear, yes?”

You nod, muttering something in agreement, but Chrollo cuts you off with a wide smile, his eyes flashing as he grips his cock and lines himself up. “Scream for me.”

And with that he’s pushing himself inside, not pausing for a moment to let you adjust. He’s thrusting into you with force, the sheer strength making you rock forward with each pulse of his hips. Your hands press against the glass, your cheek smooshed against the cold material as you moan and cry out his name, the angle hitting you deep and the eroticism of the whole situation making your head swim.

Chrollo leans in close behind you, his breath already a bit heavy and ragged. “Do you like – ngh, do you like this love? Getting fucked while so many people could be watching?”

You moan out a yes in response, gasping and feeling your whole body shake as his fingers snake between your legs and begin working at your clit.

He laughs breathlessly behind you, his chest pressing against your back. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot and heavy, and you feel him twitch inside you, his orgasm looming near.

“Let’s give them a good show, yes?”

            And when he pulls out a few minutes later, turning you around and letting his cum spraying from his tip and landing on your chest and stomach in ropes, he can only flutter his eyes closed and mutter your name, before peeling them open and exhaling shakily.

            He’ll push you right back up against the window, a knee forcing itself between your legs to open you back up again, his cock still hard and insistent and aching to finish inside you this time. Meanwhile, his cum smears against your skin and the glass, leaving a film that makes you shiver – the glass is cold but his cum is hot. You moan as he forces himself back inside you, immediately continuing with the brutal, rough pace he’d taken earlier, determined to let the whole city see how prettily you take his cum inside you this time.

            And when you’re done, some forty five minutes later, with two loads of warm, runny cum spilling from between your legs, the smears of his first orgasm all over the glass and your tits will only make him lick his lips, arousal once again simmering in his gut.

            Maybe this time the city would like to see how pretty you look when you squirt.

[daycourtofficial]

Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor - Part 9

Summary: Out of an act of desperation, you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother who lives next door.

Author’s note: anyone else excited for me to actually update?? This part’s a bit short, sorry! Gotta set some things up tbh. I’m so so so excited for part 10. Cassian has big annoying little brother energy in this. Honestly Az does not make an in person appearance in this part, but just you wait 😉

(Masterlist)

The warm water of the shower felt incredible, your mind unwinding as the water falls down your body. Thoughts of last night swirl through your mind, remembering how Azriel’s skin felt on yours.

You start going over the previous night again, from the way his eyes wandered over your body to the grip he had on you on the way home.

You were fucked.

You were pouring shampoo into your hand, trying to decide the odds that this was all a joke to Azriel, when the door to your bedroom opened.

You usually leave the door unlocked because Cassian has to reset the router pretty regularly, but you don’t think much of it until he is swinging open the door to your bathroom, letting in a cool breeze. You stick your head out of the curtain, hiding the rest of your body.

“Cassian,” you hiss, “what are you doing?”

“I don’t like eating alone,” he tells you, shrugging as he peels an orange.

“Cassian.”

“What?” He asks, words garbled from speaking through his orange slice.

“I’m in the shower.”

“So?”

You roll your eyes, pulling a hand out to emphasize your point. “I’m naked. In the shower.”

“There’s a curtain for a reason,” his tone sounding bored of this argument.

“You got a text from Az,” he says, annoyed as he looks at your screen that he can’t view the message. You drop your conditioner at his words, the clang of it echoing in the small room as you bend down to pick it back up.

“Just leave it, I’ll check it in a minute.”

"I hope it's a poem about how beautiful you are."

You roll your eyes, despite Cassian not being able to see you.

"I bet it says how annoying you are."

Cassian's gasp fills the room, "I am not annoying."

You poke your head out of shower, "we have weekly meetings to discuss how annoying you are."

In an act of complete maturity, you follow your statement by sticking your tongue out at him. Cassian holds your phone up to your face, letting it unlock the screen for him.

He sticks his tongue back out at you, "Thanks!"

He starts scuttling out of the room, yelling behind him, "if I'm lucky, you've sent Azzy some classy nudes!"

You start sputtering, yanking the shower curtain away, grabbing your towel, and quickly wrapping it around yourself as you follow after Cassian, not even turning the shower off.

"Aww, in this text he called you cute."

"Cassian."

He starts typing a response, his fingers flying over your phone. You hear the woosh of a sent message, and you stare at him, mouth open.

"What did you send him?"

He waggles his eyebrows, then hands you back your phone.

"You'll never know."

You look down at the phone in your hands, and sure enough, Cassian had sent him a text and promptly deleted it. The sick bastard.

"Cassian."

Your roommate simply shrugs at the tenseness of your tone, "I told him how you love him and how you want his precious babies."

You grit your teeth as Cassian makes kissing noises at you, debating the legal and moral ramifications of murdering Cassian when your phone chimes in your hands.

Azriel: thanks, I like your hair too :)

You look up at Cassian, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"You told him I liked his hair?"

"Yep," he says, biting into an apple, its crunch aggrevating some deep part of your brain.

“You’re the worst,” you say, opening your door and shutting it quickly behind you.

Later that night, Rhys decides to stop by to see Cassian, wanting to watch a rugby match on Cassian’s tv. Much to Rhys’s horror, Cass does have the larger tv.

Rhys starts to come in through the door to the apartment, but he can’t get the door opened more than a few inches because of a weight blocking him.

“What are you doing?” You ask, head peaking in the six inch crack of the door.

He looks confused, then looks around. “Trying to come in to watch rugby with Cass.”

“No you’re not.”

He tries to push against the door, but you keep it firmly in place. “I’m certainly trying to.”

“You’re not coming in - it’s girl’s night.”

He looks inside, confusion on his face as he huffs, “I see Cassian over there.”

“We voted to let him stay.”

Rhys looks offended. “And why not me?”

You lower your voice, leaning in closer to him, “because Feyre doesn’t invite boys she wants to talk about.”

His smirk grows predatory, as he surveys Feyre, Mor, and Cassian inside the apartment. “And why wasn’t Az invited?”

Your face flushes with heat, “we didn’t think it was his scene.”

Rhys snorts, leaning against the door frame. Knowing Rhys, he’d stay there until he got what he wanted to hear. “Az loves gossip more than anyone. Tell me why he isn’t invited and I’ll leave you be.”

You two glare each other down, a sight which must have looked quite amusing to anyone who didn’t note the seriousness of both of your faces.

You mumble out, “we don’t invite boys we want to talk about.”

He puts a hand around his ear, “I’m so sorry, dear, what was that?”

You grit you teeth, looking upward in hopes a god or a titan or someone would smite Rhysand and his stupid smug grin on the spot.

You let out a long breath, trying to let all the anger out so you can say distinctly, “we do not invite the boys we want to talk about.”

His eyes dance with amusement, his weight dropping from the door almost causing you to fall. “Well why didn’t you just say so? Maybe we’ll have a boys night - talk about you divine feminine creatures.”

He starts strolling back down the hall, “tell Cassian he’s welcome to join us.”

You close the door on him, dead-bolting the door so he can’t come in, turning back to reclaim your spot next to Feyre on one of the couches, Mor and Cassian next to each other on the other one.

“Now, I know we all gathered here to spend time together, but I showed up because I wanted someone to tell me what the hell is going on between you and Azriel.”

Mor stabs her teriyaki chicken with her fork, pointing it at you. You choke, trying not to laugh as the chicken falls off the fork back into the takeout container.

Cassian interrupts, his mouth full of rice as he says, “yeah what’s going on between you two?”

Your cheeks heat, all the attention in the room on you as you say, “nothing’s going on, Mor,” and grab a mouthful of sesame chicken with your chopsticks to prevent them from probing further.

It does not work. Instead, Feyre chimes in, “you guys were awfully close last night at karaoke.”

Mor points at Feyre with her fork, “she sat on his lap to and from Rita’s.”

Feyre gasps, sitting up, “you sat on his lap?” Then she looks at you with a mischievous glint, “could you feel him?”

She waggles her eyebrows as you throw an eggroll at her, earning you a soft hey in response.

“Feyre, watch your language around Cassian’s virginal ears.”

Mor spits out her drink, “there’s nothing virginal about what we do at night.”

She high fives Cassian, who is suspiciously quiet during this whole exchange.

“Hey,” you say to him, getting him to look up from his rice at you, “why’d you say it was good that my date was bad?”

“When’d I say that?” Cassian asks, tucking his phone under his thigh.

You roll your eyes, “literally yesterday when Az and I dropped off lunch for you.”

Mor whistles, “Az took you for a ride.”

Feyre’s eyes light up and you roll your eyes at her sing-song voice, still looking to your roommate. Cassian starts fidgeting, unsure what to do with his hands, “uh nothing he just was- kinda ugly.”

Your brows press down in a hard line, “okay, Cassian, he might not have been your cup of tea but he certainly wasn’t ugly.”

“But he wasn’t pretty like Azriel,” Mor chimes in, a smirk on her lips.

You throw your hands up, “whoa whoa whoa, I invited you guys over for chinese food and silly romcoms, why am I being ambushed about Azriel?”

“Because he likes you,” Feyre says, pouring herself a glass of rosé. You look to Feyre, trying to silently tell her you don’t want to have this conversation here with Cassian, but she keeps her eyes on her lo mein, a noodle slipping from her chopsticks.

“Az sure did enjoy you in the Barbie costume last night, babe.” Mor had an absolutely feral look to her as she starts, “I bet he had a fun night thinking about it with his hand wrapped around his- hey!”

You threw a pillow in her direction, trying desperately to get her to shut up.

“Hey, even Cassian thinks you guys would be cute, and he isn’t the most observant.”

Cassian picks the pillow up, hitting Mor with it again. “Thanks, Mor.”

“You’re welcome, baby.”

You turn to Feyre and the two of you make kissing noises at each other, then direct them at Mor and Cassian.

“Hey, we’re mature adults who just fool around. And do you know why we work so well?”

You put your head on your hand, looking up to Mor, “oh wise and beautiful Mor, please tell me why you and my roommate are so good at having sex with each other.”

Feyre snorts, but Mor responds, “because we talk to each other. We’re adults.”

“It’s different,” you say, going back to your chicken.

“How is it any different?”

“There aren’t any stakes for you two,” you say, and Feyre nods eagerly. “There aren’t any emotions - you two just have sex and you know that’s what you both want.”

Feyre nods enthusiastically, and you narrow your eyes at her, “and why aren’t we grilling you about the other boy? Hmmmm?”

Her cheeks blush, as her mouth opens and closes, trying to form words.

“Because she didn’t spend all of karaoke night whispering to him. Especially not during my performance.” Cassian ends his words with a huff, taking a swig of his beer.

“You mean our performance?” Mor ask, “we made it what it was.”

Cassian rolls his eyes, but lets it go, pulling his phone back out. “I’m going to order more Chinese - anyone want anything?”

Everyone’s responses echo, but you make out both Feyre and Mor asking for more crab rangoons.

Cassian lets out a soft, “it’ll be here in 30 minutes, let’s start this chick flick.”

Mor smacks him on the chest, “Pride and Prejudice is not a chick flick! It is cinema!”

As Mor and Feyre try to convince Cassian that he will love Kiera Knightley, your thoughts linger to the other side of the wall you shared. You wondered what they were up to tonight, what Azriel was doing, if Cassian and Rhys give him a hard time about you.

Of all the thoughts you had of them, the thought hadn’t occurred to you that Cassian would be texting Rhys updates throughout the night.

[soggyriceee]

of course !!! literally been re-reading your stuff all night- !! it’s just so good 🫶🏾🫶🏾

your request are open so can i request jealous price ? (completely fine if not)

~🐰 (< that’s me)

His Princess | Price NSFW

<omg thank you bunny (I hope your okay with the name)! ofc I loved writing this and I hope you enjoyed it just as much <33 >

summary: some new intern at your job seemed to take a liking to you. John however, didnt find that too amusing and shows you, and him, who you belong to

warnings: unprotected p in v, dirty talk, jealous Price, established relationship, implied age gap, female!reader overstimulation, porn

・❥・

Price never got jealous. what was there to be jealous of? he treated you like a princess, cooked for you, wrote you poems no matter how cringe they may be. he was there for every important moment in your adult life and supported you at your lowest. but aside from the romantic and gentle factor, he fucked you really, really well.

and he knew it. he knew how good he made you feel and wasn't worried about not making you feel good. no, he never worried about it. but what he did worry about, was this new guy. Chris. he was young, like you. tall, fit, smart. oh and of course, wasn't a war criminal. it got to him. seeing him walk you out, or text you asking questions he was "too dumb to figure out" during your guys' intimate moments. it made him wanna take your phone and smash it every time his initials popped up on your phone.

but he knew you didnt see this Chris guy that way. you were in love with him, and only him.

but tonight, tonight he couldn't hold keep his jealousy secret.

he picked you up at the usual spot, just outside your office. he waited patiently for you to walk out, already expecting to see Chris following behind you. so when you both came out together he paid little mind. that was until he saw Chris's arm slip around your waist, pulling you in for a hug.

almost immediately he felt his ears and neck turn red with anger, biting his inner cheek with so much force it hurt. but it was all numbed by the jealousy he felt. who was he to touch whats his? his princess?

what made it worse was that you didnt deny the hug. you hugged him back. around the waist, but it didnt matter. it was a form of affection, a form of affection only John thought he got from you. a form of affection he believed only he was able to get.

so when you slid into his passenger side, kissing his cheeks and hugging his neck, he pulled away. "John? why are you acting like that?" you asked, placing your purse in the back seat and kicking off your heels off. he said nothing, pulling out of the driveway while watching Chris get in his own car, keeping mental notice of his black Nissan Altima.

the car ride was silent. you could tell something was wrong by the veins popping from the side of Johns neck, but also his new silence. he was never silent. not unless he was mad. really mad. and it made you nervous because John was a very vocal man. if he was upset at you for something he told you exactly what it was and why. he didnt believe in silent treatment and wills scold you if you give it to him.

so his newfound silence worried you. deeply.

as he pulled into the apartment garage you timidly grabbed your things, scared to even look at him. you didnt want to know what was on his mind, you were terrified. "when we get inside, go straight to the room. im not asking im telling." he said calmly, grabbing the keys from the ignition. you didnt reply, but simply turned to open the door, stepping out.

you followed him like a lost puppy, scared of disobeying anything he had to say. opening the door, John stood to the side, allowing you in first. once you were in, you turned to John, attempting to talk. to say something. "I don't wanna hear it. do as you're told and nothing less." he said, kicking his military boots off, continuing the no eye contact.

with your head hanging low you made your way to the room. was it something you said? maybe he was just having a bad day. but.. why take it out on you? as you made it to the room John followed not to far behind and was quick to slam the door. you jumped, turning to him. his face was still red with anger, his eyes not the same kind, gentle ones he always gave you. no, no these were dark, angry eyes. eyes that told you he wasn't going to show any mercy on you.

"undress. now." he said, his eyes never leaving your frightened ones. you complied, moving your hands to unbutton your shirt, dragging your skirt down not too long after. so there you stood, almost naked in front of this man. "bed." he said, nodding his head towards it. again you complied, sitting on the edge of the bed. you couldn't lie, as much as you were scared, you were also turned on. his dominance always had you going bonkers and he knew that. but this time it seemed like he was genuinely angry with you, and his dominance was not for your own satisfaction.

he walked to the dresser, pulling out a few things. one of those being your dildo you used while he was away. a bright red rushed to your cheeks as he threw it on the bed beside you. "lay back, on the pillow. now." he said, unzipping his sweater he had on and tossing it to the side, exposing the white tank top he had on under. he watched you, scramble to the pillow and lay on your back, looking over to him with those big round eyes. he loved it. it almost made him break. but he couldn't shake the image of that mans arm around your waist, pulling you into him.

he crawled onto of you, spreading your legs. he grunted at the wet spot that was on your panties, looking up at you. "you find this amusing? making me angry?" he asked, hooking his finger under your panties and pulling them from your pussy. you sighed at the cool air hitting your wet pussy, shaking your head. "looks like it." he said, taking his thumb to your clit, applying a generous amount of pressure. you whimpered at his touch, squeezing your eyes shut.

he was right. angry John was hot. it turned you on. made a puddle in your panties. he rubbed his thumb in slow, slow circles, watching your hips jerk up, begging for more. "stop fucking moving." he growled, gripping your hip and pinning it to the bed. again, he goes in small, slow circles.

you couldn't take this. you both knew it. but he was angry. livid. he didnt want to reward you for being a slut, now would he? " he's handsome, isn't he?" John finally asked, watching your pussy clench and unclench. you peeled your eyes open, looking up at him. "w-what?" "you heard me." he growled, shifting his gaze to you. "c-chris? he's just a friend John I-" your breath was cut short when he slid two fingers into you, a gasp sliding out from you. he tilted his head, feeling your pussy grip onto his fingers. "just a friend who wants to fuck you." price retaliated, sliding his fingers out slowly, looking at all your wetness on his fingers.

you couldn't say two words before his fingers slammed back into you, a cry of both pain and pleasure coming from you. "j-john~" you cried out, gripping his forearms. moving his fingers faster, he leaned down, sucking the skin of your neck, leaving dark and big marks. a symbol that you were his and his only. from his lips on your neck to his fingers slamming in and out of your dripping cunt, you felt your eyes roll to the back of your head. "John~ it f-feels so good." you whimpered, back arching from off the bed.

"yea? im so glad baby.." he said, but something in his tone made you second guess if it was genuine or not. he raised himself from off you, grazing his free thumb over the markings, pressing onto the ones that were darkest. "so fucking glad.." he whispered, trailing his eyes up to you.

his fingers moved faster, hitting your g spot exactly each time. the knot you felt in your stomach quickly became undone, your cum coating his fingers and dripping don to his wrists. he smiles for a moment at the mess you made, but it quickly falls. you feel his fingers move again, a gasp slipping from you. "j-john hold on p-please." you cry out, trying to move back and off his fingers. but he growls and holds you down, halting any movements that you make. "this is what sluts get. you wanna go and flirt with other guys, im gonna make sure you never do so much as breathe around him by the end of tonight." he growled, slipping a third finger in.

you groaned at the feeling of you being stretched, a slight pain hitting you every time he moved his fingers back in. "take it. I know you can." he said, watching at tears brimmed your eyes. your mind was fuzzy and coherent sentences was the last thing you could form. quickly you felt the knot return in your stomach, trying your hardest to move back. but his grip was too strong, he had you exactly where he wanted you.

your legs shook and toes curled as your second orgasm happened, your body jerking forwards from the pleasure. "thats it.. thats my good girl.. my princess." he whispered, moving his fingers slowly and enjoying the noises your pussy made for him.

breathlessly, you tried to speak but he shushed you. "don't speak." he said. as he slid his fingers out he reached for his next assault weapon. your dildo. he slapped it on your thighs, sighing. "if only he didnt have to hug you. I could be treating you like the good girl I know you are love." he said, a fake frown upon his lips. you looked up at him, hooded eyes and parted, wet lips, hoping he'd show any mercy. but he wouldn't. not any time soon.

grabbing one of your legs he pulled it up into your chest, aligning the dildo tip at your entrance. "j-john please-" before you could say a work he slammed it into you, a cry coming out from you. your leaned forward, gripping his biceps to try and help the pain. but it didn't. especially since he immediately went to slamming it in and out of you.

he loved this angle because he knew it hit the deepest part of you. the part he always made sure to hit repeatedly if he wanted you a blubbering mess. "its good huh? I bet your imagining it being his cock huh?" he said, gripping your face and forcing you to look up at him. "tell me. you're thinking about him fucking you right now, aren't you?" he asked again, gripping your face harder.

but you shook your head frantically, tears brimming your eyes. the toy kissed your cervix ever so slightly, broken whimpers and cries leaving you. but he loved it. he loved seeing you so broken and disheveled. he loved knowing that he was doing that to you, not some coworker of yours. he looked down, watching the thick toy slide in and out of you with ease, bubbles of your slick popping up every now and then.

"oh you love this dont you. look how wet this pussy is love.. your fucking enjoying it." he whispered, licking his lips. he slowed the movements down, wanting to take in just hot wet you really were. it made the hard on in his pants hurt more, taking his free hand and unbuckling his pants to relieve some of the pressure. he moaned at the slight feeling of freeness, shifting his attention back down to you.

" you think you deserved to get fucked baby? tell me, honestly." he said, sliding the dildo out slightly before sliding it right back in. despite your efforts to reply to him, you couldn't form words. your head was fuzzy and your words came out incoherent. "whats that princess?" he chuckled, halting the dildo. opening your eyes and looking up at his mischievous ones, you mumbled, "yes.. p-please.."

he slid the soaked dildo out, a string of slick coming from you. he moaned at the sight, palming himself through his pants. "fuck lovie... imma fuck you so badly. fill you up with this cum." he growled, quickly sliding his pants down, pulling his hard on through the hole in his boxers. the tip dripped with pre cum, his tip red. you whimpered at the sight, bucking your hips up. he smiled at the sight, shaking his head. "needy slut."

pulling your knees to your chest, he aligns the tip to your hole, looking down at it. the mix of your slick and his pre cum almost made the tip slide right in. but e was quick with it, pulling away. "fuck your wet.. does he make you this wet baby? tell me. tell me he makes you this wet." as much as you wanted to say the truth, you felt like lying would make him fuck you even harder.

"y-yes.. he does." you said meekly, not looking directly into his eyes. but you felt his eyes on you. you felt the anger radiating off of him. " say it again. with your chest this time." he whispers, fingers digging into the sides of your thighs. so, looking up at him from between your thighs, you repeated yourself. "he made me this wet.. " you said.

the look on his face went from angry to something more than angry. something you couldn't even describe. "where's your phone. give it to me now." he said, letting your thighs go. you hesitated but leaned over the bed, grabbing your fallen phone. you handed it to him and he snatched it, shoving you back to where you once were.

"wanna act like a no good slut, imma fuck you like one." he said, facing the phone down to your cunt. you tried to retaliate but he slammed his dick into you, a yelp leaving you. he hissed, gripping your thigh, nail marks following behind. immediately he went in with a fast pace, bending you so your knees now rested beside your head.

never had John gotten jealous. not that he's shown you. and he's never recorded you guys fucking. he thought it was a personal thing between you both. he also didnt want others seeing your perfect body. " you like this, huh? you like getting fucked on camera?" he asked, holding the phone down to record his dick sliding in and out. the room filled with both your noises, skin slapping and the wet sounds of your pussy and his dick making contact.

"J-John~ please" you whimpered, gripping the sheets below you. his tip hit your cervix directly, tears forming in your eyes. "please what? you think you deserve shit right now? huh?" he grabbed your face, forcing you to look up at the camera. "say hi Chris." he said, picking up the pace slowly. you whined, clenching around him despite the embarrassment you felt taking over you. " say hi. dont be rude." he smiled above you, shaking your head side to side gently. "h-hi.. hi Chris." you whimpered, looking up at the camera.

John grunted, moving the camera back to your cunt. he watched you from the camera, moving his hands from his face to your clit, rubbing circles. " you gonna cum again love? I know you want to." he said, shifting his gaze to your twisted face.

he moved one of your legs to lay straight, the other still pressed onto the mattress. he almost came at the sight of his bulge in your lower stomach. "fuck~ J-john im gonna c-cum" you cried, already feeling the wobbliness of your legs coming back. "cum baby. show Chris who makes you cum. show him.. I know he wants to see." he said. moving deeper inside you, slowing down a bit.

your body was on fire, your slick dripping from your pussy despite his dick filling you up. your mind was hazy and you tried your best to focus on John, but you couldn't stop your eyes from rolling back. couldn't stop the drool coming from your mouth. it made a whimper slip from John's lips, the look on your face making his dick twitch. "im close baby.. im so close." he whispered. he held the phone at your connecting sexes, wanting to record the cum pouring from your cunt.

"come on baby. cum. cum for me I know you can do it. be my good little princess and cum all over.. fuck" he watched the cum spurt out of you, some getting onto the camera lens, most of it getting onto his abdomen. tears flowed out your eyes, broken cries coming from your plump lips. he gasped, feeling his own cum shooting out of him at the sight, no matter how hard he tried to hold it back. it was too much for him.

his hips jerked forward, the phone dropping to the bed, his hands pressing on the wall for support. his hips moved back into yours, riding out both your high and his. whimpers left his lips along with heavy pants. "f-fuck" he growled, his body slowly dropping to your. slowly he leaned for the phone, stopping the video. you heard 'sent' ding coming from your phone, realizing he was recording the whole time. "John you cant send that.. its sexual-" "ill kill him if he gets you fired for this." he said, looking down at you.

you knew he was serious. it made you clench around him. he chuckled, kissing your cheek and slowly pulling out before sliding back in, forcing his cum into you. " keep it in there." he whispered, looking up at you with hooded eyes. you smiled, nodding slowly. "I will." you smiled, hugging his neck. he sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"im sorry princess. im got carried away." he said after a moment of silence. you shook your head, kissing the top of his head. " dont apologize. im sorry I let him hug me. I dont think that'll happen anymore." you chuckled. he smiled and nodded, kissing the top of your covered breasts. " I love you princess. so much." he whispered, resting his chin on your chest, looking up at you. you back, running your fingers through his slightly messy beard. "I love you more."

[ghostybat00]

"OUR CUTE HACKER 👾..." KÖNIG YANDERE AND HORANGI YANDERE

(I need more Horangi content, but I also need more König yandere content, so I said fuck it, both of them as yanderes for a hacker reader, and here we are lol)

Reader gender neutral.

👾:Imagine being a hacker at the Kortac base of operation, you are someone who wants to go unnoticed. It's a shame that these two soldiers won't allow you to be alone anymore.

👾:You met the two quickly after you were hired as a hacker operator, specialized in stealing data from enemy bases and extracting important information on missions.

👾:First you met Horangi, he was a quite energetic man, a good soldier of Korean nationality, you caught his attention from the beginning, was it your cute little face? How your beautiful hands move around the keyboard and mouse, extracting data while you look so irresistible?He didn't know it, whenever you were around he would make jokes and sarcastic comments, he camouflaged himself that it was to break the tension with the team, But it was only to have even a minimal chance of seeing a nice smile or laugh from you.

👾:Horangi quickly told König, König hadn't really met you, but if he was a little tired of Horangi never shutting up talking about you, of course, he didn't know what he was missing when had the opportunity to meet you on a mission, you helped them and the others to open a database and finish the mission easier.

👾:Then he saw you physically...he swore he thought he saw a "Engel", You were so cute, so intelligent, the blood rushed to his face that fortunately for him, his piece of cloth on his face covered, from that moment on he understood why Horangi never kept quiet about you.

👾:They both tried to be friends with you, but it was a bit difficult since you were a bit quiet. They always tried to get you to spend time alone with them, inviting you to eat with them during breaks. Protecting you a lot when you had missions with them.

👾:Horangi used to use his humor to get the better of you, more than once making a cute laugh or small smile escape you, god how he loved that.Also, in his free time he used to write poems, so what's better than making some for yourself and leaving them in your locker or room?, The poems were very beautiful and always came with nicknames, but in the Korean language, he liked to see how you tried to decipher what meant each new nickname he gave you, such as "내 꽃" (My flower) "내 아기" (My baby) "나의 별" (My Star).

👾:It was obvious that König was more reserved, he wasn't shy, but he definitely wasn't very talkative, at least when it came to you if he usually made the effort to strike up conversations outside of the professional. Also, one of his favorite things was to help you train, of course, you were military too, but you were a hacker, so you were not in the same physical condition as them, So he helped you exercise more, taking the opportunity to touch you more, like helping you use a gym machine, putting his big hands on your hips for much longer.

👾:This was the nice part that you knew about them, not the obsessive and possessive part of these two.

👾:The two used to work together to eliminate any man or woman who would try to take you away from them. Did a rookie soldier try to flirt with you? Oh! You never saw that rookie again, he magically decided to quit after being brutally beaten!, Did an enemy even give you a mini cut? He died in the most brutal way possible, leaving his body unrecognizable!

👾:Another thing about them is that, worshiping it was a daily requirement for them. They see you as a god/goddess, you are so cute and unreal that sometimes they wonder if you are real or the both fell into a beautiful fantasy.They love you so much, that even the smallest thing about you drives them crazy,so much so that they keep them as if they were sacred objects simply because they were with you.Things like a ring that you dropped that was on your pretty finger? You never found it, and the plastic water bottle you just threw away a few seconds ago?, is magically no longer in the trash can.

👾:Speaking of item collection, yeah, they share a fucking sanctuary of you, hidden in the closet in König's room. Mundane things you used, even intimate things like a toothbrush you no longer needed, underwear you wore etc.

👾:They continue to act as your "just friends", although of course in the future they plan to make you their wife/husband, They are also very protective, thanks to König's status as a Colonel, they can keep you safe better, such as ordering soldiers not to get too close to you, excluding you from the others unless it is necessary for a mission, after all you already have them, what else would you need?.

👾:And they are very intelligent, especially Horangi who is a better manipulator than König, they know strategies so that you don't discover them and if you ever suspect them they cover it up as a coincidence.

���:They really like "friends" nights, where during your free time at work you are squeezed between their muscular bodies in a comfortable bed,while watching some movie or series, you definitely have them around your finger, with the disadvantage that now you had 2 huge soldiers obsessed with you, and who will never let you escape.

[ryuzakemo128]

Grim Reaper Part Nine

Pairing: Poly 141 x female reader / Female reader/ You x Her mental health x König

Content Warnings: Violence, bloodshed, injuries, Premeditated murder on the brain (Female Reader), swearing.

Words: 756

Note: Sorry for a short one. Wanted to get this one out. Next one will be longer I promise.

Masterlist - Prequel - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine

Supernatural AU — Poem

Credit for Dividers:@cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: Was I stupid to love you? Was I reckless to help? Was it obvious to anybody else? That I have fallen for a lie. You were never on my side.  Fool me once, fool me twice. Are you death or paradise?

Was I stupid to love you? Was I reckless to help? Was it obvious to anybody else? That I have fallen for a lie. You were never on my side.  Fool me once, fool me twice. Are you death or paradise?

Was I the problem? Did I do something to make you hate me so much? 

Why didn’t you just leave me instead of lying so many times to my face?

Was I stupid to love you? Was I reckless to help? Was it obvious to anybody else? 

I hope you rot in this hell you have made yourself. It’s my last gift I will give to you.

You knew how my life was before I met you. Yet you still did this to me. 

Cold. Calculated. That is all you will ever be.

If I had the power to curse you. I would have done it long ago. 

Once I leave this house, this country all over again. Do yourself a favour. Stay away from me.

Stay far, far away from me.

Otherwise, I can and most absolutely will kill you myself.

If you wish to keep your life.

Stay in your country and I will stay in mine.

I don’t want to be pushed into a corner. But you keep being adamant on doing so.

Don’t blame me when I bite you. Blame yourself for ignoring the warning signs.

You are the reason we are no longer married. Take accountability for your actions and shut the fuck up. 

König. You still don’t know if that’s his actual name or just simply a call sign. He never told you either way. 

But what does it matter? 

The man who had once been the epitome of comfort and support in your life had become a shadow of his former self. The trust that had once been as solid as steel between you had been shattered into a million pieces.

Leaving a gaping chasm of doubt and anger in its place. 

The coldness in his eyes, the way he looked at you now, it was like you were nothing but a stranger to him. 

Someone who had merely crossed his path at the wrong time.

"I will leave, and you won't see me again." you snarl, getting up to get your things.

König remains seated, his expression unreadable. "Reaper, I know you're upset, but we need to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about. You chose to cheat. You made that choice. Suffer the consequences. I'm not the one who needs to explain anything. You're the one who broke our vows.” 

“My life is in my hands. I will not become who you are.” You told him. Your knuckles turning white from the way you turned your hands into fists. You were so tired of the kind of excuses coming from the mouths of men who neither cared nor wanted you around. 

You weren’t going to let König know you again. To choose death than suffer through his presence a second time. It made so much sense to you. You do enough talk. What did you learn from your mistakes? Did you even learn from them at all? 

If he can’t see it. May he drown inside his endless well of pitiful tears. 

You are not his wife, his friend, his punching bag. The call sign ‘Grim Reaper’? You earned it for a reason. Too bad he’s too blind to see it. 

What has eyes but cannot see? 

Escape.

Escape and run faster than he can hope to catch up. 

If he can’t take the hint, then…..you would have to kill him yourself.

Can’t be too hard to kill a six-foot ten adult man, right?

You can hear the shouting between him and his girlfriend. A sickening, twisted grin spreads across your face. Sweet revenge for the child you lost years ago.  Weight began to lift from your shoulders. It wasn’t over by a long shot. But now you know how to twist the knife to get what you wanted in order to leave. 

To head back home where you felt like you belonged completely. 

Home. Your home. 

The one where you don’t have to hide from broken bottles, yelling, shouting, endless need to feel like you have to explain yourself. 

Could it still be there when you go back? Will it still be there now?

[sarahowritesostucky]

Bucky's Hands 🫠 And Angry GIF Racists

Originally I saved these GIFs off of Google and posted them with a similar caption as they have below. Nothin' special. Just meant to be a cute drool-over-Bucky post. It got a few thousand likes, which was neat.

A couple of months and a few hundred reblogs later, the girl who apparently made the GIFS messaged me--very pissily, informing me that since she made them I had no right to post them and how dare I!

I told her I don't see any issue with saving a GIF off of Google to use in a post or embed in a fic, etc. They are simply clips from movies, after all.

She furiously told me to remove my post.

TBH, I was about to ask if she'd be cool with a link to her account for credit (even tho the GIF already had her watermark on it). And if she'dve said no, then I was prepared to delete the post just to shut her up. I figured she was 14 or something. Angry on the internet, what are ya gonna do, right?

But I decided not to say that or do that, when within an hour of her messaging me, about six of her mutuals started messaging me nastily. And then one or more of them began anon-bombing me with hate. At least one of them included racial slurs, ethnic slurs, and wished for/encouragements for me to go self-delete.

Since she or one or more of her friends are such ugly, racist people, I chose to say "bye bye, I will continue unapologetically saving and using GIFs from Google."

Then, to illustrate the point of how stupid she was being, I went and took about 90 seconds - 2 minutes of my time and made. the same. exact. GIFs. Boy was that "unique artwork" hard to make 🙄.

So in case somebody doesn't know my stance on this: I will always credit and never repost other people's paintings, drawings, digitals, sculptures, poems, fanfics, fanvideos, edits, manips, belly button lint weaving pieces, blurbs, and poetry ... but I'm not going to refrain from using a widely-available GIF if the maker of said GIF isn't readily knowable. If they are, great, I'll give credit. If not, oh well.

And if floridamatista (I think that was the name?) or any of your sweet, racist friends ever come across this post, I encourage you to reevaluate your value system in life, that you felt it appropriate to throw out the n word, death threats, and antisemitic slurs over. a fucking. GIF.

The hands, the veins, those thick wrists 🤤 Lord, I did not need a new kink today, but alas I have found one anyway.

(Go ahead and use without credit, y'all. Since they're, ya know, clips from movies)