#how he can be so arrogant and sharp one second and try so hard to be responsible and gentle the next | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thaleleah · 2 months

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𝓗𝓾𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Fem!Academy!Reader

Warnings: Dub-Con, Seduction/Manipulation, Oral (female and male receiving), Handjob, Food Play (feeding each other/licking stuff off bodies, but its more of a seduction tactic), Finger Sucking, Ruined Orgasm, Slight Overstimulation, Slight Dacryphilia Kink, Reader is spoiled and delulu, Sub!Coriolanus

**Based off this irl porn post (takes you to Twitter/X).

Word Count: 10K

A/N: Literally just started the book today so Coriolanus is probs wayyyy out of character but . . . just go with it lol. I wanted him to be ✨subby✨

Summary: When you find out that the great Coriolanus Snow is not as financially well off as he makes himself out to be, you can't help but take advantage of his vulnerability.

Hunger is a weapon - every Capitol citizen knows this.

It’s the most useful piece of knowledge used when carving down an enemy. The people in the districts need to be taught fear, obedience for their devastating betrayal to the Capitol. If they thought they knew oppression before the First Rebellion . . . well, they just didn’t know how good they had it.

Things are back as they should be now. The Capitol stands at the top of the hierarchy, the districts fumbling below in their failure as they suffer their punishments and try to make amends in order to have the favor of those in charge.

Your family was lucky, surviving the war with minimal losses and maintaining your excessive wealth in the process. It’s a life of luxury for you - one of comfort and ease. You want for nothing, desire for nothing that you can’t have in a split second with a snap of your fingers or a hopeful, doe-eyed pout at your father.

Nothing, except one thing.

Him.

Coriolanus Snow.

He walks with such confidence, lean body moving gracefully and an air of arrogant smugness following him around as he vies for the Plinth Prize. He’s smart, very smart - top of the class at the Academy, and you can’t help but admit that you find his intelligence extremely attractive.

He’s beautiful, angelic blond curls always strategically fluffed, the perfect contrast to the Academy’s rouge uniforms. And sometimes, when he’s leaning down to scribble in his notebook during class, a few rogue curls will fall across his forehead and into those eyes - those eyes that sparkle despite his constant controlled and put together facade. You want those eyes on you. Want them to see you, follow you around as you walk the halls of the Academy, never leaving your visage as you sit prettily in class, back straight and legs crossed under your desk - your posture a solid reminder of your high stature within society.

You want them wet with tears, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you while you ride him, hard and fast as his mouth begs for mercy despite his pretty blue eyes begging for more.

You’re a prize, he’d be lucky to have you - and yet, whenever he looks your way, it’s with disdain.

You’re a fucking goddess, beauty unmatched. He should be falling at your feet just to get a second of your time. But no, instead he ignores you, never once looking your way other than when studiously listening to your response to a question asked during class before those blue eyes make their way back to the professor. They never linger, never once. And that realization makes your blood boil.

He’s smart, but you’re smart too - spite and bitterness reenergizing your academic drive. He wants the Plinth Prize and you want him. So you do the only thing that you can think of that will ensure his focus lands on you no matter what.

You go for the Plinth Prize too.

You’re on his ass in academics - every test and every project leading you closer and closer to over taking him for the win. His eyes can’t leave you now, always following you, narrowed and hateful as you smile smugly back at him. Sometimes you think you can see fear in them, like he can physically feel your sharp, manicured nails digging into the vulnerable balloon of his dreams and can hear the shallow hiss of escaping air through the punctures.

You hope he can feel your metaphorical breath on the back of his neck.

The mid semester review comes around and classes are canceled for the rest of the day as professors meet with their students to go over their academic standings. You walk into the building just minutes before your scheduled meeting time, bag slung over your shoulder and a dried fruit bar in your hand as you climb the stairs towards Professor Rosebloom’s office. Normally, you would be at least 15 minutes early, punctuality and proper time management drilled into you from a young age. However, Professor Rosebloom likes her schedules, the exact measurements of time, and plans out each class and meeting down to the minute. It’s useless to assume there’s any wiggle room for early arrivals or dismissals. It’s not beneficial - not when the door to her office won’t open again until the very moment it hits your scheduled appointment time. So you take your time climbing the stairs, taking a bite of your snack bar when you see him.

He’s leaning against one of the pillars in the middle of the hall, back pressed against the rounded edge as he bites into a cookie. He looks stressed, body rigid as he chews, the back of his hand coming up to wipe at his mouth after each bite. You smirk, eyes narrowed in glee as you stalk towards him like a predator sneaking up on her prey. His mind is elsewhere, completely unaware of you coming up next to him until his gaze falls to your shadow overtaking his own along the glossy floor.

He has only a second for his brain to register your presence before you speak, a smooth and sweet, “Coriolanus,” that nevertheless has him jumping in his spot against the pillar.

You watch as he fumbles the cookie in his hand, the half eaten treat falling to the ground, breaking into smaller pieces under the impact. His face is rather comical as he stares down at the ruined cookie, eyes wide and mouth agape, and you swear you see his hand twitch just the slightest bit as if he was going to pick it up off the dirty floor before he takes a deep breath and those piercing blue eyes cut to you.

“What?” He asks, voice sharp.

“Aw, sorry to make you drop your snack,” You say, feigning sympathy. “It looked yummy,”

His eyes fall shut for a moment, long eyelashes creating shadows along the top of his cheeks as he fights for composure. “It was,”

“You should have saved it for after your meeting,” You say, stepping closer to him, just far away enough to still be considered a proper amount of space, but close enough for him to have to tilt his head downwards to maintain eye contact. “As a condolence for when you hear that I’m the top student and a shoo-in for the Plinth Prize and not you.”

A low rumble bursts from his throat and he pushes off of the pillar to tower over you, glaring down at your shorter figure as he growls, “That’s not going to happen,”

His closeness makes your heart race, and you want nothing more than to drop the fruit bar from your hand and tangle your fingers into his fluffy hair. You’d do it too - would risk everything, the perfect image you’ve cultivated and the resulting embarrassment of seeming needy - if only you knew he would reciprocate. But he’s stubborn, you don’t know, and your pride gets in the way of any impulsive decision you might make, no matter how hot the desire burns through your veins.

Instead, you bring the snack bar up to your mouth, perfect white teeth sinking into the sticky bar as you keep your eyes locked on his. Your intense focus on him is the only reason you see how his eyes falter from yours, the furious fire in them dimming into a softer need as they fall to your mouth.

Your glossed lips pull into a smirk. Finally, finally, he’s getting the picture. You knew it was only a matter of time. He was a man after all, and men are weak when it comes to the wiles of women. It was bound to happen, no one with eyes or any sense of a brain would be able to resist you for too long - Coriolanus was just a slight exception.

But you’ve got him now, can see in his eyes how badly he wants you. His eyes are locked on your lips, following the movement as they press together and move as you chew. The bright light in the hall is probably glittering off of them right now, making them look even more plush and enticing as it glistens off the thin layer of gloss that coats them. He’s probably thinking about how much he wants to kiss them right now. Imagining them wrapped around his cock and how soft they would feel as you plant sweet and teasing kisses along his shaft before taking him completely into your warm mouth. He’s probably kicking himself, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to push you away for as long as he has when he could have had you all to himself this whole time.

All the time he’s wasted because of his pride and ego.

The hand holding the fruit bar lowers slightly, teasing words of victory on the tip of your tongue as you open your mouth to gloat about your obvious success and his pathetic loss as he succumbs to his own desire for you. But you freeze when his wanting gaze doesn’t stay on your lips like you expect. Instead, they fall with the snack bar, following the food source like a puppy waiting for its master to grace them with a treat, and your words die before they can make a sound.

The food? Seriously? He was looking at the food?!

As if on cue, his stomach growls. He snaps out of his daze at the sound, a hand shooting up to press against his belly as if trying to quiet the noise.

You stare at him incredulously, eyebrow arched in disbelief. “Hungry much?”

He scoffs. “I missed breakfast this morning and now you’ve made me drop my snack. So, yes. I’m hungry.”

His words come out confident - practiced and dismissive in the way they would lead someone to believe his verbal jab in a heartbeat. But you’re too close to him right now for it to have the same effect that it normally would. You’re too observant, too eagle-eyed when it comes to all things Coriolanus, and now you're kicking yourself for not noticing it sooner.

The way his eyes flash with a moment of panic before they roll in annoyance, feigned annoyance, because there’s still nervousness clear in those beautiful blue orbs. The way they can’t help but flick just for the quickest of seconds towards the bar still in your hand and your own snap down to the movement of his stomach as he sucks in his belly, an obvious attempt at trying to use the muscle movement to starve off another growl.

The buttons on his shirt aren’t completely round, you notice. They do a good job at pretending to be, but under further inspection you realize that some are more oval than round. A couple are even slightly jagged. They remind you of the tesserae tiles you’ve seen in the maid’s bathroom - nearly a perfect match. Your critical gaze follows the rest of the length of his body, looking for anything else that suddenly seems off about the only son of the great Crassus Snow. Years ago, your father had mentioned rumors that the Snow family might not be in the most opulent financial standing. You hadn’t believed him at the time, the Snow family had always seemed very well off whenever you would see them around the Capitol or at events. Coriolanus had never once let on that they were living in anything less than a life of luxury during all your shared time at the Academy.

And yet, when you reach his feet, it becomes an undeniable reality. There, on the feet of the boy who you’ve been lusting over for the better part of two years, is a pair of too tight and just this side of too worn shoes.

You’re just barely able to hold back your gasp at the realization. He’s always been thin, but you chalked that up to him just being tall and lanky. But this? This is so unexpected.

Coriolanus Snow is . . . impoverished? Penniless.

Needy.

The idea comes to mind before you can even think about it, eyes sliding back up to meet his as you take another slow and mocking bite of your fruit bar.

“What will you do?” You ask, tilting your head to the side in question, slowly chewing the sweet treat. “When I win the Plinth Prize,”

“You won’t,” He answers quickly, and the raw determination in his voice makes you grin.

You take another quick bite of your bar and offer a small shrug of your shoulder. “Why don’t we be smart about this, Coriolanus? Put aside our teeth gritting rivalry in exchange for some good old fashioned, friendly competition.”

“What are you suggesting?” He asks, suspiciously.

“You can come to my home this weekend. We can study together. Make it a fair fight for our next exam,” And then, casual as ever, you add, “I’ll make sure we have lots of snacks at our disposal. Fuel for our brains, yes?”

Coriolanus pauses, clearly torn, and it’s unbelievable how someone who's always put on the face of confidence and self-assuredness can have their mask slip so carelessly so many times within a few minutes of interaction.

The door to Professor Rosebloom’s office opens and out comes a disgruntled looking Festus Creed. He glances at you and Coriolanus standing just feet away from the door, but surprisingly has nothing to say for once as he walks past and down the hall towards the grand staircase. Professor Rosebloom stands at the door, calling your name and gesturing inside her office with a sharp nod.

You look back at Coriolanus, a sickeningly sweet smile on your face as you walk backwards towards Professor Rosebloom. “Tomorrow, okay? See you then!”

The feeling of his eyes boring into you as you turn and disappear into Rosebloom’s office makes you feel unstoppable.

Coriolanus arrives at your house the next day around mid-morning.

He greets your parents respectfully, sharing a firm handshake with your father and nodding kindly at your mother, thanking them for allowing him into their home for the day and politely ignoring the looks of displeasure they both send him behind their masks of well-mannered hosts.

You guide him up the stairs to your bedroom and sit yourself on the bed, smirking when he stands awkwardly in the doorway, one hand gripping the strap of his messenger bag.

It’s so interesting to see him out in public, without the guise of an event or school trip to dictate what he wears. Today he dons a regular pair of pants, nice fitting around the waist and legs, but just a little too short around the ankles. You’re not sure if you would have noticed it had you not been looking. His sweater is a deep burgundy, thin lines of golden embroidery stitched around the collar and wrists to give an otherwise simple garment a taste of class. You don’t even want to look down at his shoes. If his nice dress shoes were looking tight and worn, you don’t want to see what his casual shoes look like.

It doesn’t matter anyway, everything he’s wearing is going to be on your floor in a little while anyway.

“Sit down, Coriolanus,” You instruct, pulling a book from your own bag and laying it out on the bed in front of you. “Don’t be shy.”

He takes a quick look behind him, checking to make sure your parents aren’t trying to spy from the hallway to catch them in the act of anything inappropriate despite this being a genuine study ‘date’ - at least on his part anyway. They won’t. Your father will be leaving for a lunch meeting in the city soon, and your mother will use the time to meet with her lover in one of the barely used guest bedrooms while he’s away.

Coriolanus clears his throat before walking over to the bed, sitting tall on the edge, one of his legs bent at the knee to twist himself to face you while the other leg hangs off the side.

“We should start with the top three points that we think are the most important of each chapter,” he says. He pulls his book and a small notebook out of his bag before placing it on the ground next to the bed and out of the way. “And then we can discuss and expand on each point together.”

“Sounds good,” You nod. “Let’s begin.”

Studying has never been difficult for you. You find yourself blessed with a remarkable brain and an even more determined sense of spite that makes remembering factual information simple. Thoughts of Coriolanus often plague your mind during your study sessions. He is, after all, the reason why you study so hard in the first place. But when the thoughts get too much, thoughts of kissing those plush lips of his, whispering dirty things in his ear and having him moan filth back to you - wanting to thread your fingers into his golden hair and push his head down so it fits between your thighs where it belongs . . . A power break, you call it. A moment of respite from studying in order to take power over your overflowing desire for the only man who’s been able to resist your temptations so far. Your hand would find its way inside your pants or underneath your dress, fingers dipping into your drenched hole and rubbing furiously at your clit imagining it was his until the pent up release sets you free and you're able to focus on your work again.

But with him actually being here, here in front of you, it’s a bit more difficult. Your pen stopped writing a while ago, eyes locked on the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks with each blink as he focuses on his notes. He bites his lip sometimes, teeth pressing into the plump flesh before he seems to catch himself and releases it, leaving behind twin red marks in the skin that you wish were imprints of your teeth instead of his. Your eyes travel down further to his throat, wanting to taste the smooth skin there under your tongue, and you can feel how wet you are already in your panties.

After about an hour, a maid enters the room with a tray of snacks. She’s right on time, entering through your doorway at the exact moment you had instructed her to, but you're so worked up from Coriolanus just existing a couple feet away from you on your own bed, that you glare at her like you want to bite her head off.

She doesn’t waste time, even more so when she sees your expression. The maid deposits the tray of food on the bed between the two of you and places a bottle of wine with two glasses on your side table before hurrying out of the room.

Coriolanus looks up from his notebook the second the food is placed in front of him, eyes immediately locking onto the tray. It’s obvious how badly he wants to go for it, but he holds himself back.

“Looks yummy, right?” You say, slyly, nodding to the small assortment of bread, cheeses, jams, and fruit. “Great brain food,”

He nods, throwing in an indifferent shrug as he responds, “Yes, it’s—it’s fine.”

You grab the wine bottle from beside you, uncorking the bottle with practiced efforts. “I also asked for some tastier things too,” You say, gesturing to the wine and the small bowls of chocolate sauce and whipped cream also adorning the tray. “A little reward to us for all of our hard work this semester.”

It’s funny watching him just sit there, struggling to appear calm and collected in the presence of such delicious foods. What do poor people even eat anyway? Maybe nothing. Maybe he survives on water and the lunches the school provides. What a shame, he’s too pretty to suffer. But if he is going to suffer, you're excited that you at least get to reap the benefits.

You pour two hefty glasses of wine, handing one to Coriolanus and bringing the other one between you, signaling for a toast. “To study dates and good food.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in an aborted smile, and, to be honest, you’re not sure if he means it or not, but nevertheless he clicks his glass against yours anyway. “To study dates and good food.”

You watch his face from behind your glass as he brings his own to his lips. His eyes flutter shut at the first taste of wine against his tongue, and you wonder how often, if ever, he’s had the experience before to make him make such a euphoric face. He licks his lips, catching the stray drops of wine on his upper lip before he clears his throat.

“It’s nice,” He comments, nonchalantly. “Sweeter than the wine I’m used to.”

“Oh, yeah?” You grin, swirling your wine gently in the glass. The wine aerates under your nose as you breathe in the sweeter notes of its smell. “The Snows prefer the taste of drier wines, huh?”

“Yes, we do,”

He cuts the conversation short, looking back down at the plate of food. He still has his pen in his hand, the other hand occupied by the glass of wine, so you take the opportunity to put the next step of your plan in motion.

“Keep writing,” You say, waving at his pen. You place your wine glass back on the side table and grab a small slice of bread from the tray. “You’re on a roll. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.”

He clears his throat again, pressing the pen to the paper, but he can’t write anything. His eyes are glued to where you're prepping his snack, spreading a thick layer of creamy cheese on the bread before topping it with a few swipes of spiced jam. You want to laugh at how his mouth practically waters for it, lips parted in want and his pupils are unusually large against the bright blue canvas of his irises.

“There we go,” You coo, holding up the savory treat between you both. “Open up, Coryo. The jam on top is to die for.”

You watch in glee as he opens his mouth, letting you bring the bread to his lips before he bites down on it. It’s quiet, too quiet, but the room is quiet too - so no matter how concealed he tries to hide his small moan of pleasure, you hear it anyway. And the sound shoots right to your dripping cunt.

You feed him another bite, and then another, and you’re a little shocked that he’s even letting you feed him at all without protest or a show of pride, but you don’t complain. There’s a small smudge of jam smeared at the corner of his mouth. His pretty blue orbs never leave yours as you slowly trace along the sticky corner with your thumb, gathering up the bits of jam and popping it in your mouth letting out a small moan of your own at the taste.

“So good,” You say again. He gulps, trying to hide his nervousness behind another long sip of wine. “You know what else is really good? This chocolate sauce,”

Your middle finger dips into the chocolate bowl, chocolate coating your finger as you pull it out, the excess dripping back into the bowl. You pop your finger into your mouth, humming at the rich taste as it soaks into your tastebuds. Coriolanus’s eyes follow your movements, still dark in want but also colored with confusion. Poor baby, you think. If you were a better person, you would feel guilty about manipulating him so badly.

But you’re not, and the bitch inside you roars in delight at how well you have him exactly where you want him.

“Hmm, so good,” You whisper, slowly dragging your now clean finger back and forth along your bottom lip. “It’s William Dean, the best chocolate connoisseur in all of Panem. His chocolates are the best luxury, I’m sure you know, but I always prefer the chocolate sauce to the chocolates themselves.”

Your finger finds its way back into the chocolate before hovering it in front of Coriolanus’s slightly parted lips. “Don’t you wanna try it?”

There’s hesitation on his face, eyes flickering with uncharacteristic uncertainty from yours to your dessert covered finger and back again as he thinks. In the end, the want wins out, and he opens his mouth more to let you slip your finger inside. The inside of his mouth is warm and wet, the strong muscle of his tongue licking along your finger as he sucks off every single bit of chocolate offered on it. His tongue vibrates under your finger as he moans, louder this time than the last, eyes fluttering shut at the taste. You wonder if it’s just from the taste of the chocolate or from the combined taste of your skin and spit too.

“Delicious, right?” You ask, slowly pulling your finger from between his plush lips.

When his eyes open again, his pupils are blown wide - only a thin band of blue around the edges - and you can’t help but smirk at yourself in their reflection.

He nods, as if dazed, letting out a low “mhm” in agreement.

“Here,” You grab a strawberry off the tray and coat it with the melty chocolate just like your finger. “Try it with this.”

He doesn’t even hesitate as you bring it up to his mouth, lips parting as his teeth bite into the red fruit. You almost can’t believe how blissed out he looks, just from a few bites of food. His chewing is slow, like it’s purposeful - dedicated to savoring every second as he enjoys what he never gets to have, eyes hazy with an almost far away look to them.

Poor Coriolanus Snow, how the mighty have fallen.

You quickly bite the other half, barely registering the sweetness of the fruit mixed with the richness of the chocolate before tossing the green leafy top back onto the tray. Instead, the visual of him licking the leftover chocolate left on his lips from the bite into the fruit sears into your brain.

“It’s probably the best you’ve ever tasted, huh?” The dig comes out without your permission, but it doesn’t matter because while normally his clever and quick mind would have had you scrambling for a response to whatever his snappy comeback would have been, he doesn’t seem to catch on to your implication.

He’s too drunk right now. Too drunk on the few sips of wine and small bites of food he’s had. Too drunk on savoring everything, desperate in the way his gaze drops back down to the small feast in front of him.

“Hey,” You call, bringing his attention back to your face. He looks like a puppy waiting for his next command. “Are you going to thank me for being such a gracious host?”

“Thank you,” He whispers.

“No, Coryo,” You say, a wicked grin pulling at your lips. “Thank me,”

Your previous dig might have gone over his head, but the unspoken demand doesn’t. Hazy blue meets your own hooded ones, a breathless moment between the two of you as your words sink in, and then he’s leaning forward - soft, pouty mouth pressing against yours gently.

Victory burns through your veins like fire. The urge to scream like a madwoman, the sound feeling stuck at the back of your throat, urging you to let it out just so you can relieve some of this overwhelming excitement that runs through you. But no, you have to be calm about this. Strategic. Don’t fuck this up, you remind yourself. Don’t scare him off.

But your hands itch to bury themselves in his hair, wanting to grip the golden strands between your fingers and tug hard enough to make him whine against your mouth. His lips feel like heaven against yours, the soft press of his bottom lip fitting between yours before he pulls back, breathing into your space for a moment, before coming back in for another kiss without you even having to tell him.

His lips move against yours with an intoxicating combination of shyness and want. He’s still gentle, way too gentle for your liking - you didn’t wait to have him for this long for him to be soft about it. You want the roughness, the passion, the desperation where he wants you so much that he can’t bear to not have his hands on you for even a second. But there’s also power in the shyness, in the nervousness that you have erupting from every pore of his body.

When he pulls back again, you don’t hesitate to move your lips to his cheek, kissing across the cool, smooth skin. His hand has long since dropped the pen by now, now choosing to fist into the lush fabric of your very expensive sheets while the other somehow still holds onto his half filled wine glass. His breathing is starting to get shaky - unsteady shallow breaths puffing out next to your ear as your lips trace the line of his jaw.

Without even having to look, you grab another strawberry, dipping it into the chocolate and bringing it to where your mouth is pressing hot, open mouth kisses to Coriolanus’s jaw.

He jumps at the first touch of the tip of the fruit against his neck, a confused grunt escaping his lips as he mutters a quiet, “What are you doing?” But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull back from the way your lips nibble at the sensitive spot behind his ear.

You drag the fruit down the long column of his neck, leaving a line of tempting chocolate in its wake as you whisper a soothing, “Just relax, Coryo. I’m eating,”

Your tongue finds the bottom of the trail, pressing flat and wet against his neck as you lick away the chocolate in one long seductive lick. You're quick to repeat the process, dragging the fruit down the column of his throat, a delicious line of sweetness you can devour while tasting the distinct flavor of him underneath it. His head tips back to allow you access to the trail of chocolate on his throat, and you reward his cooperation by holding the fruit above his upturned face so he can sink his teeth into it while you sink your teeth into him.

His throat bobs underneath your lips when he swallows.

The whipped cream still sits untouched in the bowl, and your neck still stays untouched with Coriolanus’s kisses. So you grab his chin, dragging his face back down to yours once again.

“You hungry, baby?” You ask, your eyes locked on his. “You wanna eat, too?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, nodding frantically against your grip. “I’m starving.”

Whipped cream sticks thickly to the spoon as you pull it out of the small bowl. The white substance sticks to your skin as you drag it down along your neck, your body heat melting some of it directly upon contact and small streaks of white drip down to your collarbone. The spoon isn’t even moved away yet when he leans forward, pink tongue laving eagerly against your skin as he licks up the cream.

His tongue is so soft, wet and hot against your neck, warm breath fanning across the wet skin as his tongue follows the scattered drippings down lower. You're quick to add more whipped cream to your body, smearing it lower across your chest and over the swell of your breast peeking out from the top of your dress. The feel of his mouth on your breast makes your jaw drop, breathy sighs falling from your lips as you watch him lick the cream off your chest. His pink lips look beautiful on the round swell, thick lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks as he latches onto the top to suck gently, still trying to get every last taste of cream onto his greedy tastebuds.

Gripping his chin again, you pull him back up to your face, capturing his lips in a hungry kiss. He groans when your tongue pushes through into his mouth, sliding against his as you suck the taste of the whipped cream off his tongue. His hands come up to hold your face, one hand cradling your cheek while the other hand, still holding the glass of wine, reaches up to touch your jaw and helps to tilt your face up to his.

Your fingers grab the thin straps of your dress, pulling them down over your shoulders and freeing your breasts from the cups. You hate to drag your lips from his, teeth digging into his plump bottom lip and pulling as you pull back, grinning at the groan it rips from him in return. You grab the glass from his hand, arching your back slightly to puff out your chest more as you spill a little of the wine over it. Coriolanus groans at the sight of the red drink running down your chest, cascading over your breasts and dripping down further to soak into the material of your dress.

“F-fuck,” he whimpers, and immediately takes the hint, large hands gripping your waist to hold you still.

His pink tongue draws along your chest, cleaning the spillage from your skin as he nibbles along your breast. His plush lips wrap around your nipple, tonguing the hard bud with the tip of his tongue before sucking gently.

“Good boy,” You coo. You’re trying for a taunting tone, but the words come out more gritted than you would have liked as you feel your panties completely soak through. “Clean it all up for me,”

His pretty eyes look up at you as he sucks, dark with desire as he stares up at you through his lashes. He pops off your nipple with a wet sound, tongue dragging across the swell of your breast as he makes his way to the other one. When he’s done, your chest and tits are wet with his saliva instead of the sticky wine, and you shiver when his warm breath fans over the damp skin.

You lean back against the bed, holding the wine glass straight up as you lie down flat. His hands stay on your waist, seemingly unable to loosen their grip on your sides as he follows you down. He leans over over you, watching with wide eyes as you hike the bottom of your dress up so that it bunches up below your bust and out of the way. Your beautiful body is now on full display for him - soft, smooth, and well fed as his gaze feasts on the bounty now in front of him. His eyes lock onto your white lace panties, now practically translucent with how wet they are, but you steal his attention back with a quick call of his name.

With his eyes now back on yours, you tilt the glass over you, pouring the wine into the divet of your belly button and letting it pool there. Some of the liquid spills over, tickling your skin as it runs out along your belly and sides. Immediately, his head is at your belly, catching some straying droplets before they can soak into your sheets before his lips suction over your belly button, licking into it and sucking out the sweet drink from its makeshift cup.

Your fingers thread into his soft hair, locking into his fluffy curls, and when there’s no more wine to drink on your body, you push his head down further. His breathing is quick and excited as he allows you to push him down to your core, little pants of hot air hitting the drenched fabric of your panties as he peers up at you.

“Please,” He breathes, and you can’t help the smirk that pulls at your lips from the sight of him between your thighs.

“Go ahead and eat your meal, Coryo,” You say, leaning up on your elbow to watch him better. Your other hand casually keeps the still occupied wine glass upright and out of danger. “If you’re good, I’ll let you eat plenty more.”

He’s a good boy, you always knew he would be. Despite his air of confidence and ego he tries to emit daily at the Academy, you’re good at seeing through people’s disguises. Coriolanus is soft - a lost boy trying to find a place among the vicious sharks of Capitol people.

Ready to follow your every command in hopes you deem him worthy enough to throw scraps to.

He licks over the lacy material of your panties, and you can’t help the deep shiver that wracks through your body at the tease. His nose presses against the lace, the tip brushing over where your clit sits beneath it before he hooks a finger under the material and pulls it to the side.

His tongue feels like silk against your drenched folds, the wet muscle flattening against your slit as it slides up the length of your pussy. His hands grip your thighs, using the leverage on them to keep you still as he circles your puffy clit. You briefly consider telling him to put his hands behind his back, just to add to the image of him serving you - being your ‘good boy’ - but the vision of him between your thighs, face finally pressed against your cunt where it always belonged, has you momentarily thrown for a loop.

He looks so pretty down there, blond curls messy where you had your hand in them. You’ve waited so long for this moment. Dreamed about how good he would look between your legs, disheveled and wanting as he begged you to let him eat you out. Begs you to grace him with the privilege of fucking you. And now here it is. The moment you’ve worked so hard for.

And the payoff is gorgeous.

His eyes are half hooded in pleasure, mouth licking and sucking greedily at your juices, moaning into your pussy like he was retasting the wine for the first time again. His moan vibrates through your entire body from where his lips are wrapped around your clit, more wetness leaking out of your soaking hole at the pathetic sound.

You wonder what you taste like to him. Probably like honey.

The sweetest kind he’s ever tasted.

“Do I taste good?” You ask, breathlessly. Coriolanus ignores you, seeming to not even hear you as he shakes his face against your puffy pussy, too intoxicated on your scent and taste for your words to penetrate through the fog clouding his mind. You grin, speaking louder to catch his attention. “Snow, eyes on me,”

Immediately, those baby blue eyes are focused on you and your breath catches in your throat in excitement. That’s right, gorgeous. Keep your eyes on me.

“I asked if I taste good,” You repeat.

Coriolanus nods, mouth never letting up on the suction around your clit as he hums out a little “mhm”. You squirm a bit, switching arms so your weight is being kept up by the elbow of the arm cradling the wine glass while your now free hand reaches out to nudge at his head to urge him down further.

“Put your tongue in,” You demand, fingers gripping his curls again as you shove him down. “Fuck me with your tongue.”

His eyes flutter as he follows your instructions, ever the diligent student, and your mouth falls open at the feel of the tip of his tongue teasing your entrance before it pushes inside, spearing you open around the thick, wet muscle.

“Yes,” You moan, fingers leaving his curls to rub frantic circles around your pulsing clit. “Fuck me faster, Coryo,”

His fingers dig into the plush skin of your thighs, fingertips sure to leave bruises as he desperately pulls you closer, tongue digging as deep as it can into your depths as you clench around it. The coil in your belly tightens, pleasure ripping through you as you bite back the loud cry wanting to burst from your throat as the coil snaps and you cum on Coriolanus’s face, squeezing tightly around his tongue.

You huff for breath, fingers still greedily rubbing at the sensitive nub trying to soak up every last shock of bliss from your orgasm, even as Coriolanus pulls his tongue from your insides, panting. His face is drenched in your juices - debauched and dirty because of you, and the sight alone makes you want to lock your fingers in his golden hair again and pull him back in for round two.

You sit up, listening to the desire to dig your hand into his hair, but instead of dragging him down again, you drag him up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before licking up the side of his face, tasting yourself on his skin as you clean him up. He’s still breathing hard when you get to his lips again, and your eyes meet his as you press small teasing kisses to his frowning lips.

He’s confused, you can see it in his eyes. Can see the gears in his brain trying to make sense of what just happened and how he’s ended up in the position that he’s in. He’s thinking too much. Coriolanus Snow - always thinking himself stupid. And you're clearly not doing your job right if he’s still able to think after a session with you.

“Hey,” You murmur against his lips. Your hand frees his hair, trailing down his chest and stomach before gently cupping the prominent bulge in his pants. A shocked puff of breath exhales harshly against your lips. “Just go with it.”

“Are you trying to distract me?” He asks, lips brushing against yours with each word. “Keep me from studying so you can with the prize money for yourself?”

“Oh, honey,” You giggle. “We studied plenty today, didn’t we? And besides,” Nimble fingers slide up the smooth line of Coriolanus’s throat, curling around his jaw as you kneel up, angling his face up towards you as you gaze down at him. “You won’t forget a single thing you learned today after I’ve finished with you.”

Your fingers dig into his jaw as you press another head spinning kiss to his lips, completely obsessed with the way they mold against yours, soft and yielding against your demanding mouth. When you pull back, it’s with a wild heat in your eyes that you can see reflected in his own.

“Lie back,”

You watch in muted glee as he does, lying back flat against the sheets even as he scoots back further towards the center of the bed. Your legs move with him, following him back as you crawl over his sprawled out body, taking a small sip of wine as you settle on his hips. His cock pulses in its confines against you, pressed tightly against your soaked panties as you slowly rock your hips along the thick bulge. Pretty moans threaten to escape his lips, only muffled by sheer willpower to not open his mouth to let the sounds out to their fullest potential. His golden curls are unkempt, fanned out against your silk sheets like a halo, and you can’t help but think he looks like an angel like this.

An angel you can’t wait to ruin.

“Hold this for me, won’t you?” You say, pressing the wine glass into his hand. He grabs it as if on autopilot, holding it up prettily with the stem between his middle and ring finger, like a proper gentleman.

Impatient hands paw at his burgundy sweater, bunching the material up as far up as you can get it to reveal his long, skinny torso. Immediately, your mouth is on his skin, lips brushing lightly over his side, soft enough to tickle as they brush over the all too prominent ribs. You look up at Coriolanus, meeting his baby blues as he watches you kiss each individual bump along his side. His eyebrows are furrowed, lips parted as if wanting to say something, and you can only imagine the nonsense that could come out. He has to know that you know something’s up - normal, well-fed young adults don’t clearly have emaciated bodies like this. You have to admit, he’s done an admirable job at keeping the Snow family misfortune under the radar, but you’re not about to let his pride and ego get in the way of you and your prize.

“It’s learning by association, right?” You say, cutting him off before he can form his excuse. You lick a long stripe across his belly, his very flat belly - warm breath fanning across the wet path as you pull back to speak again. “We’re in the classroom, right? And you’re stumped on a question. So you’ll look over the balcony and down one row to the left, where I sit, and see me sitting there all pretty and hard at work,”

Coriolanus lets out a shuttering sigh when you scoot further down his body, pressing another gentle kiss just to the right of his belly button. “You’ll stare at my glossed up lips, all shiny and tempting in the light, imagining them pressed against yours,” Another kiss to the opposite side. “And you’ll remember the date the Treaty of Treason was signed into effect.”

“F-fuck,” Coriolanus whines as you hold his hips, using your grip to keep him steady as you trail your kisses lower and lower towards the waistband of his pants. His cheeks are so flushed, red flaming at the pale skin even as he drags his hand over his face. He’s trying to hide - how adorable.

“You’ll remember the various ecological disasters that brought about the creation of Panem everytime you think about my tits,” You continue, nibbling along his jutting hip bone. You draw a playful heart on his skin with the tip of your tongue. “About how soft and perfect they are,”

Your eyes drop down to the bulge straining in his pants, the dark material only made darker by the wet spot on them made from your own juices.

“The five major economic benefits to a split District-Capitol government will pop into your mind whenever you think about how I tasted on your tongue,” Coriolanus moans desperately when you lick across his clothed erection, hips jerking despite your hold.

Excitement fills your chest as you work the front of his pants open, quick fingers easing the zipper down over the thick bulge and working his gorgeous, gorgeous, oh so gorgeous cock free from its prison. You’ve waited a long time for this moment, and your greedy eyes don’t let it go to waste.

His cock is every bit as magnificent as you knew it would be. It stands tall and hard, thick with the head already coated with precum as it springs out and slaps against his belly. He’s going to fill you up so good, fill you up until you’re so full you think you might just burst from it. You want it. You want it so badly that you almost hate that you’re going to make yourself wait for it.

His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, body just barely trembling enough with nerves that you're able to see it through your own distraction. Your fingers sneak their way towards him, loving the way both Coriolanus and his cock twitch at the feel of your fingers wrapping around the heated length.

“And when you need to remember which US states combined to make up the districts,” You breath, head lowering down, your breath fanning across his weeping tip. “Just think of my mouth sucking on your pretty cock.”

The sound he makes when your lips wrap around the head of his cock makes you want to laugh. It’s pathetic, a high-pitched gasp that rips from his throat as his back arches against the bed. But the taste of his precum coating your taste buds as you suckle on the reddened tip has you distracted. He tastes so good, so much better than you think is fair. He already invades your thoughts and dreams with his too pretty face and better-than-you attitude - he doesn't need to taste as good as he does on top of everything now that you’ve finally got him.

There’s a moment when you consider reaching over to grab a spoonful of the whipped cream still sitting on the now forgotten tray. The food isn’t for you, it’s a means to an end - but there’s a part of you that can’t help but want to see what it looks like smeared against Coriolanus’s cock. You can picture it in your mind already, the flushed tip just barely hidden under the dollop of cream, the heated skin melting the topping just enough for it to start dripping down the sides of his cock before you can lick it all up.

You don’t do it, not willing to part with the much tastier treat you’ve won. Your mouth stays happily in its place as you work your way further down his length, humming as his cock slides across your tongue and brushes the back of your throat. The sounds trying to erupt from him make you suck harder, sucking in your cheeks as you bob your head, tongue laving across the underside of his cock with each up and down motion, greedy to get its fill. His hand clasps over his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to muffle his moans of pleasure. A pang of irritation zips through you at the thought that even as he’s giving into you - giving you what you’ve always wanted - he’s still being a stubborn asshole and keeping you from fully enjoying your success.

Those sounds are yours. They belong to you. You deserve to hear each and every adorably pathetic whine and gasp that creeps its way up his throat.

You’ve earned them.

He’s trying, he really is, but even his palm can’t keep his tortured groan quiet when you press down just a little too deep, nose aiming for that soft patch of golden curls at the base of his cock but not quite making it there as your throat spasms around him - choking and gagging around the thick length as you use it to bully your own airway.

Thick strands of saliva connect your mouth to his cock even as you pull off. Your hand strokes to make up for your missing mouth as you lean up, only pausing to press a couple of teasing kisses to the underside of the swollen head as you go.

“Open your eyes,” You demand, waiting for him to comply before slowly teasing the tip of your tongue along the slit on the top, just to watch his eyelashes flutter as his pretty eyes roll back. The sight makes you grin, the smug pull of your lips present even as you sit up, hips straddling his thighs as you perch yourself up.

Your nipples are so hard, pebbled and begging for his attention. You wish he could read your mind right now, so he would know to reach out and grab at them - squeeze your breasts in his large hands, message them and play with the tightened buds between his clever fingers. You wish he would pull on them, twist them enough to make you gasp and arch your back, and you’d reward him with tightening your grip on his cock, wrist twisting your palm around his tip in mimic of his own action.

He doesn’t, of course, hand still clamped over his mouth like it is. Still muffling those pretty, clit-throbbing sounds that belong to you.

Your right hand slides around his cock, using the copious amounts of saliva you left behind as a lube, spreading the wetness around his pulsing length and getting it nice and slick. His wet cock glistens in the overhead light of your bedroom, and, honestly - you never thought a cock could look so beautiful. Your other hand reaches out to grab Coriolanus’s wrist, yanking his hand away from his mouth so you can hear his sounds, undisturbed, as you jerk him off.

“Stop that,” You hiss when he tries to pull his wrist from your grip. “Don’t hide them. Wanna hear you. Wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

“Ah-hmm,” he moans, wrist ripping from your grip. But he listens, and rather than going back to cover his mouth, his fingers twist into the silk sheets instead, bunching them up in his fist as he watches you with wild eyes.

“Yeah, there we go,” You coo, fist stroking over his hot flesh as you work him faster. There’s a pearl of precum beading up on the tip of his cock, more pushing out the tighter you squeeze each time your fist gets to the top. Wet, slick sounds fill the room in time with your strokes, his pleasured moans cutting through the wet noises like a lewd symphony. “So much better, right?”

His thighs shake underneath you, hips stuttering and trying to buck up into your hold but the prison of your body weight on his thighs keep them pinned down. His moans turn into helpless blabbering - a endless string of ‘oh fuck, y/n, please, fuck, fuck–’.

The sound of him moaning your name sends a new gush of wetness into your already soaked panties. Your neglected clit aches for you to rub it, to grind the swollen nub on his thigh for relief - you think another wet spot on the dark trousers would look perfect.

You double down on your stroking instead, your other hand curling around his hip to keep it pressed against the mattress as your hand speeds up on his cock. Every time the wetness making him slick starts to dry up, you add more, leaning down just a bit to let another long line of saliva fall from your wet lips and onto the red flushed tip of his cock.

He’s so loud. The visual of you spitting on his cock is just way too much for his poor, inexperienced self to handle. The sounds coming out of his mouth are pure filth - hot and stomach clenching as you grin in satisfaction. It makes sense, you think. He’s loud and confident at the Academy, boisterous in his achievements as he speaks with a fake humility. It makes sense that he would be loud in the bedroom, unable to keep his voice down as he moans and whines like a slut.

“So loud, baby,” You tease. The hand gripping his hip finds the forgotten food tray, two fingers dipping into the almost empty chocolate sauce bowl. “You’re distracting me. Shh,”

Your fingers press into his open mouth, his lips automatically closing around your digits with a whimper. He sucks the chocolate off of your fingers like a good boy, eyes wide and wet making him look like he’s on the verge of tears. You want it. Want that push that’s going to make those pretty eyes spill out waterfalls over his flaming cheeks.

Just a little more.

Your hand moves faster on his cock, fist focusing cruelty on the top half of his shaft, palm twisting over the sensitive head with each stroke. The fingers in his mouth push back further and he gags, body jolting from the gag even as he moans around them again. The remaining wine in the glass sloshes from his jolt, but the crystal stays clasped between his fingers.

And there they are: twin trails running from his red rimmed eyes. You coo at him while the overwhelmed tears become victims to gravity. Instead of trailing down his cheeks like in the image in your head, one trails across his temple and soaks into his hairline while the other pools up along the side of his nose - and your empty, aching hole clenches tightly around nothing at the sight.

His cock throbs in your hand, hot and heavy as it twitches in the tight cage of your fingers, pretty red tip coated in a mixture of precum and spit disappearing and reappearing with each quick stroke of your fist. Fuck, you want it inside you so badly, want to feel him stretching you out. You’d make him cum within two seconds of being inside you, your pussy is just that magical. So warm and tight and perfect that men just can’t control themselves when they get inside of you - or so you’ve experienced with the other Academy boys who you’ve deemed worthy enough (although just barely) to have their moment with you. Poor pretty boy Coriolanus wouldn’t stand a chance. Frankly you’re shocked he’s even lasted as long as he has. You thought he might shoot his load in his pants while eating you out, although you’re glad he didn’t or this current playtime would have been unfortunately halted.

He’s so close, just a hair away from falling apart in front of your eyes. And you’re so hungry - so hungry for him.

The whines are muffled around your invading fingers, but they’re a constant now, no time wasted between them as he babbles around your fingers. The words come out garbled, but they sound a lot like ‘I’m gonna cum, please, please, fuck’. So you giggle, light and airy as you breathe, “Go ahead, baby. Cum for me,”

You don’t want to stop touching him. It’s addicting, making him moan and cry for you with just a few practiced strokes from your hand. You’d never stop if it was up to you. But your hand stops stroking his cock the second his eyes roll back into his head, just keeping a firm grip on the base to keep it still even as his body shakes. His cock twitches for a second, reddened head glistening before the first spurts of his release shoot out of the tip. They travel far, dirtying his stomach and splattering the smooth pale skin with white, some even making it as high up as his ribs, just barely missing the burgundy of his sweater. He cries around your fingers and you're sure the lack of stimulation is absolutely killing him. But he made you wait. He made you stress and work hard and put in effort just to get him. He needs to be punished for his crimes against your ego and libido.

He’s so pretty though, so so fucking gorgeous it makes you sick, and your willpower has just about been all used up. You stroke up his twitching length again, working him through the tail end of his orgasm, fist tightening and twisting at the top to milk out any lingering cum from the swollen tip. He’s still whimpering when you pull your fingers from his mouth, those same wet fingers moving to steal the glass from his hand, your eyes locking onto his as you finish the rest of the sweet drink in one last long victorious gulp.

Both of his hands find their way to you as his orgasm comes to an end, clutching at your thighs as the pleasure subsides but your movements don’t. He tries to push your hand away with a tortured groan, the stimulation becoming too much too quickly, but you easily slap it away. He’s weak, poor pathetic baby is too weak to make you stop - bones like jelly and brain still malfunctioning, no doubt. So you take advantage of all he’s worth even as you remove the circle of your fingers from around his cock and switch to palming the oversensitive flesh where it sits against his stomach.

“Ha- fuck, y/n, s-stop p-please,”

Your hand finally leaves his cock, choosing instead to wrap gently around his throat. Stop, he says? No. There’s no stopping now that you finally have him.

“You want me to back off the Plinth Prize, Coryo?” You rasp. “You’re gonna have to earn it,”

#𝑇𝑎𝑙 𝑊𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠 ✎#coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus smut #coriolanus x reader smut #coriolanus x reader #tw: dubcon #tw: dubious consent

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 4 months

Text

cw: angry (unprotected) sex, afab reader, ungodly amount of tension, some dirty talk. you’re fucking viktor after a fight with him. that’s it. pretty much plotless — just some poetic filth written on a whim (well, i tried, at the very least). very, and i mean very poorly proofread — but i’ll fix that a bit later.

word count: 1850~

“Fuck you.”

It’s a clumsy, uncoordinated thing — hissed through gritted teeth and suffocatingly stinging exhales — a threat you spat out with the sole purpose of poisoning, of mingling gall with thick saliva and shoving it down that pretty throat, secretly aiming for the heart instead; if only he possessed such a thing, that is.

The arrogant prick pants into the havoc of tangled tongues and bleeding bottom lips, the inviting stretch of his mouth utterly helpless against the sharpness of tortuous canines — you’ve crossed the line where a kiss turns into a bite, choking each other with liquid sounds and gawky clashes of teeth.

He grins into the sweet heat of you, forces a wheeze out of what feels like the very depth of your lungs, and a pair of narrow hips nails a resonant snap into the pliant curve of your ass.

“No,” he shakes that irritatingly wise head, “no, I suppose— ah,— that’s my job.”

Damp foreheads press against each other in an angry search of proximity, eager fingers gagged to crawl under his scalp, pulling at those disheveled strands with desperation — as if trying to find an entrance into Viktor’s very brain — to rearrange it in whatever way he does it to your guts and dignity.

The handfuls of you — well, the weight of one breast and still burning under his handprint hip, to be precise — were melting. He reduced your body to a hundred sensitive pieces, demerging something whole and coherent you were presenting before he first had you in his damned bed. He dragged you in, acquaintening with exceptional filth he’s capable of producing — and you hated just how much better having his mouth on you felt than shutting it in ways that involved rivalry.

“Oh, save it,” you lick the metallic taste of him off the sharp angle of his chin — tongue wiping a glistening stripe in a rush to destroy the tiny evidence of your a little overly enthusiastic nibble, but Viktor — oh this utterly revengeful creature — brings a cruel palm to the smaller of your back, demanding you bend in half for him. Demanding you drown your face in the pillow as he fucks from behind; sweetly humiliating and sloppily hard — it’s the kind of sex making you arch in whatever ways you can manage. And so your spine forms just that delicious curve, slightly changing the angle of penetration — and Viktor moans a quiet curse, somehow pulled even deeper into the divine warmness of your pretty cunt, tip buried so deep inside it you might have to arch even more — to avoid the not so pleasant experience of it roughly slamming against your cervix.

His thrusts are precise; well-aimed enough to benefit from that slight curve of his cock, had your spite for him drooling onto the sheets, each moan sweeter than the previous one. He stiffens for a split second; most likely to reposition the sore knee into a softer gap of the mattress, and you whine at the loss of him, hips wiggling backwards in a needy seek of his girth. Involuntary vulnerability — all squints, and flushed cheeks, and threatening ‘pleases’ — the embodiment of impatience.

He laughs. He fucking laughs, letting a sly hand crawl under you, then dive in between widely parted thighs, and his fingers snake down your navel, travelling lower, preciser, filthier — just where you throb for them, just where you need assistance to collapse boneless onto the mattress. It’s a compromise, of sorts — an apology to your abandoned for a few minutes clit, and you’re shamefully thankful for it, awarding Viktor with a single, reluctant ‘yes’.

“My, such impressive… eagerness. I almost feel flattered,” Viktor quips, but a jab earns him just a single furious glance thrown over your shoulder. “I wonder just how frustrated you’d get if I were to leave you unsatisfied.”

You scoff. “That would be an ultimate guide for never sleeping with me again.”

That lie is half-assed, unconvincing. Your tongue betrays you — oh that pathetic excuse of a nimble muscle; and you decide to quit relying on it for verbiage in his bed. And his desk. And his workshop. Though that part required reticence nonetheless. Both in moans and semantics.

Viktor doesn’t comment on the treacherous stumble of your words or the pitifully quivering delivery. You’re gagging to note that he’s losing his grip, but he proves you wrong — letting two deft hands grab your waist, then sinking back into you. No, his grip is as sturdy as ever — digging into your skin, pulling closer, sliding inside with ease; cunt an embarrassingly wet mess wrapped around him tight enough to strangle.

He’s a quick learner — even quicker now that he has to keep up with you, to chase the frantic pace you’re setting, to not get too distracted with the waves roaming all over the skin of your ass whenever it hits his pelvis, offering a delicious view of just how perfectly you swallow him to the hilt.

“Are you threatening me, miláčku?” he’s chasing your skin like a man starved to death — desperate to lick, to touch, to devour, chest falling flat on your back — narrow, and flushed, and sweatslick, ribs digging under the space of each one of your shoulder blades. It’s a cry for proximity — a literal one, vibrating against the nape of your neck when he sharply thrusts forward, hips jerking upwards to become one with you, rapidly trembling fingers circling your clit hard enough for it to be sweetly sore in the morning.

“Ah— Yes,” you gasp, abandoning your attempt to master a dangerous enough warning, “yes, I am threatening you.”

“I see,” it comes out of him choked up — almost equally breathless to your pathetically rushed outburst. “Then I shall refrain from — mh,— tormenting you. I would grow quite miserable if you decided to rid me of sojourning my favorite place in the world.”

Your fucked out brain short-circuits, clearly reduced to its most primitive state; you’re going to cum and you need to dig your fingers into something — anything, eyes roaming all over the messy bed, choosing your victim — but your options are limited either to tangled sheets or a handful of Viktor’s hair. You instantly pick the latter — just as eager to touch him, to ignore the sharp angle your arm caught when it reached for him, grabbing the back of his neck and pressing his face to yours, thick eyelashes tickling your damp temple. It’s a distorted position; all contorted limbs and pre-orgasm spasms — can’t have him pounding you from behind and licking into his mouth in the meantime; but it doesn’t stop you from at least trying. You turn your head to whatever extent possible, pulling at the havoc of dark hair, struggling to cage his tongue into the sweet lock of your lips.

“What- What did you just say?” your tone is demanding; urgent. You’re almost halfway through your climax, and he knows it — feels it when you clench around him hard and tight, lavish slick drying between parted thighs.

“I- I meant… you. My favourite place in the world is… inside you. And I would hate to upset you in any, ah, way—” but you don’t listen past that part. Oh no, you don’t let that man ruin you any further — which, at this point, would be beyond recognition — and your tongue attempts to crawl into his mouth again, fingers tangling a rough tug into a handful of chestnut strands.

“Kiss me,” you plead, hot and breathless against his lips — a sloppy thing, open mouthed and trembling. “Viktor, please, kiss me.”

The last syllable rolls off your tongue straight into his throat — Viktor is at your whim even before you managed to form that request, suckling swells into your bottom lip with an occasional whimper — shy and gentle, just so utterly him — arousingly subtle, flavourful, nimble. Heavy on the nimble part, since the mere presence of him in your mouth helped you capture your undoing — beautifully clumsy; wet hot pleasure running down shaky legs — a mess of arching hips, pretty foreign swears and swollen under the thorough touch of his fingers clit. He broke you like he was made for it, vowing to never stop, to never let that weary wrist pressed above your clit rest — you’ve deemed him worthy of being the one whose cock you cum around, and Viktor — so intelligent, incorrigible, yours — would never waste such a privilege.

He does, however, regret his greediness when his own orgasm impatiently reminds him of its approach. It had him moaning your name almost deep enough to sound devastated — and that he was, in a way, uttering one last hissy curse into that bruising kiss before abruptly pulling out, frantic fingers rushing to be wrapped around his width. Your vision — blurry, incompetent and drunk on bliss — still allowed you a pretty view of him pumping that throbbing cock, its heaviness palpable on your lower back even in this state of divine afterglow.

He came to the sight of you — still bent over, half-lidded, ruined. Painted your skin in his release yet still stared at you in the most beautiful awe ever, amber eyes radiating complete devotion — so sweet and picturesque, cheeks the softest shade of pink as he cried, cumming on your pretty back — a pair of hot tears rolling down his face as you let him pour himself on your very body.

Rushed, unexpected climaxes — one might even assume they probably lacked in gentleness. And perhaps they would have — if only it weren’t Viktor you’re fucking tonight; hands just as tender as they’re exhaustive. He collapses beside you — still careful, invariably contemplative, gaze needled into your face looking for any signs of remaining anger; touch explorative, approbatory. Lazily slipping underneath you and pulling closer, inviting into a loose knot of limbs — and you allow it, letting your hand wander to languidly count his ribs, then stopping to deliver an occasional tickle.

He hums and tucks you under his chin. Probably hinting at truce. A temporary one, at least.

“I’m still mad at you though,” you decide to inform him, letting a curious index finger press into his dark nipple — earning yourself a quick yawn and a crooked little smile.

“Hm, are you really?” he insists — the ever attentive devil, always catching that particular tremble of your words. He did a great job in fucking you stupid and now demanded you admit it: the fight is over, you’re appeased and completely witless.

But you don’t budge. Not this time. You’re not any less vengeful and always so persistent on dragging the cheekiness out of him — either with fighting or with fucking. Both were equally entertaining nonetheless.

“Yes. Really,” you finally reply, submitting to the chain reaction and yawning back, rubbing the watering eyes with a free from pinching at Viktor’s chest hand.

“Hm, how inconvenient. In that case, I must’ve failed as a lover.”

“How so?”

“Well, my only intentions were to leave you senseless enough to forget about the incident. And, well, since you’re still perfectly capable of being spiteful—“

“How about you shut up before I smother you in your sleep?”

#viktor arcane #viktor smut #viktor x reader smut #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #no beta we die like men

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oswildin · 10 days

Text

I Hate You {Loki x GN!Reader}

Summary: Loki hates you. Or does he?

A/N: Avengers AU, mentions of ‘damsel in distress’ but no gender specifics or use of ‘y/n’

Warnings: Mentions of blood/injury

“Absolutely not-“

“No way-“

“Me with them?”

“Us?”

“Wouldn’t work-“

“Never in a million years-“

“I refuse to be on a mission-“

“-with him.” “-with them.”

Well, unfortunately for you, Fury didn’t give a rats ass that you and Loki did not get along. No, he expected professionalism and success. And that was hard when it came to Loki. He made everything so… difficult. He was arrogant, smug, annoying, grating and, quite frankly, a drama queen. Every mission he had been sent on had something happen - usually because of his penchant for mischief. He also deliberately did things around the compound to irritate you.

For example, the other morning he used your favourite mug, feigning naivety about the fact, labelling it an ‘innocent mistake’. But you knew better. And the glint of mirth in his eye when he said it told you all you needed to know. He also enjoyed moving your things - yes, you should know better than to leave your phone or keys or other items laying around in the common area, but at the same time, you were grown adults. In fact, he was over 1000 years old. Completely childish.

“Sounds like Rudolf has a crush.” Tony had said.

Ridiculous.

You hated each other. And Loki made that clear. He’d also often start arguments, especially in front of the others. Natasha suggested maybe he just enjoyed getting a rise out of you, or that he was trying to cover the fact that he did in fact like you. But you knew better than that. No, Loki Laufeyson just saw you as an easy target, knew you would react. It was entertainment for the God.

But anyway, the mission.

You both had been sent to a rather large warehouse, an underground arms dealer had been storing weapons there - of both alien and human nature. You’d both split up, entering from each end of the warehouse, covering both sides. Of course, you were met with guards, which you swiftly dealt with.

“You know, if you need a hand-“ Loki’s voice came through your earpiece, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Focus on yourself, Laufeyson.” You huffed, rolling your eyes as you began to venture further into the warehouse. “I don’t need your help.”

“Very well. Continue with your brute force.”

“It isn’t ’brute force’, it’s called combat.”

“Of course, my mistake.”

Asshole.

He knew what he was doing. You could envision the amusement on his sharp features, the glint of smug mirth in his blue eyes. God, he was so annoying.

“‘My mistake’ my ass.” You muttered, pursing your lips as you began to survey the area.

“I can still hear you.”

You paused for a moment, before clearing your throat. “Good.” You retorted, raising a brow. “Then you can hear how I don’t appreciate you downplaying my abilities in this mission.”

“I never said such a thing.”

“Just focus on the mission.”

“I can do both at the same time. I’m rather talented at multitasking-“

“Loki-“ You hissed, frustration mounting with your partner. The God went quiet, probably to bask in his small victory of winding you up. You rounded the corner of a large shelving unit, seeing a load of crates, clearly ready to be shipped off to whoever. You had to admit, it was strange it was easier than anticipated. You’d expected far more guards and security… No, something was off.

Approaching the crates, you pried the lid off one, seeing it was empty. You furrowed your brows, moving to another, doing the same. Empty.

“Shit.” You whispered.

One more.

Prying open another crate, what you were met with made your heart stutter in your chest.

“Loki, get out.” You told him lowly through the comms, letting out a breath as you quickly turned on your heel. “It’s a trap, they knew we were coming- Just get out!” You urged, beginning to run.

“What? What did you find?”

“An explosive, now move!” You exclaimed, legs sprinting away from the crates, the explosive device.

You had ten seconds.

Loki’s expression turned serious, brows creasing, lips turning into a thin line as your voice came through his earpiece. He cursed under his breath, feeling panic creep up on him. You were a mortal, yes, a competent one at that but still a mortal.

“I’m coming.” Loki spoke into his earpiece, turning to head your direction, despite your warning.

“No- Loki, just go!” Your frustrated, slightly panicked, voice came through.

“Too late.” He quipped back, speeding up his long strides. However, before he could hear your voice argue back, the loud sound of the explosion sounded from the opposite end of the large warehouse, shaking its foundations. Loki let out a breath, eyes wider than before. You hadn’t told him how long he had, you had. He felt fear grip him. He called your name through the comms, breathing turning slightly heavier. When he didn’t get a response, a shiver went through him. His long legs began to sprint, forgetting completely about the mission. He had to get to you. By the Norns, he hoped you were okay.

Yes, it was true. He did annoy you. He loved winding you up, he loved when you got angry, when you snapped at him, gave him attention. Maybe it was childish, but it was his default. Any attention was good attention, and oh, how he vied for yours specifically. It was also partly that he just… didn’t know how to get your attention any other way. He wasn’t exactly… Well versed in… Romance. Sure, he’d read novels, but it was very difference in practice. Especially as the God of Mischief.

“Say something!” Loki exclaimed through his earpiece, a command and a plea.

However, nothing.

His heart, yes - of course he had one, beat faster. Anxiety. Fear. Adrenaline. It was all coursing through his veins. Smoke began to appear, thick and fog like as he summoned a blast of magic, dispelling it with a wave of his hand, allowing him to clear a path. The roof of the warehouse had partially caved from the explosion, rubble and debris ahead littering the ground and shelving units. He called your name again, and again.

You groaned as your brows creased, feeling a pain in your leg as you tried to sit up. You winced, glancing down to see a large metal beam had landed on your right leg, holding you down. Cursing under your breath, you heard the sound of your name being called through the sound of your ears ringing.

Loki.

“H-“ You coughed. “Here-“ You called back, voice raspy. “Over here!” You raised your voice slightly, forcing yourself to sit up, dust and dirt covering your form. After a moment, footsteps rushed towards you, clambering over the rubble as you looked up. Loki’s blue eyes instantly travelled over your form, looking for any injuries, before they landed on the beam and your leg.

“It’s okay- I’m going to get you out of here, alright?” Loki spoke calmly, despite his breaths being quicker than usual. You assumed it was from running. In fact, it was his panic. “I need to lift this-“ Loki shifted, rubble moving under his boots as he approached the beam. Luckily, it weighed nothing for a God. You winced as the pressure lifted from your leg, hearing the beam clatter loudly to the floor as Loki discarded it.

“You need to tell Fury-“ You began, slightly wheezy, moving to try and hoist yourself up. Loki’s brows furrowed.

“Forget about that-“ He told you firmly.

“Loki, SHIELD need to know-“ You argued, feeling his hand grab your shoulder to keep you on the ground.

“No, we need to get you outside and help-“ He rebutted, making you groan in irritation.

“Why can’t you just listen to me for once?!” You huffed, looking at him angrily.

“Because right now, you are more important than the mission!” Loki’s own voice raised, his words hanging in the air between you both. You blinked. “You’re hurt and you’re mortal-“

“Really? Throwing cheap shots at a time like this-“ You said defensively, moving to try and shove his hand from your shoulder. Loki let out an irritated growl.

“No! It’s because I care about you!��

Silence.

“What?” You whispered, lips parted in shock. Loki closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath.

“I…” He sighed. “I care… about you.” He murmured, meeting your gaze, searching - looking for any sign of understanding, recognition, something. “And… I know- I know I may not… show it in a… conventional manner-“ You almost scoffed. “But please, let me get you outside and then we can deal with Fury.” He held your gaze, nodding faintly, willing you to accept his words, accept his help. He truly, just wanted you to be okay. Your eyes flickered briefly down to your leg, seeing the red beginning to stain your mission gear as you felt your muscle throbbing. You didn’t think anything was broken, but a gash was a gash. It could get infected, it could be worse than it looked…

Silently, you gave a small nod. You swore you heard Loki let out a breath - yes, he had been holding it, waiting with bated breath for your agreement. “Right-“ He muttered quietly, shifting to get closer, kneeling down. “Arm over my shoulders-“ He told you lowly. “This may be… uncomfortable.” He warned before moving one arm around your waist, another under your knees, shifting your injured leg as you bit your lip to stop from making any sound of pain. “Okay?” He asked, eyes scanning your features, seeing the way you were biting your lower lip. You quickly nodded, giving him a look that said ‘hurry up, please’. Loki’s blue eyes shifted, softening, hating seeing you in pain.

It was strange. Seeing such a look from the God of Mischief, whose eyes were usually home to mirth. He cared about you. Tony’s words echoed in your head. Had Loki truly… had feelings for you this whole time? And like some… school boy had been showing his ‘affection’ by… teasing you? Testing you? Being irritating to get your attention?

Your thoughts were disrupted as Loki finally moved, hoisting you up with him as he stood to his full height, keeping you securely against his chest as he carried you bridal-style. The urge to make a quip about not being a ‘damsel in distress’ lingered on your tongue. Loki gently carried you, trying his best not to cause any further harm or pain to your leg.

“You really care about me?” Your voice finally spoke, breaking the silence that had lingered between you both since his confession. Loki’s lips parted, as if he was about to deny it - out of instinct. The quickly pressed together again.

“Is now really the time?” He asked lowly, raising a brow. “You’re bleeding, and I’d rather you didn’t get blood on my attire. It’s Asgardian leather.” He commented, lips quirking ever so slightly as he watched your eyes roll.

“For Gods-“ You muttered. “Put me down if you’re gonna be an asshol-“

“Okay, alright-“ He cut you off, sighing. “Fine.” He huffed, clearing his throat as he headed towards the entrance you’d first entered the warehouse in, deftly avoiding any debris that was strewn about on the floor. “Yes-“ He said, tone still huffy. “I thought that was obvious-“

“Obvious?!” You repeated in disbelief, the conversation helping take your mind off your wound. “You irritate me, do things to deliberately annoy me, argue with me-“

“You do the same.” He interrupted, tilting his head slightly as his gaze flickered over your face. Your lips parted in confusion and, almost, offence.

“No, I do not-“ You shook your head lightly.

“You do.”

“No- I don’t-“

“You’re doing it right now, arguing with me-“

“Because you started it!”

You both were outside by the time you’d finished, Loki still holding you as he came to a stop, a hint of a smirk on his face. “Yes, and you are always so intent on finishing it.” He quipped, making you narrow your eyes at him. “It’s extremely entertaining.” He shrugged slightly, your arm that was slung over his shoulders moving with him.

“Oh, well, I’m glad I could be of service.” You said wryly, turning your head to glance towards your leg. “I suppose I should thank you.” You mumbled reluctantly.

“Ah, yes-“ He nodded. “You really should.” He paused, raising a brow, feeling much better knowing you were okay. The fact you were arguing with him was a sign of that. “Perhaps you could buy me dinner?” He suggested, tone full of mischief. “There’s a lovely place just opened up in the city, Stark mentioned it-“

“You mean the five star, gourmet restaurant that costs an arm and a leg?” You scoffed.

“Seems fitting considering you nearly lost one.” He teased, making you raise your free hand, whacking him in the chest. “Ow!” He whined, brows furrowing, lips pursed. “Usually heroes get a kiss from the damsel in distress, not assaulted.”

“I hate you.”

“And I hate you.”

#loki #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki laufesyon x reader #loki imagine #loki fanfic #loki marvel #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #loki x you #l

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badpancakelol · 1 year

Text

The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting, Chapter 7: THE FUNERAL

It’s not. Enough time saved, that is, to contact El. By the time that they’re flipping into Eddie’s trailer, and Steve’s rushed to the phone to try and call the Byers’ household, the phone is still busy. The hope has been crushed and bled dry, dissipating into water in his chest.

(He doesn’t know why he thought it would work. The Byers’ phone was busy before they went down, there would be no reason for them to pick up after. Maybe it was foolhardy want, need, for this all to be over. For him to be a step closer to fixing things, a step closer to Eddie surviving).

— — —

Pre-loop Steve had come for Dustin’s sake. He had stood there, looking at the coffin as it was lowered, and Steve had rested a hand on his shoulder, on the too-big suit that bracketed his shoulders. It was a short affair. Wayne Munson hadn’t said any words, staring silently as Eddie was put to rest.

After, Dustin had approached Wayne, limping and tearful, and talked. Steve waited for him, a sick feeling in his chest as he watched the government personnel slowly file out into their slick black cars, faces blank. He remembers cursing them in his head. Looking at the way that they had so easily shifted blame, accountability, the way that they hadn’t even looked at Wayne or Dustin or the Hellfire Club.

Mike had missed it. Too far away to have come back in time, not even knowing until he had stepped onto Hawkins soil and convened with Dustin and Lucas. He had come with such a wide smile, because they had won, and El was able to stop Vecna, and Hopper was alive, and Nancy was okay. Steve had to watch as that smile had crumbled, the way that he shook his head, holding his head in his hands.

They had never liked each other, not fully. Maybe there was resentment from Mike for how Steve used to be, dickhole-ish and arrogant. But when he had watched him, eyes red and bottom lip quivering, Steve had pulled him close in his arms.

(He remembers how hard Mike had clutched Steve’s shirt. There was a mess of arms and warmth as Jonathan and Will and Dustin and Lucas and El had held them all, together, close, on the pavement).

— — —

Steve is the distraction with Eddie, once. Dustin had protested, but one look from Steve, hands on his hips, and he had followed Lucas and Max into the Creel House. Nancy had gone with Robin, and yeah, maybe it was morbid curiosity of the want to know what happened, to see, to feel, to be there in the last moments.

“You ready for the most metal concert of your life, Stevie?”

He knew that Eddie was going to die. But there was a smile on his face, a glee unmatched by anything that he had ever seen, just at the prospect of helping, of saving the town who hated him, and it made Steve want to crumble.

“Fuck yeah.”

They had lugged the amp up atop of the trailer, battery powered and max volume, Eddie had shredded. Steve kept count of the time, cheering and whistling. And when they only had seconds left before the bats arrived, they stumbled down the roof, clutching to the wire gate, out of breath and relieved.

There was a shine in his eyes that said we did it, and holy shit, and we’re alive. They had stood there, indulging, before Steve was reminded of the vents. But it was too late.

With no Dustin to boost up, they both run. Maybe it’s the terrified need to protect the girls in the house. Or the need to buy more time for the group not in the Upside Down. Or maybe it’s looking up at the gate and realising that the bats could fly through easily, that makes them bait the monsters.

They grab the bikes, going as fast as they can, looking back and looking forwards, stumbling and tumbling, before running again. Steve knows what happens next. Has lived through it, once, has known Eddie to die to it nearly every time.

The bats swarm. There’s a void of screeching and impossibly sharp fangs, tails whipping around at every each turn. Eddie brandishes his shield and spear, stabbing and ducking and crouching. They’re back to back when he says it, shouting over the noise, needing to be heard.

“If I’m gonna die, Harrington—”

“You’re not going to die!” It’s a reflex. A promise. A need.

“Well our chances are looking pretty fucking slim right now!”

A bat breaks off from the mass, tail reaching to drag Eddie back, but Steve is there to grab it and hurl it back to its group with a shout.

“I want to graduate!” Eddie shouts. “I want to have an apartment with two cats, I want to play another campaign! I want to tell my Uncle that I love him, and I want to fall in love!”

The bats tunnel at the top, trapping what little light existed in this world.

Eddie turns to him, smile slight, eyes wavering as he closes them, weapons discarded. “Your turn, Steve.”

It’s the first time that Eddie has used his name. Not Stevie, or Harrington, or any other nicknames. Just Steve. It hurts that much more, to be called his name, seen and hiding, in the moments before. He brings Eddie close, throwing his spear, watches as it disappears into the sea of monsters. Steve tucks Eddie’s head into his shoulder as he shouts and he pleads and begs.

“I want to see Robin happy, I want to prove my dad wrong. I want to swim in my pool, I want to sleep a full night!” His voice breaks and he knows that he’s crying. Can feel the tears roll off leather jackets and soak into denim vests. “I want to live!”

They’ve meshed so close together, bats closing in closer and closer before Steve can feel the beginnings of teeth gnawing on his ankle, or the sharp flap of claws. They hold each other as tails are wrapped around their necks, fingers bruising and hurting and holding, as they’re ripped apart.

He is the distraction with Eddie, once. They die alone, together, alone.

— — —

During The Longest Loop, there were two funerals. The one that Steve hadn’t gone to, constructed by suits to create easy getaways and conclusions for the families who laid wrecked and mourning. He had been through it once before, tired and hurt, and he didn’t want to go through it again.

The second funeral was Dustin’s idea. He had grown closer to Eddie’s uncle after his death, talking and sharing stories, reminiscing on the person he had been — the real person. Not the carefully moulded version that was presented to the public. Wayne had mentioned how he wanted a proper send off, say his goodbyes in peace.

It was more of a farewell party, if anything. At first, they had wanted to hold it at the Munson trailer, but had soon found that is was bordered off with yellow tape, people standing watch at all hour of the day. In the end, it was decided to be held at Steve’s house.

They had ordered pizza and sat outside under the night sky, and one by one they had told their stories about Eddie. The had laughed and they had cried, bringing trinkets and post-it notes, dice and love to a fire pit by the pool. And once they were all done, laid bare and open, wanting and finished, each item had been tossed into the fire.

Steve had heard about the way he would conduct Hellfire meets, his frantic and overly dramatic way of monologuing, smiling and laughing when his monstrous creations were defeated. He had learned of the time Eddie had cared for Wayne when he was sick, and the way that he opened his arms and his home to his friends.

Wayne had brought a handful of sticky notes from his trailer, scrawled and etched with Eddie’s handwriting. Simple things like “don’t forget to buy milk, fucker”, and “HELLFIRE MEET AT 5PM. DON’T BE LATE”, and “english test on monday :(”. There were the ramblings of lyrics, and misspelled words (“buy graduition garduation school ceremony clothes”), and it was just so Eddie that it made Steve want to cry.

It was cathartic, in a way.

Steve remembers the way that everyone filed out of his house, some staying in guest rooms and sleeping bags in the living room, and the way that he had stayed outside by the pit. He almost wanted to give up. To stay in this version of the loop forever, where people had gained closure, and told their stories, not knowing the truth, yes, but healing nonetheless.

With no one to witness by the trees of the woods and the burning stars, he had thrown one of Eddie’s pins into the fire, and with it, a promise to save him.

— — —

Steve asks for Eddie’s vest before it’s thrown in his face. He uses the exact words that are normally said to him (“For my modesty?”). There’s a part of him that revels in the way that Eddie’s face flushes under the red-blue of the sky. Feels content at the way hands or on his, guiding his arms through the denim.

“It looks better on you, anyway.” He had said, turning his face away, straightening the collar, hand brushing the back of Steve’s neck.

“Mhmmm. Maybe I should keep it, then?”

“You have a habit of stealing from the poor, Stevie?”

“Only from you, Eddie.”

— — —

His funeral is a constant. It’s a rushed amalgamation of government suits trying to push blame of the Vecna victims onto his dead body, brandishing him as a murderer to his grave. Steve lives through Eddie’s funeral three times: before the loop existed, in The Longest Loop, and now.

After the failed attempt at contacting El, Steve stops trying. Just for a couple loops, resting, thinking, planning. He stops and lets things happen, a voice in the back of his head telling him this is how it was always meant to be. El is too late, Max is in a coma, and Eddie dies.

(Somehow, between the fractures of guilt filling him in at the seams, he’s happy that Jason died this loop. Steve can’t imagine the shit show that would have occurred if he had been here, watching these people grieve).

Steve watches the silent tears of Wayne Munson as the empty coffin is lowered, ugly and raw, watches as Dustin places a Hellfire t-shirt on the wood. This time, the third time that Steve has attended Eddie’s funeral, he approaches Wayne.

“Eddie meant a lot to,” Me. He wants to say. “A lot of people. I know that he didn’t do what they’re saying he did, Mr Munson.”

Wayne nods, turning to look Steve. “You knew my boy well?”

He must find something within his eyes, see the distress and the days, the conversations that don’t exist anymore, knowledge that he should not have, because Steve is being pulled in close, arms around his shoulders.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve this. To cry over someone that he isn’t meant to know, to be able to seek comfort in others. There’s a blossoming of guilt, building and building. Steve can feel it in the way his hands shake, or the way his teeth ache in sorrow as he rests his head on Wayne’s shoulder and weeps.

— — —

“How did you know Eddie?”

Later, Dustin questions him. They had escaped to the empty halls of Steve’s house, sitting on the couch in the living room and, where Steve had held the kid until his breathing had evened out, and his eyes were drier.

“He never mentioned you, and every time I brought you up, Steve, he would be so weirded out at how you were no longer an asshole.”

“Hey, that feels a little unfair! I wasn’t even a dick to him!”

Dustin levels him with a look that Steve swears he has used on the kids before. He almost wants to dodge the question, or tell the teen about the loops and the impossible task of saving everyone that has been placed upon his shoulders, and his alone.

(He remembers the haunted look in Robin’s eyes as he had slipped into the pool. Steve decides that the kid’s been through enough).

“Trauma pulls people together. Going through all that shit with him in the Upside Down, and getting to know who he was, only for him to die?” Steve breathes. “It’s a lot.”

He’s known Eddie for so long, so little, of time, that it feels disingenuous. When Dustin starts telling Steve about him — stories of campaigns and lunch monologues and fake monsters — the overwhelming feeling of nothing that happened was real starts to take over.

#steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie x steve #steveddie #steddie #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #ao3 #ao3fic #my fic #The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting #Steve Harrington's Unwilling Time Loop Saga

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jackrrabbit · 3 years

Text

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #tw dubcon #tw sacrilege #tw christianity #overhaul #chisaki kai #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero imagines #my hero academia x reader #my hero imagines #boku no hero fanfic #smut

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words-writ-in-starlight · 3 years

Text

day 4: "do you trust me?"

(part one)

There are logistics to consider, when it comes to publicly executing a wizard. It’s a show of assurance from the Dynasty, to have him killed under the eyes of all Rosohna, to prove their strength, but also a risk. It looks unprofessional for a captured traitor to make a last stand within feet of the axe, even if all he achieves is going out in a blaze of glory rather than a quick drop of steel.

Steps have been taken to avoid this eventuality. Essek’s hands are shackled behind his back, forced into gloves with steel wires running through the fingers and palms to prevent even the smallest gesture. Between the cloth between his teeth and the metal muzzle holding his jaw tightly closed, he’s no closer to speaking a spell than he is to walking on the sun. Every fiber of his plain prisoner’s shirt and pants has been searched, twice, to ensure that he has nothing on him that might conceivably be used for casting.

Essek has seen this before, although rarely. It was not a surprise, when the appointed day arrived and his guards brought the restraints. Yet it feels unreal, as everything since his trial has felt unreal. As everything since Jester’s message has felt unreal. A dream, unspooling before him, outside his control.

There is a kind of ease to it, that Essek has never experienced before. There is nothing left for him to do. He made his attempt to run, and he failed. He said his words of defense at his trial, and they were not enough. And now, they will use the same techniques that he helped to perfect to drag him to the block and kill him for his treason, his callous disregard for all the lives lost in the war. All neat and tidy, and all he has to do is let the current carry him forward to the inevitable end.

He tells himself, as the gloves are locked onto his hands, that this is one of the better possible outcomes, and he even believes it. His friends, his family—they are not here. Jester has done as she agreed, giving him time to resolve the situation, and hasn’t messaged him since his trial. The Nein are well outside the possible radius of destruction that Essek has caused, in his arrogance and carelessness. He knows his actions will reflect poorly on Den Thelyss, but he hopes that Verin might escape with a mere demotion, as unscathed as anyone could hope to be, protected by Essek’s full, willing confession.

It’s worth it, to pay for their lives with his own.

Essek believes this. He believes it with his whole heart.

The gloves keep his hands from shaking.

Two guards, a goliath with her arms tattooed so densely she looks scaled and a burly half-orc with skin nearly as grey as the stone walls, haul him to his feet in his cell and push him forward. They hold him up by main force when he stumbles and he would otherwise take a head-first fall into the stone. Nonetheless, his pride prickles and burns when the half-orc yanks him upright after his latest near-fall, grip hard on the collar of Essek’s shirt, and snorts a laugh.

“Can’t believe he’s the fucking traitor,” the half-orc says over Essek’s head, drawling the words in a tone full of vindictive amusement that Essek has become regrettably familiar with, lately. “Fucker can’t even walk in a straight line. Can you, Shadowhand?” He gives Essek a sharp cuff on the shoulder to punctuate the insult, and it’s only because Essek has a sense of how this goes by now that he manages to anticipate the blow and stay on his feet.

The goliath laughs, a rolling rumble of thunder as she checks Essek hard with her hip, sending Essek into the corner of the next corridor hard enough that he’d have a bruise, if he lived long enough for it to show up.

“You’re telling me,” the goliath says. “Goddamn, wizards are useless once you get ‘em quiet, huh? Up this way next, what is this, your first time down here?”

“You’ve got to do a pretty good job, but yeah, pretty much just decorative once you shut ‘em up.” The half-orc grabs the cuff holding Essek’s hands together and tugs to indicate the next corridor, ignoring the way it forces Essek up onto his toes against the pain in his shoulders. “I just got in from Jigow,” he continues, as if Essek isn’t even there. “Y’know how it is, they were looking to cover y’all’s staffing problems since this bastard’s confession did a real number on things. Anywhere good to get a drink around here?”

“Thought you looked new,” the goliath said. “You trying to get lucky, new guy?”

“Hey, miss every shot you don’t take,” the half-orc said, sly, angling a glance up at her. “How’s my progress?”

“Depends on how much you spend on those drinks. Hold him, I’ll get the gate.”

The half-orc’s hands close firmly around the tops of Essek’s arms, holding him in place as the goliath strides ahead. In front of her—in front of Essek—is the great gate to the courtyard, and beyond it he can hear the roar of a crowd, bloodthirsty and victorious.

He can picture it. He’s put people here himself, attended executions for treason. The flagstones, smooth and dark beneath the crowd of witnesses. The stone dias with the Bright Queen’s throne, the chairs beside her for close advisors and other nobility. His mother might have been there, if he hadn’t so recently destroyed the reputation of Den Thelyss. And at the center, where all could see, the stairs, and the platform, and the block, and the axe.

The goliath is at the door, and the lock clatters, metal-on-metal.

Under cover of the noise, the half-orc lowers his head and speaks into Essek’s ear, no longer the careless drawl, but quick, clipped words in a familiar accent.

“I don’t have time to explain,” the half-orc murmurs in Fjord’s voice, so quiet that Essek would think it was a hallucination if he couldn’t feel the air move against his skin. “We have a plan. Do you trust me?”

Essek’s first response isn’t relief. It’s not even shock. It is pure, undiluted, blazing rage, that, after all this, these fucking morons are here. It hits him so hard that his skin burns with it, his vision spotting black at the edges, lips twisting against his gag. All at once, for the first time in a week, Essek is awake, jarred back to the present by the fury pounding through his veins. He can feel the air rushing into his throat, the hammering of his heart against his ribs, every fiber of his coarse prisoner’s clothing and every imperfection of the stone under his bare feet.

Fortunately, Essek has been a traitor in the heart of the Dynasty for too long to let it slow him down, and he nods, once, minutely.

“Okay,” Fjord breathes. “She’s going to open that door. When I yell, make a run for it.”

Once upon a time, Essek would have spent valuable time thinking about how astronomically terrible that plan is, but prolonged exposure to the Mighty Nein teaches a person to accept the reality of a plan being terrible right away and move on to thinking about managing the terrible plan quickly. And—

Even if it was the worst conceivable plan, even if it was—well, make a run for it, when there’s a sword-wielding goliath between him and the outside, which is entirely populated by guards, magic users, and a crowd that wants him dead—even then, Essek can’t imagine turning down the offer. It’s not exactly a port in a storm, but it’s something.

Essek is twenty paces from his own death, and even if this plan just ends with him having a friend at his side while he dies, it’s already better than dying alone. He never claimed to have entirely cured himself of selfishness.

And besides, Essek reassures himself as the goliath shoulders open the door. If this gets Fjord killed too, Essek will just have to find a way to drag himself back from death and throttle the entire Nein on principle. Stranger things have happened.

The door creaks open, and Fjord’s hands loosen, just slightly, and Essek runs.

“Fucker!” Fjord roars behind him, sounding breathless—pained? It buys Essek a bare moment to close the distance to the gate, and then dart around the goliath’s side as she starts to turn. “He’s using magic! Stop him!”

The goliath snarls, and Essek puts on a reckless burst of speed. Her hand shoots out and grabs his shirt, but Essek is moving too quickly. The fabric cuts into him as it rips, and then he’s stumbling into the courtyard.

He doesn’t get any further. His luck doesn’t hold up to a second blow from the goliath, and she slams a fist into his chest so hard he hears ribs crack. He’s shoved backward, toward the door, with a helpless, strangled shout of pain that draws every eye.

He’s caught from behind, a fist in his tangled white hair, and he hears a whisper of “Trust me.”

And then Fjord’s hand, unremarkable guard’s sword in his grip, comes down, and cuts Essek’s throat.

#whumptober 2021 #no.4 #do you trust me?#critical role #mighty nein #fic #essek thelyss #major character death #SPEAKING OF WHICH #THERE'S A THIRD SECTION COMING UP #PLEASE DO NOT TAKE UP YOUR PITCHFORKS FOR AT LEAST A COUPLE MORE DAYS #THANK YOU FOR NOT MURDERING THIS HUMBLE AUTHOR #this takes place broadly post-canon but otherwise i have done exactly zero Thinking about it

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shokobuns · 3 years

Text

“𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐛𝐫𝐨?”

your irritating step brother likes to come in your room during your zoom classes.

PAIRING: stepbro!gojo satoru x f!reader

GENRE(S): smut, quarantine!au (au? LMAO), college!au, taboo

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNING(S): darkish, smut, drug use (weed), high sex, stepcest, taboo, slight dubcon, slight manipulation, exhibitionism (if you squint), sensory deprivation (blindfold), degradation, size kink, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (f receiving), squirting, dacryphilia (if you squint)

(A/N): this rly do be my first time using proper capitalization huh, anyways all characters, SORRY I FORGOT TO ADD THE READ MORE I FIXED IT

More.

One thing you easily learned about Satoru was the fact he wasn’t easy to satisfy. He’s demanding, cocky, all the while being nonchalant. He rarely exerts effort, but gets the desired results. He’s arrogant, but it’s nearly impossible to point out a flaw to counter it at all.

It makes your head hurt. It makes your teeth clench.

When you make eye contact, you make sure to stare back daggers. When you’re forced to talk to him, your voice stays monotone and expressionless. When you’re in a room with him for more than five minutes, your earbuds are already out, drowning out the sound of his voice. But it’s all difficult when you’re under the same roof.

Knock. Knock.

You roll your eyes at the sound of your step brother knocking your door, wondering what the hell he wants now. At this point, he’s probably just trying to annoy you, poke at your sides until he gets attention, any kind of attention, all just to satisfy his boredom.

Your calm demeanor and sharp tongue has always contrasted with Satoru’s teasing attitude. He’s always seemingly trying to provoke you, trying to pry apart the walls you’ve barricaded yourself in. His personality never rubbed you in the right way from the day your dad surprised you with a dinner with your new brother and your new mom. It didn’t matter anyways, you thought. You’d be going off to university soon enough.

The pandemic ran over all of your plans like a truck.

Better yet, your parents still had work without the option of staying home, leaving you and Satoru home alone for a little over eight hours a day. When he wasn’t in class or tutoring his juniors, he was knocking at your door, most likely red-eyed, though you can’t see it, and relaxed. Despite his persistence, you rarely let him in no matter how insistent he is in “getting to know his new lil sister.”

“Go away, Satoru.”

Behind the door, he pouts while you scribble down notes from the screenshared presentation. He comes in anyways, reeking of marijuana and cologne, half of his shirt buttons undone. You steal a small glance before once again glueing your eyes to your computer screen. The voice of your professor bores you, but you’re hyper aware of Satoru’s presence as he makes himself comfortable on your bed. “Get the fuck off! You stink!” You yell, turning off your camera before throwing a pencil right at him.

He catches it mid air with ease, relaxing his head on your pillows while fiddling with one of your many Sanrio plushies. “Can I have this?” he asks, holding one up as you contemplate its value in your head.

“If it gets you out of my room, then sure.” you reply in a monotone voice, turning back to your notes.

“You’re no fun,” he mumbles, rolling over to lay on his side with the plushie in his arms, “Is that organic chem?”

“Yeah, can you go now?”

“I’ll be quiet, princess. Don’t worry about me, just wanna know what my lil sis is up to.” He waits for a response, but is only rewarded with a huff.

It stays like that for the next ten minutes, him watching your professor’s lecture, you scrambling to write all of the information on the slides as he continues the fast paced lesson. You’re hyper focused on your class, putting in your effort to absorb the entirety of the content. In your mind, the only people in your room are your and your computer. “You know, you don’t have to understand everything all at once,” a voice speaks up from behind you, causing you to purse your lips in annoyance, “It’s easier to learn when you’re actually paying attention to the lecture instead of focusing on trying to get everything down.

“We get it, Satoru. You have straight A’s and you’re naturally good at everything.”

“Hey, you’re getting advice from an aspiring teacher. Don’t need to use that tone with me, Princess.” He mumbles, rolling to his back on the bed, “Just tryna help you out in my free time.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He stays silent while you go back to drawing some of your basic compounds. Ethanol, methanol, propane, all of it. Your scribbles are messy and they progressively fill out the page in your notebook. You hear a tsk behind you, rolling your eyes as you prepare for another criticism from Satoru. Sure, he was probably right, but you refuse to feed into his ego. “Does he not link the slides to you guys or something?” he asks, this time with a friendlier tone.

“He does.” you reply, swiveling your chair until you’re facing him. He’s laying on his side again, his shirt spilling off his shoulder as your breath hitches at the sight. The blindfold is snug against his face, his hair pushed up. You’re sure that the stink of marijuana has rubbed onto your sheets and you make a mental note to wash them after class. “Then get high with me.”

“I’m in the middle of class, dumbass.”

“But you can always look at the slides later.” he suggests, “Plus, you’ve looked super stressed lately. Wonder why.”

Because of you, you want to say, but you stop yourself, opting to stay silent while pondering the offer. “Sure.”

He excitedly walks back to his room, returning to your bed seconds later with a joint between his fingertips. “This your first time?”

“Nah.”

“Ooooo,” he hums like a child, “That’s what you’re up to when we’re not around, huh?” he teases and you shake your head with a smile forming on your face.

“I guess.”

He shrugs, holding the joint up to your lips and lighting up the tip. You suck in the smoke into your lungs, holding it in, before exhaling out the screen door of your window. He takes a hit, opening his mouth and inhaling through his nose then passing it back to you. Your professor’s lecture fades into background noise as you fixate on Satoru, finally giving him the attention he’s been craving for weeks. He makes a mental note to offer you weed the next time he’s overcome by boredom.

The high hits you almost immediately. You’ve never had anything this strong and it’s liberating. You feel weightless, but your eyelids feel heavy. Your face is awfully warm and lifted and your vision gets more and more blurry by the second. The intoxication is pleasant, the present worries in your head being cut off as you focus on what’s right in front of you.

Satoru.

Satoru, your dear, irritating step brother who was kind enough to share the weed he stashes in his drawer. It’s getting harder and harder to hate him and you can’t reason why you felt so many negative emotions that you projected onto him at all. Sure, your room reeks and it’s all because of him, but the sight of him laying on your bed in a shirt that barely covers up his upper body makes your underwear feel uncomfortable. You don't know where it’s coming from, but shutting it out was easy when you’re sober. Key word: sober.

You stand from your desk, making your way to your bed and laying next to him. Both of you face each other, easily getting comfortable, warmth radiating off his body. It feels oddly intimate and your thighs press together in order to suppress the lustful feeling that takes over your body. Your arm comes around to the back of his head, tugging on the fabric that covers his eyes. “Can I take it off?”

“Sure.”

He lifts his head, allowing you to pull on the knot until it becomes undone. You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe a scar or something, but you’re in awe of the blue orbs that make you feel like you were staring into infinity. They’re bloodshot and half lidded and it’s when one fact you really didn’t want to accept hits you.

Satoru Gojo is one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen.

And he’s your step brother.

Uneasiness stirs in your lower tummy and you curse at whatever higher power that decided to give you this type of luck, but a hand on your hip trails to your back, pulling your closer and closer until your faces are at a dangerous distance. You can feel your cheeks becoming alarmingly hot and you hate that you can’t blame it on the weed. His hand comes up to your cheeks, his thumb stroking the soft skin. “Thought you wanted me to go away?”

“Changed my mind.” you whisper, eyes slowly closing, lips parting open as you wait for him to lean in and close the gap.

“Hmm? What’s this?” he sneers, causing your eyes to shoot open and your body to jolt up from your bed. The hazy feeling on your head still remains, making it hard to stand completely straight. “Get out.” you sternly demand, leaning back on your desk chair and pointing towards your door.

“Why should I? I don’t think you really want me to leave, babe.” He props his head on his hand, leaning his elbow onto your mattress.

“It’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong? We’re just two people hanging out on a bed. Unless you were trying to do something else, dirty girl.”

“I- I wasn’t! You’re my step brother!”

“Step brother.” He repeats, justifying your actions.

You’re shaking, guilt occupying your mind keeping you distracted. It’s the perfect time for Satoru to get comfortable in the space between your legs, pulling down your loose shorts and taking you by surprise. Before you have a chance to protest, his nose brushes against your sensitive core, making you let out a squeak. “W-We can’t do this!”

“Didn’t you want this?” he questions, looking up at you with wide eyes, “Wanted me to take care of this pretty little pussy, right?”

You know you should be refusing. You know you should be pushing him out your door. But it’s so hard when his pupils are dilated and the grip on the sides of your thighs feels so right. At this point, you’re not thinking, only nodding along to whatever he’s saying, anticipating his next actions.

“So wet.” He mumbles, pulling down the flimsy fabric and throwing it off somewhere in the room. He licks a thick stripe from your entrance to your clit, sucking softly on the pearl while holding you down as the pleasure causes you to jolt upwards. He sucks and slurps like it’s his last meal, making your empty walls pulsate and little whines along with to leave your lips. Looking down, your eyes meet his, the lower half of his face immersed in your cunt.

The wet muscle fucks into you, curling and pressing against your walls, while his thumb rubs against your little clit. He hits all the right spots that make you squirm, pushing your legs wide open to see more of your ruined pussy. The wetness collects on his mouth, his chin, and his cheeks, filling him with a sick sense of satisfaction. “Such a whore, aren’t ya?” he pulls away to comment, but your fingers thread through his hair, pushing his head back where you need him most.

The action is assertive, something he usually hates dealing with. Though this time, he’s filled with a sick sense of pride at the fact that he was able to turn you, someone who seemed to hate him with a burning passion, into a moaning mess with just his mouth. He hums satisfactorily, sending vibrations into your sensitive core that make your thighs shaky.

You’re already cumming in an embarrassingly short time, gushing all over his face while he laps up all the juices you have to offer.

Before you can process anything else, his lips capture yours, lifting your body and dropping you onto your bed. You look at him with half lidded eyes, still sensitive from your last orgasm, while he pulls off his own clothes. His length rests on the inside of your thigh and he’s huge, so huge that it feels heavy against your skin and it scares you. “Satoru, I don’t think I can take you-”

“Shhh, princess,” he reassures you, “You started this. You have to take it.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, taking the fabric of his blindfold and covering your eyes, tying a tight knot on the back of your head. This isn’t right, a voice in your head tells you, but you ignore it because Satoru treats you so well. He keeps you company, gives you some of his weed, eats your pussy without you having to ask him.

The only thing you can see is black and you whine. You so badly want to see Satoru’s pretty face, his chiseled body, his thick cock, but your thoughts are interrupted by the fat tip prodding at your tiny hole. “Too big..” your voice trails off as your mind is lifted, only the feeling of him splitting you in half remaining. You’ve never felt so full and it feels so dirty, yet your slick says otherwise, betraying any rational part that still resides in your body.

“I got you, Princess, don’t worry.” He slurs, drunk on the sensation of your snug walls. The stretch strings, whimpers spilling from your lips, but his cock hits every spot like no other. By the time he’s fully inside of you, it feels like he’s actually in your guts and it’s all intensified by the isolated feeling, not being able to see him at all. Every bite on your shoulder, every kiss on your open mouth, every delicious drag on your gummy walls is amplified.

You’re already cumming around him, a ring of cream forming on his cock as he gazes down at your bare body, wrapping his lips around a sensitive nipple. You squeal, your breath hitching at the same time you clamp down around his throbbing length. “Already? Such a sensitive little princess, aren’t you?” He mutters in your ear, your nails digging into his shoulders, piercing the pale skin. Tears spill from your eyes, flowing down the sides of your face.

His teeth sink into your shoulder and you want to tell him to stop, but the words don’t quite leave your lips. Only babbling noises accompanied by the wet sounds of your cunt and skin slapping against skin. He’s still pounding into your cervix at a relentless pace, in awe of how your slick drips down his balls and onto the white sheets.

Every time he hits that sweet spot, there’s an odd feeling that forms, like you’re about to make a mess. And when your next orgasm washes over you in intense waves of euphoria, a clear liquid spurts from your cunny, coating his lower stomach and your inner thighs. “Who knew my little princess was such a messy girl?” he taunts, making your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“S-shut up-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he leans in close, his lips dangerously close to your ear, “I’ll clean it all up.”

His smooth voice causes you to squeeze around him, almost like you don’t want him to ever leave your cunt, and it gets harder and harder for him to move. “Fuck, baby you’re so tight, need you to loosen up,” he mumbles, his own orgasm finally approaching, your little cunny milking him for all he’s worth.

He’s rambling little praises, hot pleasure elevated by the high, his hips stuttering and his cock stuffing you to the brim with his warm seed. You both lay there, still intertwined and his body resting on top of yours.

“Ms. (L/N)! Did you have any questions about my lesson today?”

Your face drops in horror, your hand immediately pulling off the blindfold, as you push Satoru away from you and press the leave button on Zoom. A mix of your juices drop onto the floor and he chuckles, pulling you back to bed. “This isn’t over.”

He pins you back onto the mattress, his cock twitching at the sight of your leaking cunt, pulling your thighs until you’re close and pinning them to your chest. In one swift movement, his entire cock is shoved into your cunt, his balls slapping against the flesh of your ass with every thrust, fucking his cum back into your womb.

Gojo Satoru would never be satisfied.

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blzzrdstryr · 3 years

Text

Reveries of the Past. Yandere!Childe x Fatui!gn!reader

Wordcount: 3875

CW: Dissociation, graphic depiction of violence, hallucinations, unhealthy relationship and unhealthy power dynamics.

A.N.: I used a lot of my experience with dissociations in this and if it makes you uncomfortable, I would advice not to read it. I also plan on writing continuation for this, as it’s set before the Rite of Descension. P.s. I am not a native English speaker, so could you notify me if there’s awkward wording.

[Next chapter]

There are plenty of times you find yourself reminiscing about the past and now, your mind slips back to your memories, as you look at the horribly mangled body of the treasure hoarder. The stench of blood stuffs up your nose, it’s sickly sweet metallic odor making your gut clench and nausea rise, as your limbs grow heavier and numb. You don’t feel like you belong in your skin and bones and blood anymore - it’s cold, so cold, yet you don’t feel any of it. You are an outsider, an unwanted intruder in the house that is your body, an indifferent observer looking at the world through the thick glass.

The world around disfigures, shapes and colors changing in the constant whirlwind - they jump and dance around, small becoming large and large shrinking so much it’s barely visible, green shifts to red to blue and to yellow and to million of other colors, and sounds suddenly become muffled, losing their sharpness, but you don’t care about it: the part that is “you” fled to the daydreams of your childhood moments ago, leaving a clinically observing, yet unfeeling being behind.

Adults would describe you as a perfect child: quiet, obedient and dutiful, you were a stark contrast to the other louder and more free spirited kids. You studied hard, cleaned the house, helped with dishes and cooking and never talked back.

I can't upset mom and dad because they work so much. I can't play with other kids because if I do, they will make fun of me, I have to study hard and get good grades, because mom said I will have a good job and become rich and help them.

These particular memories don't feel good to you: they're bleak and boring, yet full of silent shame - they make your throat clog and eyes water, as something burning starts to bloom deep underneath your skin.

Childe stops beating the still alive treasure hoarder, a blood smeared on the cheek and a dangerous glint in his eyes, and turns his head to you.

"Hey, how about lending me a helping hand?", there’s a hunger in his voice you recognize, he wants to teach a lesson to the debtors, then. You walk towards him, feeling your knees get weaker and weaker with each step for some reason. A dagger made of ice shines in your hand with cold light.

"It's no wonder [First] received a vision! My [First] is always so good and smart, there are no children better" the exact words your mother says, as she brags to her friends, showing them the vision you were bestowed with. You left it to her, not caring what will happen to it - despite all the child's wonder you felt before receiving it, the glowing orb doesn’t look so amazing to you now. It feels foreign and ugly, a reminder of what happened seconds before you gained it.

“You know, when I was a child”, he takes the weapon and focuses on the treasure hoarder’s leader again, “we made a special kind of promise”. It’s tip travels to the hoarder’s hand. “You make a pinkie promise, you keep it all your life”

The sweet voice he uses and the fact that you know the nursery rhyme too would make you sick in the stomach the other day, but not now.

You don’t exactly remember how you joined the Fatui - it happened shortly after you gained a vision, when you were still too numb and cold to the outside world after the Event.

Mom will hate me, dad will hate me too. I can’t let them know.

Your parents say that officials just knocked on the front door one day and offered you an entry into the Fatui and a monthly salary, big enough to stop your parents from overworking themselves. You were terrified back then, Fatuis despite being known as a diplomatic organization are still a mystery to the ordinary Shezhnayan and a direct servants to Her will. The thought of disappointing Tsaritsa or letting down Snezhnaya was enough to paralyze you, but seeing the smiles on your parents faces was enough to make you swear to yourself, that you will work there no matter how scary it seems.

“You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice.” The blade stops between phalanges of the little finger: “The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend", he presses it, strong enough to detach the limb from the rest of the body in one swift slash. Treasure hoarder starts to cry and scream from the sudden pain, yet quickly chokes on it as Childe hits him in the solar plexus. The crack of bones feels deafening among the sea of muffled sounds.

Training was rigorous to say the least, you came back to your dorm room absolutely exhausted and after you fell on the bed you were practically dead to the world. Turns out, having a vision wasn’t enough to make you a fighter - you needed to know how to climb, swim, run with a weight to lift and wield a weapon. There were other children and teens with you, they eyed your vision with a mix of adoration and envy, you pretended not to catch it in turn.

“The frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again”, harbinger forces the victim's jaw apart by squeezing it with one hand, the other rapidly forcing a dagger inside the mouth. Treasure hoarder gasps and mumbles, fat tears forming in his eyes. A part of you expects a sound of parting flesh, but none comes: Tartaglia stands up and removes the blade, leaving a shivering and terrified man laying on the ground.

“Well,” Childe shrugs, as if he didn’t just dismember a person, voice back to his cheery tone : “You didn’t actually make a pinkie promise, so consider it a small mercy”. The treasure hoarder cowers even more, snuggling the injured hand close to the bruised chest. “But if you fail to repay your debt I will oversee that the frost”, he points in your direction, a treasure hoarder’s eyes going wide as he notices your vision, “will actually freeze your lying tongue off”, his voice descends again, back to it’s dangerous half-whisper.

You meet Ajax during the winter, he’s close to you in age and just arrived into Fatui grounds. He boasts and shows off to all of you, and you desperately want to retort something acidic to shut him up and rip off that arrogant bravado, yet say nothing, picturing how the tomorrow training session will have him laying flat on his back, too hurt and too tired to move even a single finger.

He defeats the trainer in less than a minute.

Now, that the treasure hoarder fled, still snuggling disfigured limb, Childe turns attention back to you. “You seem a little bit disinterested here”, his hand on your cheek is so foreign, it’s burning and freezing at the same time, the shock from the unwanted touch almost strong enough to pull you back into reality. He notices your unintentional flinching and unfocused eyes “Ah, you hurt my feelings, [First]! And I thought we already became friends”.

You say nothing, cold and unmoving, blind and deaf to the outside world, his words register a second too late, and there’s no cliche phrase for you to reply with. He looks a bit baffled and deflated for a second, but shrugs it off, just like he did during teen years, when you deliberately ignored all his attempts at catching your attention.

“Huh, even if you are so cold to me, I still forgive you”, he takes your hand, his touch still too overwhelming for you to process and pulls you back to Liyue harbor, your legs barely bending as you walk after him, like an obedient dog trailing it’s master.

“You know [First], I can beat you up so badly, that you will barely walk”, you put feather aside, stopping writing the letter to your parents as you glare at Ajax with barely masked indignation. He grins, satisfied to finally catch your attention after the whole day of pestering you. “I am aware of that” you reply in an absolutely flat tone, holding yourself from pouncing on him and trying to break the teeth out of that smug smile. He beams even wider, as if sensing your not-so-good intentions, revealing even more pearly whites as if taunting you.

“But I won’t, count yourself lucky”. And he leaves, this short interaction filling you with so much rage that you shake, handwritten letters noticeably becoming sharper and faster, your thoughts clouding around the idea of acquating his face with your boots.

Nonetheless, you indeed count yourself fortunate enough, when you see Ajax defeating grown men with bare hands. When you two, the only vision holders among your peers have to spar, he always goes easy on you, prefering to immobilize you rather than beating, making your defeat less painful yet even more humiliating.

Almost at the end of your trail he suddenly stops and says something, but you don't catch it, words turning into separate vowels and then fusing together into one unintelligible gibberish mess. He leans in, close enough for his breath to burn your neck, and he continues to get closer, until his empty eyes look into yours glazed ones. He seems disappointed for a second and backs down, his breathing no longer fanning your skin.

Distantly you think that you somehow angered him and he will slap you for it, and do nothing to dodge the hit - you barely feel pain in this condition anyway, but he doesn’t. The road to the Northland Bank is completed in absolute silence, Childe no longer trying to grab your attention, only when you enter Liyue Harbor does he whisper, that you two must look like a pair with all that hand holding. Judging by the volume and tone of his voice he says it more to himself than to you.

***

You come back to yourself in the safety of your room on the third room of the Northland bank. It feels like a rush of sensation, as everything becomes sharper and clearer again, like you just swam to the surface of water from the very depths of it. An invisible bubble around your head pops in one moment, and the world becomes real again, mind and body connecting for once more.

Eyes and ears focused you take in surroundings: the room is neat and lifelessly empty - just a bed and a working desk with a stack of written but unsent letters, along with a small bookcase near, no figurines, pictures or even plants to decorate living place, as you see no reason to adorn the area you use for sleeping only. Indiscernible wallpapers and a small window close to the middle of the bed finish the picture of austerity.

Once, your memory catches up to you, you can't help groan from the shame and irritation, hiding your face in both hands. Afterwards always feels both like a disgraceful escape and a warm blanket during the stormy night, a duality that you accepted long ago after joining the Fatui and today is no exception. You curse Harbinger when you remember why exactly you had an episode, and get up from the bed you threw yourself on minutes ago. You come to the desk, taking a clean form of a relocation request from the drawer and writing materials.

Filling in the blank feels like commiting a felony to you for some reason - you stop several times when you hear footsteps in the corridor, focusing on the door,ready to hide the half written form and say some lie as an excuse. You don't list the Childe-related reasons, knowing that there's nothing that could make any of the Harbingers face the consequence for their actions, and instead you write completely normal and fake causes: health concerns, family matters and so on. Part of you doubts that this will work and you will have the fortune to get away from a certain harbinger as far as possible. Trying and failing is better than never attempting, you think, quickly writing the paper.

Once you finish it, you almost rush to Ekaterina, praying that you won't run into a certain ginger on the way. Sometime ago you caught Tartaglia checking your letters, for a secrecy he said back then, we can’t let anyone know about the coming operation. Childe then instilled that every sent and received letter should be checked, lest Qixing and other Liyuens learned what Fatui had in plan. It sounded logical and sensible, but the paranoid thought that he enforced this policy just to have a glimpse at your feelings never stopped eating at you. From that day on you sent your family the most basic and vague letters, just stating that you’re in good health and mind, still missing them and Snezhnaya, leaving the ones with more private sentiments in your room.

Her eyes are completely obscured by the mask, but even with that you can’t miss the pointed glare she sends your way - Tartaglia never shied away from showing off, be it his strength, money or his twisted obsession that he calls love. With the amount of time and finances he spends on you and the way he acts like a kicked lovesick puppy in your vicinity, you are pretty sure that at least half of the bank workers see you as a cunning and cruel seducer, so keen and devious in the art of temptation that you managed to lure in Eleventh Harbinger.

As if archons decided to laugh at you, Childe descends from the second floor too, catching the sight of you near the receptionist. He looks unusually somber for a moment, but then he sees you, a smile appearing on his face as he takes the form from Ekaterina's hands. You can just feel how Ekaterina rolls her eyes under the mask, as if muttering complaints about the lovers’ spat and insubordination, having been working with her for some time, enough to have a clue of the inner workings of her mind.

You have to give him that he plays the confusion and regret very persuasively. He asks how he can fix this, says what a valuable team member you are to him and how much you are needed in the Northland bank. You agree to his suggestion - if years of training with Ajax and then work with Childe taught you anything, it is that Ajax is the chaos incarnate and Tartaglia is Ajax’s less tolerable and more unpredictable version, so it’s better not to anger him.

***

In the end he invites you to dine with him at Wanmin restaurant, a place Childe heard from some “xiansheng” as he called them. A bustling Liyue street is open before you two, tall midday sun painting the whole street into bright orange, so unlike the pristine white landscapes of Snezhnaya. He orders two Black Back Perch Stews on the chef's recommendations, and hands a bouquet of local flowers in a parody of a normal boyfriend. Any random observer would really see it as a date.

You take the flowers, pretending to pay more attention to them than to a man sitting near you. Tartaglia is an unpredictability wrapped in human skin, there’s no privilege as being lax and carefree near him, as even Tsaritsa has no idea what he will do next.

To your mutual confusion Xiangling presents the meal with two pairs of chopsticks. Utensils feel foreign in your palm, you having no idea how to handle them and Childe, by the looks of it too. Tartaglia specifically asks the chef for spoons, while you observe the other clients, noting how they use theirs. Holding one stick like a pen and then placing the bottom one in a fixed position under the thumb you manage to grasp the fish from the soup, albeit clumsily. You consider it a small win.

The image of a mighty Harbinger struggling in a failing battle with chopsticks would look funny to you, if it wasn’t for the whole "date" you were having. After putting them aside, and seemingly admitting defeat, Childe starts from afar: "You know [First], you changed a lot since I first met you" .

You raise an eyebrow at the starter, it's vague and innocent enough, but experience tells you that he will or at least try to stir the conversation into your relationship with him again. Straightening a bit and finally turning your eyes to him, you pause for a second, picking the least offensive reply you can muster - there’s a swarm of insults buzzing at the tip of your tongue prepared just for him, growing and sprouting since your pubescent years.

“Yes, I got taller”, he laughs it off, like you said some funny joke, his giggles not stopping for some time. "No, I mean as a person. Remember how you used to glare at me for joking? And now you act so unfazed ”

Joking. Is this what he calls it? Shivers creep up your spine when your memory oh so conveniently conjures the images of the aftermath of his jokes.

“Your jokes weren’t funny to anyone but you”. Breathe, you think, there’s no need to anger him. There are pictures of broken bones and bruised bodies and a cacophony of somebody else’s pained screams flashing and rattling in your head, Adults never did anything. Why would they? They had a golden boy Ajax, why would they help the others when they had him? Why would they help you? Bitterness and anger you thought you swallowed long ago rise up to the surface again, and you decide to bite down on the stew - Tartaglia always found a way to turn your words against you and hurt you, no need to give him more weapons now.

“I changed a lot too. I know I was insufferable as a teen”, he must have taken your silence as a free pass to continue whatever nonsense he’s sprouting, “I am sorry”.

The last three words catch you off guard, a piece of fish almost stuck in the throat from the jolt. Ajax takes you by surprise once again, for him to finally acknowledge and apologize for all the pain he caused and years he tormented you?

You blink and look at him intently, his facial expression changing into an unusually somber one. It seems authentic enough.

“Let’s start from the scratch?

You contemplate unsure what to say.

Was he lying?

Looking back, you in a sense are luckier than most of Childe's victims, witnessing his youth, familiarizing and distinguishing the tells of him lying and scheming, observing the way he bloomed into the manipulator he is today firsthand. You see a familiarity in his face and voice, something that helps you from falling to his charms. There's also the added fact that you were and still are an involuntary witness to the way how carnal and bloodthirsty usually friendly Ajax can become.

When did you catch his attention?

You remember his smile when he first approached you, less teeth and more sincerity that is thereafter,a hand outstretched to you. It happens on the next day after his arrival, almost as cold and unpleasant as the previous one. You brush the limb away like a noisy fly, secretly angry at his arrogant attitude and how effortlessly he endured training. His smiling doesn’t stop, yet you feel a sudden change in the air around you.

Would your fate be different if you took his hand?

You can't forget how your mind disconnected from your body for the second time. It was Ajax again vying for your attention akin to a spoiled child, and like one he threw a tantrum when you refused to give him any. The poor recruit you were talking with was hospitalized the same day, as you helplessly watched the carnage before you. You didn't fight, you didn’t flee, you just froze, like a scared animal, paralyzed by fear, yet somehow too detached from feelings. That day was bizarre: once you felt reality, it was solid and undeniable and then you didn't. The realness of the current diffused, slipped through the fingers like sand, leaving nothing but unreliable and delusive reveries behind.

Will he let you go?

“People do change and I see that you changed too. I don’t think of you as a teen you were” you carefully pick the words, Tartaglia visibly blooms, thinking that his apology worked, yet your next words snuff out his triumph: “but my memories stay the same. I don’t think we can start from scratch”

You bite the tongue, the second part still coming out too harsh for your liking. The moment of sincerity is interrupted, you see him, changing the masks, unsure what to do. It seems for the first time it was you who caught him off guard. You guess which one of the two standard facades he will decide to show to you, having spent years by his side to observe him masterfully wielding both, the friendly one with a vacant smile that never reaches his dead, dead eyes or the calculating one, distant and devoid of humanity?

In the end he uses none, a hurt still evident, dripping in his tone, face and moves - is it another mask you never got to see or is it real? - “So that is your answer”, he leans in closer, dull cerulean eyes looking right into yours.

You hold his stare, nodding, instead of saying anything and he hums, sitting back and wearing the cold mask, reserved for his enemies: “Just wanted to remind you that I am the Harbinger and you are just a position higher than an ordinary agent”. Despite seeing it so many times, it’s the first time he directs it at you and you have to suppress the shiver. The unsaid threat hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you.

You two are no longer solemn [First] and annoying Ajax, who trails your steps behind like a puppy, no, you are a special agent [Last] and Eleventh Fatui Harbinger Tartaglia, to whom you are personally assigned by Tsaritsa herself. Even possessing vision and delusion yourself you can’t match Childe’s power, and your loss would be easy to overlook if your harbinger wished for it. Honestly speaking, there are a lot of things he could do to you without anyone questioning it, the Harbingers being the second most powerful figures in the organization, right after Tsaritsa herself. You heard the stories of Krupp and other assistants who got missing under Il Dottore, you heard of horrible accidents happening to the people Scaramouche dislikes, you heard about the injuries Signora inflicts on the unfortunate recruits when she is in foul mood, yet you never thought that Tartaglia will abuse his power in the same way.

“Don’t worry” he seems to have taken mercy on you, “I won’t use my position like that, it’s cheating and I like to play the fair game”, despite the seemingly reassuring words , you don’t let yourself relax, knowing him for years.

“Don’t think I will back down though, I am not the type to give up”

#yandere genshin impact #yandere childe #yandere childe x reader #yandere tartaglia #Yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere x reader #Yandere #Childe #Tartaglia #Dialogues are hard #My brain is melting #It's 4 am where I live #Reader will have a crush on Zhongli in ch 2 #my writing

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inkyblinders · 3 years

Text

Dancing with the Devil

Pairing: Luca Changretta X Reader

Author’s note: So excited to share my first fic on this blog! I’m still trying to figure out the ins and outs of Tumblr as it’s been a hot minute since I’ve last used it, but if you like my writing please repost and follow for more :)

The story (part one of many, hopefully) is set in early Season 4 and is in second-person, but you’re also a character with a name.

And in case you can’t tell...I think Luca Changretta is criminally underrated.

Warnings: Some mild smut.

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There is a stranger in the Garrison tonight.

He isn’t a shipyard laborer, neither tired nor grimy from the perpetual muck that belongs to Small Heath. In fact, he is more polished and well-dressed than anyone you’ve ever seen, except for perhaps the Shelby brothers who frequent the Garrison.

But this man is no Peaky Blinder.

He leisurely surveys the customers in the pub, eyes obscured by a fedora that slants on his head. An unlit cigarette hangs between thin lips. It’s a halfhearted attempt to blend in, as if he’s doing this as a courtesy but cares not in the slightest if he rouses suspicion.

You are used to breaking up bar fights and mopping up the bloody aftermath, but this man makes you more uneasy than any roughhousing drunkard you’ve dealt with. He is too quiet, his eyes too sly.

“This must be the trouble Tommy was expecting,” you think to yourself.

When he catches your gaze from behind the bar, a hawk-like smile cuts across his face. He winks then, and you flush even as something dangerous spikes in your throat. The whiskey you hold in your hands is just like his. Another prop, another facade.

“Anything else for you then, sir?”

He looks up from beneath the brim of his hat. His face is slyly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a striking nose you crave to run down lightly with your fingers. Now you understand why he tries to keep himself hidden.

Here is a face that, once seen, would not be soon forgotten.

A tilt of his head, a voice as like raw silk as you shiver.

“Your daddy owns this place?”

So he’s not from Birmingham, after all. Every man within a fifty-mile radius knows who owns the Garrison. They might have never met the man, but they certainly know the name of his younger brother.

“No sir, he doesn’t.” Your voice is carefully polite but clipped, praying it doesn’t betray the pounding of your heart as you watch him take off his hat and run a hand through dark, slicked-back hair. You’ve seen Tommy talk like this with men he mistrusts, and he mistrusts a lot of men. No matter what, you are not volunteering any more information than necessary.

He waits for you to say more, and his smile doesn’t falter when you remain silent. “Well then, signorita, will you tell me who does?”

The Italian. So it is him.

Fuck.

“The Garrison is owned by...a family from these parts. Do you have business with them,” You can’t help but add impulsively, “Signore?”

His dark eyes widen with pleasure at your flippant remark in his own language. He is playing a game, and you are playing along with him.

“What business would I have with Gypsy fucks like them?” He leans forward, “But sweetheart, you on the other hand...”

Working for the Shelbys means minding the pub when Arthur’s gone, and spying for Tommy when he needs intel on whoever he’s feuding with at the time. It’s more serious than simply turning the other cheek when there’s a cutting in the streets. But you are not prepared to face an enemy alone.

Even if he is as charming as the devil.

Even if he wants you, and you want him back.

For the millionth time, you silently curse Tommy for forbidding you from having a gun, a knife, anything to protect yourself while in the pub. You had asked him about it one night, afterwards, and he only replied, “It’s bad for business if a girl like you gets caught with a weapon she can’t handle.”

“Then teach me,” You had retorted, balling up his trousers and chucking it at his head, “You think you can protect me. But what about when you’re gone?”

Tommy had looked up from buttoning his shirt then, his gaze steely and blue. “I have eyes in all of Birmingham. And besides,” He smiled ruefully, “You’re never in danger unless I put you there myself.”

In the pub, the Italian watches your expression. And in a moment of madness, you almost take up his veiled flirtation.

But then there is Tommy. Tommy with his inscrutable blue gaze. Tommy with his whores. And now you are angry at yourself for thinking of him when he was probably fucking some other woman in Camden Town. For business, he would explain, avoiding your eyes.

“What business would you have with a barmaid like me?” A whisper of regret fills you as you turn to leave. You are halfway up the stairs that lead to your room above the pub when you hear a caress of a single word that turns your blood to ice.

“Isabel.”

The Italian is leaning against the banister, eyes drinking in your figure. And now he saunters up the steps. You scamper up the rest of them but he is quicker. In a flash he spins you around, his body snugly against you and the second-floor wall. An arm over your head, caging you with his tall frame.

The intoxicating scent of tobacco and roses fills the crevices between your bodies.

Your eyes flash dangerously as he bends down, daring him to force a kiss. But he only murmurs into the crook of your neck, “Where is Mr. Shelby tonight?”

You answer breathlessly into the shoulder of his freshly-pressed suit, “He could be at the betting shop. Could be with his wife at home. I don’t-- ”

“The other Mr. Shelby, Isabel.”

Maybe he already sent his men after Tommy. Maybe Tommy’s already dead in a ditch, in godforsaken Camden Town. Or maybe, just maybe, this man really doesn’t know where he is, and you are the only person who can tell him.

He has you good and compromised. No one can help you, so you must save yourself. Instincts kick in, your mind feverishly formulating a plan. It won’t be the first time you’ve done something like this, and on Tommy’s orders nonetheless.

Loose lips sink ships, and men are so pliant after a romp in the sheets. Mindful of your mission now, you angle to ask for his secrets, anything you could find out that gives Tommy an advantage.

Only this time, your heart actually catches as you gaze into the mafioso’s lethal eyes.

A pause then, wondering how much you should reveal, and you confess, “Tommy doesn’t tell anyone where he is until he’s already there.” It’s a half-truth—he told you.

“So he’s Tommy to you then?” The man is pleased with your slip of the tongue. You’ve told him a secret he already knows.

“You are his woman.” He caresses your face with the back of his hand, etched with ink. A cross. Rosary beads. And there, a black-palmed hand. Just like the ones he sent the Shelbys.

I want to see where his tattoos lead to.

“You are his woman,” he continues, and something dark and sweet fills his voice as he purrs, “And you are not afraid of me.”

“I’m not giving up Shelby secrets even if you seduce me,” You stifle a whimper as he wedges a leg between your skirts, and you think of nothing except the way you ache for him to come even closer, until there is nothing between you but skin on bare skin.

“Tommy has whores who might give him up for a pound or three. Although,” you smirk, “I won’t tell you where you’d find them, either.”

“Oh sweetheart, didn’t you hear me?” So close you can feel his heartbeat with your fingertips, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

A deathly promise.

“I’ve come for you.”

He slants his mouth, his lips pressing hotly to yours as you surrender to desire. The kiss is swift and hard. The two of you come together, again and again, like lightning and thunder. As he cradles your head with one hand, the other slips underneath your blouse to palm your breast. You arch against the wall. The onyx rings on his hand are cold, and they pucker your nipples as they bite your skin.

Somehow you find your fingers seeking him too. But it’s not enough to touch the exposed skin between the gaps of his buttoned shirt. You want more.

When you pull apart he is panting, lips apart and wet. His once slicked-back hair now mussed, you imagine yours is too. For the first time this evening, his arrogant face is a little shocked, as if the taste of you affected him more deeply than he expected. You unclench your fists from his shirt and slowly take his face into your hands. You draw a line down the bridge of his nose, feeling all its bumps and ridges.

You murmur huskily, “Why did you really come to Birmingham?”

He tilts his head expectantly, and you are lost in his devastating eyes as he replies.

“Pleasure.”

#luca changretta #luca changretta x reader #luca changretta smut #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders smut

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cinnamonest · 3 years

Text

Kaeya Alberich - Yandere Profile

YES I love my eyepatch boy!! I really like him as a yandere, because he's definitely got several traits and behaviors that would make him a very unconventional/different yet absolutely terrifying one to have. Him or Diluc as your yandere is basically like playing a game on maximum difficulty. He's so arrogant dammit why does he have to make it hot

More importantly, someone take the ability to write n/sfw away from me I s2g... I go from trying to make serious content to nasty weird kinks and completely feral in .002 seconds the moment I add that readmore

tws: gaslighting, manipulation, yandere, mentions of mutilation

tws (below cut): noncon, a good deal of sadism, mentions of an*l

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What are they generally like? Lucid, aware? Obsessive? How do they behave?

He's actually one of the worst yanderes you could have in almost every regard, for two very simple reasons: his crippling psychological issues, and his intense selfishness. The first manifests as severe abandonment issues. It's the origin of his unhealthy feelings, most likely. Kaeya doesn't like the instability of people - based on his backstory, people always leave, or die, and even if they don't intend to, somehow it feels like abandonment, and he resents it. People leave him all alone and afraid and uncertain. That's generally all he knows, and despite the smug exterior, he's actually pushed people away quite a bit, keeps everyone at arm's length to ensure they can't become someone too important for him to accept their sudden absence. He can't care about someone, because that someone is fated to inevitably leave him, no matter who it may be.

That's why, once you manage to worm your way into his feelings and heart despite his best efforts, once he finally caves to acknowledging the feeling, he's aware. Painfully aware, because be can't stop worrying every waking moment about you, your well-being, your location. It reaches a point where he can't go about his job because he's simply too consumed with his worry.

The solution that kept him safest in the past was to avoid developing emotional attachments, but when he does, he's terrified of both your safety AND you intentionally abandoning him. Really, the latter would hurt worse, since he can't fault you for dying, but to abandon him? It would break him.

And, to some extent, he's developed a lot of prideful anger about it, deep, deep down. He feels that he doesn't deserve to be abandoned, doesn't deserve to just be left behind under the guise of some greater purpose, and he'll be damned if he just lets you toss him aside like he feels others did. Even if you reject him, he won't accept it. You don't get to reject him. He won't allow that. What has he ever done to deserve everything that's happened to him? Nothing. You're the one person who has stayed with him, and you're going to continue to be with him. Forever.

That being said, he's still somewhat confident because he's got that arrogance about him. He doesn't perceive rejection, because he's always gotten a lot of attention for his looks, even if he's never actually followed through on anyone else's attention out of those same fears. He'll write off any perceived rejection as being for some other reason, something besides an actual rejection, and he'll seek to eliminate whatever he feels is keeping you from just accepting him.

Honestly, one of the most likely to have a full blown, classic-yandere-style psychotic breakdown. He can be driven to a snapping point, if there's enough stress or obstacles, and in case of that, he'll be a lot more willing to kill, and a lot more willing to hurt you, but it's a point that would still take a lot to reach.

But what's really terrifying about Kaeya is his delusions, primarily his ability to mentally justify everything he does without hesitation. Even most delusional yanderes struggle - they feel like it's wrong, they know it is deep down, and they take time to convince themselves of their delusions, tell themselves it's ok over and over, beg for reassurance, and get defensive when called out because they know they're in the wrong. The same isn't true for Kaeya. He automatically justifies his actions by default, and has absolutely zero doubt or hesitation to do so. He doesn't even need a complex reason for justification - it's a simple one. He deserves what he wants. Anything necessary to achieve that is fair.

How likely are they to kidnap their darling? How quickly will they do so?

Highly likely and very quickly, right up there with Diluc and Razor. And he's absolutely remorseless about it. It ties back into his delusional state and ability to justify anything he does - this is what's best for you. If you don't get that, that's your problem, not his.

He's another one to not want to pull some barbaric move like knocking you out, rather, he'd rather just trick you into walking right into your new home. He gets that you'll be upset about it, but to him, that's just part of the process. Not that he'll tolerate it for too long. 12, maybe 24 hours is enough time for you to reasonably be upset, but if you're still trying to fight him on this after that, he's going to get snappy about it, thinking you should already be over that by now.

How difficult is it to escape from them? How do they keep you restrained? How do they deal with attempted escape?

You're not leaving.

It's not worth trying, really. How he manages to do it is a mystery to you, but he'll manage to keep you locked in right there at the headquarters with him. How Jean and Lisa haven't found out about you being there, how he convinced all of his guards to be on his side of things, you have no idea. Realistically, if you get out, he's likely to make you out to be some kind of criminal that needs to be found -- just not to hurt you in any way, so goes the order, and the knights know better than to question why.

He has eyes and ears everywhere, it won't take them anytime at all to find you. He's so confident in that, and combined with his pride, he doesn't feel the need to go get you himself. No, it's a lot more satisfying to sit back and watch as they drag you through the doors of the headquarters, slowly pull you to the end of the room and drop you down at his feet, where he can look down on you with that closed-eyed, artificially wide smile that tells you that you have seriously fucked up.

Escape attempts aren't going to be met with a single shred of mercy, really. The thing about Kaeya is he's ultimately a selfish, selfish bastard with a lot of deep-seeded, highly repressed emotional issues, and he has absolutely no problem with keeping you bound hand and foot, or maybe even make some permanent modifications to your body if that's what it takes to keep you. It's not a wise idea to even try unless you're absolutely certain to succeed, otherwise you may find yourself never getting the opportunity again. You don't really need those Achilles tendons intact, you know. And your ankle bones are just so fragile, they'll snap with just a little twist. Actually, that wouldn't be too bad, giving you more reasons to be grateful when he's doing everything for you.

He's not one to just let it go, either. No, escape attempts are the one unforgivable thing for him, the one thing that will make him totally and completely snap. You don't get to do that. You're the one thing that doesn't get to just disappear out of his life in a flash. Half the reason he sends the knights to get you rather than going himself is to give him some time to let the rage settle down, otherwise he knows he might not be able to control himself and might end up hurting you even worse than he intends to. He's not going to buy any excuses and won't go any lighter on you if you beg and grovel or anything. But you will apologize -- you get to choose how hard it is. You can apologize the easy way, or, if you don't want to, there are many ways to force it out. But by the end, he'll get an apology, and a promise to never try again, out of you, no matter what that takes. It's by far the worst state you'll ever see him in, and really, once is enough to dissuade you from trying again.

How easy are they to trick, deceive, or manipulate?

You'd have to try pretty hard. He doesn't have the sheer amount of years of life experience like Venti or Zhongli, but he's not the captain for no reason - he's perceptive, and highly intelligent.

Rather than simply mastering reading human voice and facial expressions for telltale signs of deceit, he's good at learning individuals in particular - memorizing the patterns of thought and action of a particular individual, and predicting how they will act. He can do it with everyone else with ease, how much more, then, with the object of an obsession? If you're trying to formulate some plan to trick him, he'll already predict what you'll do, if you lie, he already knows. It's creepier than the others, really, because it's not just that he can tell when you're lying, but rather he already knows you're going to lie or try some scheme before you do it. It feels so tailored and personalized to your thought patterns, it almost feels like an invasion of the privacy of your mind, which, really, is the one privacy you thought you had left.

He's great at gaslighting himself, too. He's a very good liar, and can make you believe anything he wants. He'll target your fears and paranoias, make you believe you're going crazy, and he'll do it all so perfectly you'll never suspect a thing. You'll end up coming to him for protection and guidance, exactly as planned.

How lenient are they? What privileges can you have, and what will you be denied?

Pretty strict. He doesn't let you have any outside contact, and you're limited on what you can do when he's gone. He'll bring you some books, maybe something to draw on -- no sharp writing utensils, though. In his mind, that should be enough to occupy you.

You won't get outside walks or visits. It's just too risky for him, and he really doesn't like seeing other people look at you. If you really, really beg, and you've been on amazing behavior, and you're well into your relationship, maybe a few months or so, there's a chance he'll take you out at nighttime, or sunrise, but at the slightest sign of intentions he doesn't like, you'll be dragged back, and you won't see the sun for a long time.

You'll have a very limited wardrobe, he doesn't see why you even need to wear anything, but if you're going to be stubborn, he can get you something simple, like an old shirt and some underwear, but that's about all you can have. Any requests for actual clothing are going to be denied. It's ridiculous for him to spend money on something you don't need, and besides, he prefers it this way, y'know?

What kind of rules do they have? What kind of punishment would they use?

Generally, it's a simple one: obey. You do what he tells you to do, and you don't do something if he tells you not to. This stems to similar rules that develop: be submissive, don't be argumentative, don't be defiant. Follow those, and you can both be happy, and that's what you want, isn't it? It had better be - he's not very lenient, and will harshly punish even small offenses. As for that punishment... most of it isn't going to be sfw. That's just how he is.

What he will do is emotionally manipulate you, and he's rather good at it. You wanted to escape? Ok. He'll let you have your way, let you be alone. All alone. All by yourself, in a little room, with no one at all, which is exactly how you would have left him, had you succeeded. He knows very well how that kind of loneliness bites. He's not totally cruel, though, and he won't withhold affection from you by the time he returns -- he doesn't need to, you'll already be crying and apologizing, which is exactly what he hoped for. Not that he won't briefly mock you for it.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're crying like that because you actually missed me. Oh, you did? Being all alone isn't particularly fun, now is it? I'm sure you understand that now."

How do they deal with rivals, or perceived rivals? Will they get rid of them? Will they kill them themselves, or find another way?

Kaeya's an insanely jealous person. It doesn't show on his face, but it eats at him internally. It doesn't matter if it's a love interest, a platonic friend, even a family member. It's all the same -- people who want to take your attention away from him, people who you smile at that aren't him, people you love that aren't him. He's not one to delude himself into thinking everyone secretly loves you romantically, rather, it doesn't matter. Romantic interests are the worst threat, sure, but friends and family aren't much better.

He sees himself as above killing, though. He has people to do that for him, and he likes knowing that he has that much power. He's not going to dirty his hands with it, and frankly, they're not even worthy of his time and effort to kill them. Knights and other connections can take care of it just as well.

How easy is it to make them mad? What does their anger look like?

As somewhat previously discussed, the primary form of making him mad is attempting an escape. That's on a whole new level of anger because it strikes at a very deep, wounding insecurity. On a normal day, though, he's more easily exasperated than angry. He gets frustrated somewhat easily, especially if you're trying exceptionally hard to be a brat. He has very clear warning signs. His signature little smirk drops, he gets quiet, he balls his hands into fists and digs his fingernails into his palms. At that stage, he's irritable and might snap at you, but won't get too angry until you ignore those signs and push it.

If you do push him, though, he gets genuinely mad, which is a very quiet anger at first -- he doesn't talk much when he's mad. He acts. You'll know he's snapped when he puts down whatever he's doing, and just silently stomps over to you, face completely empty and flat, looking down at you with a cold expression. It's enough to put fear in you, but at that point, even if you apologize, you're not getting out of whatever he's planned.

So they see you as above them, beneath them, or equal to them?

Strongly in the "below" camp, a rather unusual stance for a yandere. Like many things with him, there's an inexplicable duality going on there. You would think that if you loved someone so strongly you'd kidnap them, kill for them, and potentially suffer consequences just to have them, that you would really think highly of them. On the flip side, you would think that if you really saw someone as lowly, you wouldn't care for them, you'd see them as disposable.

But neither is true for Kaeya, no, he balances both obsessive love and complete narcissism regarding you. You're not disposable, no, he can't live without you, he needs you. But at the same time, you're not gonna be on any kind of pedestal. No, if anything, he sees himself on one, more like a throne, and you on the floor before him, how things should be.

He has a similar mindset to Zhongli or Albedo - you're fragile, you're dumb, you're incapable, and you need someone to care for you, protect you, guide you, someone who knows what's best for you, since you clearly don't. However, he's lacking in the attitude those other two have -- there's no seeing you as an angel here. There's no viewing himself as being absolutely honored to take care of you, or viewing protecting and caring for you as some kind of privilege that they're blessed to do, the way those two do.

No, as much as he loves those things, he'll never admit it, not even to himself really. Rather, his mentality is that you should be grateful. Here he is, a very highly respected, accomplished, capable person, and you...? You have what to offer, exactly? That's right, nothing, really, only cuteness and obedience, the latter of which you refuse to give him even though you really ought to. He's taking on the burden of making sure you don't get yourself killed, and how do you repay him? By getting mad about it, throwing a fit like some little kid? He puts up with your tantrums, which are really undeserved, by the way. He puts up with your disobedience and repeated rule violations, your sheer determination to defy him when he's going out of his way to do what's best for you.

One day, he thinks, you'll mature a little bit and understand why he does what he does, and when you do, you'll come groveling and sniffling about how sorry you are, how you'll never defy him again, how you'll be good and obedient from now on, and he'll love every second of it. He looks forward to that day quite a bit.

"Sigh... you know, you're pretty lucky I love you so much. You could stand to show me a little thanks, don't you think?"

How determined are they for you to love them? How hard will they try to make it happen? Or are they content just having you?

He's strongly determined, and yet... doesn't do much to try. It goes back to his mindset that really, you're the one who should be grateful for him, and eventually, you will love him. He's not gonna grovel to you or try different ways of making you love him, no, he's far too proud for that. But he's a smart man. He knows the effects that complete and total isolation other than one other person can have on someone. He's just going to sit back and wait for that effect to kick in, and slowly watch your fragile little mind deteriorate until you're desperate for affection. At which point, well, he can use it against you.

"You were so mean to me before, weren't you? You fought me every step of the way, and now you're just going to turn around and act like that didn't happen...? Well, if you're really sorry, I'll forgive you. But how am I supposed to believe you really are...? Maybe you can think of a way to prove it, hm?"

Bonus: Is there anything that makes them unique, in comparison to other yanderes?

Probably the severity of his degradation. As aforementioned, most yanderes, even the more confident or cocky individuals, either worship the ground their beloved walks on and sees themselves as beneath them, OR sees their darling as some sort of fragile, angelic being, and they are simply a protector or caretaker to that being.

It's a bit different with him, ever the narcissist. It's a strange duality born out of a rare mix of neediness, obsession, and pride. You're more like a toy, or a pet - an invaluable pet that he could never part with, but a pet nonetheless. He certainly looks down on you more than the average yandere - he mentally associates you as naive, fragile, even dumb like a lot of the aforementioned protector/caretaker types, but without the reverence to make up for it.

It's a bizarre duality that not even he fully understands - don't think for a moment that that means he'll ever tire of you, or view you as disposable. No, he's actually one of the most obsessive ones, yet very demanding of attention and praise, rather than giving it.

He frequently tests you - things like leaving the door unlocked, waiting outside just to see if you'll try it. Seeing you open that door, watching your face go from ecstatic excitement and drop to wide-eyed terror, it's priceless.

"My, my, you didn't waste any time at all, did you? Why do you look so surprised...? You should know I wouldn't slip up that badly."

Pet names, but in the most infuriatingly condescending way, and uses them more often when he's mad and trying to warn you that you're pushing his limits. Particularly fond of "sweetheart," especially with a low warning tone and clenched teeth.

General perverseness: how sexual of a person are they? What’s their drive like? How touchy do they get? Do they have any reservations about sexuality?

Horny fucker, all the way. The man has a lot of stress and frustration in his life already, that much more if you're... less than compliant with your new lifestyle. Sex, especially rough and hard, is a fantastic stress reliever.

Very little reservation. He's not crude about it, but he tends to make subtle innuendos very frequently, and laughs at your embarrassed reactions. Definitely the type to pull the whole shtick in which he says something with a blatant sexual undertone, then elaborates in a way to make it sound like having meant something else, follows with that smirk and says, "Why? What did you think I meant?" It's something he really enjoys doing, and loves to get embarrassed reactions out of people, particularly yourself.

"Touchy" doesn't begin to describe it. Pretty much from the moment you meet him, he's got his hands somewhere on your person. He grabs your shoulders when he stands behind you, he wraps an arm around you from the side when he walks up to you, he's always pressing his hands on your back and sides whenever you're navigating the streets, walking through doorways, wraps an arm around your waist when sitting next to you. It's highly uncomfortable, but really, he's just got something very subtly, but very strongly intimidating about him. You almost don't want to confront him on it. If you do, he'll laugh it off, and stop -- for maybe 48 hours or so, and then he'll be right back at it.

To the surprise of, well, everyone who's ever met him, he doesn't actually live up to the rumors of having been around the block, so to speak. His experience is actually little to none - that kinda happens when you push everyone around you away. Not that he'd ever let you know that, of course, and will probably lie if asked, but you can gleam a little bit of truth from slightly awkward movements and a bit of noticeable shakiness.

How forceful are they? Do they care about your willingness?

Kind of like Razor, the issue is that he loves you, and what better way is there of expressing love? He's not much for gift-giving or words of affirmation - no, he's a lot better with words of degradation, it comes more naturally to him. And he's certainly not one to enjoy acts of service -- well, not doing them, he'll gladly take them as a sign of your love, though. No, he expresses love through touch. It's like how, when you hug someone you really love, someone you missed, you squeeze them extra tight - the love manifests as a physical urge for some strong expression. Humans are physical about their emotions -- we punch walls when we're mad, we jump up and down when we're happy, and when you love someone, sometimes you just really, really want to pound them into a mattress as hard as physically possible. That's normal. That, and really, he's got his vices. He's actually fairly weak when it comes to resisting temptations, and prone to give in to urges for physical sensations like drunkenness and sex.

Is another one to be convinced that, with time, you'll come around. And is absolutely the top candidate to be one for using your own body against you - if you get wet, if you whimper, if you cum, that's just proof that you really do want this, that you're just being difficult because you enjoy being a brat, and he'll be sure to tell you that.

What sort of kinks or fetishes do they have, or would they fill?

This is nearly indistinguishable from punishment, sadistic bastard

D/S dynamics

Arrogant fucker wants to be served and worshipped, you could see it coming from a mile away. Anything that puts you beneath him is going to make him happy - anything where you're where you're supposed to be. There's a lot of options, but it doesn't really matter, as long as he feels like he's in control and ownership of you in some way, and as long as you act accordingly.

He wants it to be something that’s not just for sex, but rather, he’ll end up carrying it over into normal life, whether you like it or not. If you just went along with it in hopes of getting it over with once he cums, you’re going to be in for a treat when it starts to carry over. He gets a little too used to being worshipped, and decides he likes that submissive attitude on you enough to want to see it all the time.

Petplay/Collaring

It really helps that he sees you as something of a pet already, but really, the collar is the selling point. Even if you never go outside, there's something unbearably hot about the possessiveness of it all - really, it's there to remind you of your status as property. He wants to own you, and for you to be forced to acknowledge that he owns you, and there's really no better way to do that than something with his name on it. It's even better with a leash, one he can pull on when he's fucking you to pull you back onto him over, and over, and over, hearing it choke you the more he shortens it.

But really, having you crawl towards him on all fours and obey little commands so simple they're humiliating is pretty nice, too.

Impact pain/painplay

There's really nothing quite so powerful feeling as watching you cry and squirm from it, y'know? He's another one that just likes the marks his hands, belts, or anything else can leave all over the skin of your ass and the back of your legs. The thing with him, though, is it's not even always a punishment, he just does it for fun, and that makes it unpredictable. Will definitely make you count, it's a sadistic torture for your mind and body.

Throatfucking

May be used as a punishment measure, may just be because he's craving it, either way, even if you have a gag reflex, you won't for very long. He'll train it out of you gradually, grabbing the back of your head and just slamming all the way down into your throat, holding you there, making you choke - it's a beautiful sound, really, listening to you gag, all while your throat spasms around him, it's the best feeling, really, and will definitely be used as a threat if you need incentives to behave.

Choking

Ties into the dynamics, but really, there’s not much to say on this one. He likes the power trip from having his hands wrapped around your throat, seeing you struggle, watching your face go red, hearing those little choking noises. It puts power over you into his hands, and if you get pleasure from it against your own will, that’s even better.

How do they feel about pregnancy or babies? Do they want them?

Absolutely one of the ones to use it as a tool. If you have a baby, you'll be so much more bound to him. You'll need him more, you'll want him around more, you'll be much less likely to leave, and in a way it feels a little bit like a sign of ownership over you.

That being said, he's also acutely aware of his jealous tendencies, and realizes he would also be very likely to become jealous if he felt like you loved a baby more than him, or gave it more attention and affection than you do him. He doesn't like the thought.

So ultimately, the latter side prevents him from willingly trying, but if you really, really have defiance issues even after he's tried everything he can to break you help you adjust, he might consider it.

What kind of (nsfw) punishments would they use?

If it's mild enough, he can just take the route of extremely rough fucking - it gets rid of the frustration, he likes hearing you whimper and squeal, and he can leave lots of little bruises as reminders of what not to do in the future.

But, again, he already gets off to putting you in pain - it'll be that much worse when you've done something to deserve it. Harder hits, no mercy whatsoever, and he just loves all your little cries, wiping away your tears and smiling at you, right before bringing down whatever instrument of pain he's chosen again. If you really, really make him mad, and he really wants to make you cry, he's not above fucking your ass, either, watching you cry and beg, but you'll learn with time that begging doesn't ever get you out of anything.

What body parts of their darling do they like the most?

Definitely an ass man. Likes fucking you in doggy, seeing the ripple every time you bounce back off of him, pulling your hair or arms to add some force. He likes seeing all the little red marks that his hands and belts and anything else will leave on the skin, views it like marks of possession. Grabbing, beating, fucking, it's all good.

#Jesus take the wheel im too nasty for this #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere kaeya #tw: dark content #tw: noncon #tw: non/con

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youryanderedaddy · 3 years

Note

I like your posts, it's always cool. May i ask a yandere concept between an innocent, protected princess and a prince who obsessed with her from the first time they met, and force against her will. Thanks so much, love your writing :3

Thanks, anon, that means a lot <3 If you haven't noticed, I am oBseSSed with royalty stuff so I rlly enjoyed writing this. It's slightly different tho, but the idea is there.

Title: We all fall down

tw: female reader, non - consensual touching, obsessive behavior, coercion, implied forced marriage, war mention, abuse of power

It was cold when you woke up, terribly so. The room was spacious enough, there was bright sunlight coming from all four windows on each wall and you were sure that your sheets were warm and puffy even without looking down at them, yet it still felt freezing. You soon realized the place wasn’t simply cold, it was different too. It looked nothing like your own room back at the Southern Palace with its countless colourful pictures, books shattered all over the ground and a fireplace just across the queen – sized bed. Before you had a chance to sigh in annoyance, a quick glance to the other side reminded you of the bigger problem. Him.

“Good morning, princess.” The man greeted you cheerfully, his voice still deep and husky from the early hour. He was laying against the wooden doorframe, the sly smirk you had grown to hate over the years once again adorning his red lips. You stared at him for a moment, then rubbed your eyes to chase the fatigue away, fruitlessly so. You were too tired and sleep – deprived to play – pretend, which of course didn’t go unnoticed by the nobleman.

“You don’t look too well, princess.” He teased with a cheeky grin and walked towards the bed, stopping just before his legs hit the edge of the frame. You puffed softly, but remained quiet just so you wouldn’t have to answer him just yet. “And look at your state, darling…” The heir continued, clicking his tongue in a mocking “tsk, tsk,tsk”. “Your nightgown is a mess, I can see all of your beautiful curves.” The heir paused to lick his lips in a disgusting, suggestive way, and you had to repress the need to vomit all over the beautiful yellow sheets. “In our kingdom such appearance counts as an invitation, did you know that?” He added, smiling sharply, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, satisfied at the way his words made you embarrassed, flustered and jumpy so early in the morning.

“Your Highness, I would like to properly remind you that it was you who forced me to drink and dance all night.” You responded heatedly, all while fixing the straps of your silky dress to at least cover your cleavage. “You wouldn’t let go of my hand for a second. It’s your fault that I look like this.” You remarked, slightly offended by the man’s jokes, despite being used to his terrible humor after all those long years of shared parties and celebrations.

“If that is really so, my lady, please let me make it up to you.” The prince replied in the same smooth, carefree voice of his, the one he used before while talking to the maids and the peasant girls he wanted to bed. It made you sick to think of yourself as just another of his conquests, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth – you couldn’t stand the dark – haired male, his arrogance and absolute ignorance. “Join me for breakfast and I shall have our best cook serve your favorite meal.” The heir announced and winked at you before turning on his heels and finally leaving the room without hearing whether you agreed to his offer or not. You didn’t even have the chance to ask him how he knew what your favorite dish was or why he entered your room without permission, such a lack of manners was unsuited for a soon-to-be king. Perhaps you could use his inconsiderate behavior as an excuse to stay in bed until lunch but deep down you knew it was pointless. The egotistic little bastard knew you had no choice since you two had a lot to discuss.

---

The breakfast, if not anything else, was rich and delicious, each bite tasty and mouth – watering. The sweet aroma of cinnamon tea, vanilla and powdered sugar filled your senses with ease and a little bit of nostalgia for your childhood. The hardest part was yet to come, you wanted to deal with it fast and go home as soon as possible. As for Arthur, it was the first time you saw him serious with his brows arched and his thoughts all over the place. The uneasiness came back with full force.

“I think you know what we want, princess.” The male declared sternly after looking at the map for a while. His eyes were blue and clear, piercing in the way they were focused on you and you alone with no one else in the hall to act as a barrier between you and the monster. You understood why it had to be only you two, but these deals were always an open secret in both kingdoms, so there weren’t many reasons to keep the tradition going. “We want our territory back. We want you to surrender.” The heir hissed eerily under his breath, his pupils fixed on your frame, burning the skin underneath the thick layer of rough fabric.

You didn’t know how to respond to this – the dynasty’s requests had always been ridiculous and far – fetched, but never as impossible as this one. Yes, your land used to belong to the East centuries ago, but after several long, bloody, sacrificial wars where many of your men lost their lives, it was won fair and square. Now all your subjects lived there happily and freely, rightfully so.

“Your Majesty, please don’t dwell on the past. It will never come back.” You responded shortly after, laughing nervously at the end, hoping that would be enough for Arthur to drop the subject. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case.

“Is that so, dearest? You have two weeks then.” The prince said coldly, narrowing his eyes like a fox. You opened your mouth to speak but quickly got cut off. “Prepare your troops, train the soldiers, announce the incoming war to your people.” The man chuckled darkly and threw the map all the way across the room. “You better get ready for a thunderstorm.” He added just to mess with you some more, just to see your face turn white from the shock and the panic.

“You can’t do that!” You shouted out suddenly and stood up from your chair, feeling cornered and suffocated. You hated the prince’s constant teasing and flirty remarks but you would have never guess him to be a cold-blooded conqueror. “This is too cruel even for you!” You screamed, the tears already blooming down your cheeks, hot and wet. Arthur spared you one condescending look before moving closer and trapping your body against the table, towering over you both physically and metaphorically, as if saying “Let’s see who has the stronger mind.”

“I will get what I want no matter the cost and there is little you can do to stop me, princess.” The heir pronounced slowly, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his hard gaze, full of intense yet unreadable emotion. There was nothing left of the sly cheerful boy standing against your doorframe, teasing you about meaningless little things, and you almost missed him now. “But what you can do is stop the needless violence and bloodshed, Y/N.” You despised the way your eyes lit up at his words, but, as always, your duty was above your comfort and happiness. “What can I do?” You uttered quietly, a part of you too scared to hear the answer, the other anticipating it.

“Marry me.” The prince stated in a deep patronizing voice. His eyes were dark and sharp, just like before, and there wasn’t a trace of his usual gleeful smile. He grabbed your wrists in a painful grip and pulled them up, holding them against his broad shoulders. “We can unite the kingdoms and live our Happily Ever After. No one has to die.” The man whispered surprisingly softly, his chest heaving with each passing breath. “I can make you happy, dearest.”

You gasped in shock as soon as the proposal left his lips. Every fiber in your body was frozen still, your whole being shaken up by the unexpected offer.

“Why do you want to marry me?” You asked frantically, squirming to loosen up his grasp on your hands just to feel it tighten up even more. This was going to bruise for sure. “Isn’t it obvious?” The noble exhaled slowly, staring at you, trying desperately to find the compassion and affection he hoped you had grown to hold for him over the years. His heart broke once he realized there wasn’t any, but it didn’t matter. Feelings could change in a matter of minutes.

“I’ve loved you since day one, my princess.” His attention drifted to your open mouth, especially your soft full lips. Oh, how much he dreamt of taking you and relishing in the whines and moans you would surely let out once he decided to claim you as his own. “All I’ve ever wanted is you.” The heir confessed, his face moving closer and closer to your own, forcing you to arch your back more and more until it hit the table. Before you knew it, he was pinning you to the hard wooden surface, caging you in, kissing you violently, furiously. You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t say no.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere oc #yandere male x reader #yandere oc x reader #yancore #yandere oneshot #male yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere x you #yandere concept

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stardusthhj · 3 years

Text

We fell in love where the sun never rose - 01

TW: mention of death, weapons, bruises. Reader’s discretion advised.

Genre: mafia au. Gang au. Revenge au.

WC: 2,3k

Wrath is a feeling that could push anyone to extents they didn't think they could go to. And wrath is what pushed you in front of the black door, adorned by mildew and brownish cracks. You half expected a prestigious mansion. But after a second thought it was all the more logical that underground businesses were hiding- taking place underground. You softly chuckled at your own stupidity. The man next to you stretched his hand towards the door - or what was left of it- motioning you to push it open. You looked at him as his black hair fell to his eyes. His locks were thick and long, his hairstyle very trendy -just like the rest of him actually. He had the kind of face that would let anyone struck in awe. It would have affected you as well, hadn’t you be blinded long ago by everything you now longed for. By the sheer reason for which you stood before the door next to Hyunjin. His playful smirk wouldn't leave his lips. You observed him for a long time before and never had you seen his lips falling down. Whatever this smile was hiding it was probably more pain than a human could take.

You focused your attention back on the door, pushing it open. The light was flickering inside, as a long dark corridor took pride of place. You side-eyed Hyunjin, waiting for his signal. He walked in first, walking straight. As you crossed the seemingly never-ending corridor, you couldn't help your eyes from wandering to the countless doors on each side of the corridor. The air was heavy, or maybe was it your steps which finally came to a halt when Hyunjin stopped in front of a giantic door. It was none like the others, adourned in brown and gold. The door was beautifully decorated, like in the many novels you read about arabian architecture, with all the arabesque and gems. But something, right in the center of the door, took pride of place. The head of a lion, which paws were clunched. Its mouth hang open showing countless teeth, through which a red gem could be seen. Whoever carved this majestic animal in the door was insanely talented. "Are you going to stare at the door for more time? Because last time I checked you came all this way to become part of the gang." The sickening sweet voice drew you out of your thoughts. You shook your head ever so slightly, finally looking at him, waiting for the moment he’d push the door. Surprisingly he bent forward until his breath caressed your right cheek in a way that would make anyone blush. "I am not going to do it for you, dear. Push the door or run away, but be quick." You could hear his smile growing at the end of his sentence, voice dripping with honey. You exhaled, trying to get back your composure. You sighed one more time - maybe you were standing before Death. But you decided to keep Her close the day you decided to get your Revenge. You worked too hard for cowarding away now. And at that, the door flew open, letting the inside of the room be seen. Two luxurious brown couch were face to face, a small glass table in the middle. Under it was a white rug, hiding for some centimeters the marble floor. To your left could be seen a vase adorned by pristine drawings. Beyond the apparent living room, an open kitchen could be seen. It was all white, from the tiles on the wall to the furniture, next to which was a door. A black one. Very simplist given the room it was in. On the right side of the giant room a staircase could be seen. As pristine as the other items in the room. Not so idiot, after all, you thought. Hyunjin put his hand on your right shoulder, envelopping you, though his arm didn't touch your left shoulder. "Someone's eyes are constantly astray, it seems. The person you're looking for is that way." He said, his demeanor never-changing. He led you to the black door, the one behind which your future would be sealed. You knew the second your eyes wandered on it, that beyound it took place the most macabre ambiance. You understood by now, that whatever doors you crossed were the doors to your future, and that Hyunjin would let you open them yourself. He didn't want to seal your future, you were foolish enough to do so yourself. And so did you. You opened the black entrance, standing in the threshold of what seemed a normal study. You scanned the room, eyes narrowing. Book shelves were on each side of the walls. In front of the door was a brown desk on which messy papers were scattered. Behind the study was a window, letting enter little to no amount of light. Seated behind the desk was the black haired man with which you would probably trade your life for your goal. He eyed you intensely before motioning you to sit on the chair in front of his desk. You slowly walked, not even paying attention to Hyunjin leaving the room behind you. You sat, now seeing the man from very close. The first thing you noticed was his eyes. They were glassy. Not in the sense of looking teary, no. Glassy like glass. Thick, white, void. Almost as if a veil was drawn before his pupils. He seemed so cold, so cruel. "So?" he said, his voice not as rough as you expected it to be. You found yourself wordless. How? You prepared for this moment for at least six months. You knew what you had to

say, yet you couldn't bring yourself to say these words now. Were they too cruel? But to whom exactly? "I have a goal. I came here to accomplish it." you managed to say , surprised at your voice which didn't betray any of your feelings. You mentally gave yourself a head pat. "Revenge, am I wrong?" You looked up to him, astonished. Your reaction amused him, and he chuckled softly. "Do you think you are the only person that ever crossed my door asking for revenge? Let me tell you something; every Stray Kids member first joined to get revenge. Even the leader himself." He smirked in an arrogant way. "If you want your revenge, prove me your worth. Let me allow it to you."

"I do not intend on telling you the story of my life." you said, harsher than you intended.

"Cold eyes, cold words, cold demeanor. I never expected you to narrate me your little story. I don't really care about it. I only need you to prove me with actions. You know what we say? Actions speak louder than words." He said, adding a wink at his last word. "But before you do anything, you'll receive a little training. Just so that you don't die." He leaned over, both elbows on the table and his head supporting his head. He starred at you for a little before shouting "Rhino". A boy with brown hair immediately appeared. The place was huge, how did he hear him and came so fast? You wondered. Was he ready all this time being? You eyed the man as he stood before you. His eyes were very pretty, and unlike the two other men, alive. His pupils were black, feathered with long eyelashes. His nose was long and sharp, and his upper lip was a bit bigger than his lower. He looked pretty, just like the two other men you met. His gaze fell on you and you found it hard to breathe. His eyes were surely alive, but they sent daggers through your whole being. He made it clear in one gaze that he was less than happy with your prensence.

"There's no going back, now" Said the man with glassy eyes.

The first steps you took were hesitant. You felt like being entirely swallowed up in the giant training room. Weapons were organized on shelves; guns, knives, and some wood-looking swords. You wondered why swords were present in the first place. On the ground were discarded thick rugs which you remembered using in high school. You didn’t notice your mouth was so wide open until the brown haired man next to you mentioned it. You looked at your feet, embarrassed. Now is not the time to be embarrassed! You thought. The man -Rhino, if you remembered it well- stepped first. He climbed up the rugs, heading towards the wooden swords.

“We’ll start with this. It’s convenient; you’ll learn how to many something else than a gun. Plus you won’t hurt yourself.” The first words he spoke to you were void of any feelings, just like his eyes were. But it didn’t matter; you weren’t here for acquaintances but to get to your goal. You stepped on the rugs as well, taking one of the wooden weapon he lent you. It was surprisingly heavier than it seemed. And so was his gaze. He was judging you, evaluating you through your very movements. It made you nervous to the point you wondered if he could read in your breath. “Revenge” he said, “did a relative got murdered by a gang?” You stiffened. How could someone be so insensitive? You chose to hold his gaze, frowning. Well, if he can read you so well, he should be able to read your anger. “It has nothing to do with you. You are supposed to train me, not talk to me.” You spat, venom dripping from your words. If he didn’t mind hurting others, he might as well not mind being hurt himself.

The right part of his upper lip lifted in what you supposed would be the closer of a smile you’ll ever see on him. “Sure. Be it. But then don’t expect me to tell you your wrongdoings. Find out by yourself.” His tone had nothing to do with the so called smile. He was mad. Mad at you. “So big boy likes to hurt others but can’t stand a simple remark? Is the poor boy hurt?” You feigned concern as you leaned closer to his heart, pretending to listen to his heartbeats. In a second, your back encountered the rug in a way that would sure bruise you. When you opened your eyes, a growl escaping your lips, he was right on top of you, his eyebrows closer than possible. His face was mere centimeters away, his breath fanning your own. Now that he was so close, you could see his eyes well. They weren’t black, they were dark brown, with some yellow and red tint here and there. “You surely like to talk back. In a real fight, you’d already be dead. Talk less, act more.” He said before standing up, straightening his white shirt in the process. You were speechless. All this time you thought you were at least good at fighting. You stood up yourself, your back hurting more than it should have. Damn it, you mentally cursed.

Rhino looked at you over his shoulder “get up, we have a long way to go.”

Weeks passed and the least you could say was that you significantly improved. You also noticed a slight change in Rhino’s demeanor. He would from times to times bring water bottles, and sometimes would even patch the handle of the sword you were used to many. You figured out it was his way of caring. Through very small things. And it was fine by you. Even if the only words you would exchange with him were about work. He even taught you a handful of laws, such as always protecting the leader, not doing anything that would put the whole gang in danger, sacrificing yourself for the well-being of the gang… all these rules you couldn’t care less about. For you would not give up on your life and your goal for a bunch of men you did not even know. It had been weeks, yet the only persons you ever encountered where Hyunjin and Rhino. You wondered where the others were. But it didn’t matter, you had to get ready to the day of the test. The rest was a mere concern for you.

Resting on the small bed of the room you were assigned to, you mentally replayed your last training session with Rhino. The way he held his gun, the way he effortlessly never missed any target. You wanted to be as good as him. No. You wanted to be better. A knock on your door drew you out of your thoughts. You opened it, revealing the brown-haired man you were so accustomed to. “Chan told me to inform you; tomorrow you are going on a mission with us. It’s as simple as handling a drug deal. There’s really not much to do, but have this.” He put in your hands a bulletproof vest. “Am I allowed to…” “As long as he doesn’t find out it’s fine. Wear it under your clothes. Wouldn’t it be a shame if you died before you’d even join?” He cut you off. You frowned. Why would Chan ask you to come help in a mission when you didn’t have enough training? Why would Rhino give you a bulletproof vest? It just didn’t make sense. You politely thanked him, sending him away. You slumped back on your bed, eyes fixed on the white ceiling. They really thought you were dumb. Soon enough, you were going to pass the test you prepared hard for. The exam they disguised as a mission. You thought about it for a long time. It was most likely they would test you on your loyalty, ability to apply the rules Rhino taught you and on the way you can use weapons. You clenched you fists, sitting on the edge of the bed. Whatever it would cost, you were going to pass the test. Not because you wanted to be part of Stray Kids, but because you needed to. It was your only way to get to your revenge. And your revenge was your it. It came before anyone’s life. Including your own.

#skz #skz angst #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz high school au #skz au #skz mafia #skz mafia au #stray kids mafia #hyunjin series #hyunjin angst #hyunjin au #hyunjin #bang chan #bangchan scenario #minho imagines #shade of evil

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allthingsarmin · 3 years

Note

fckboy armin? + degredation is always a good combination <3

I was so excited to write this dose of Armin brainrot, omg 😩

If it’s alright with you, anon, I did this request in more of a headcanon format, but the ending is more of a fanfiction format. I’m also sorry I took so long to write this omg.

MINORS DNI!

Fem!Reader, FemBodied!Reader

TW: Mentions of NSFW topics + degradation, mean!armin, manipulation, fuckboy topics

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin whose style resembles that of the horny, manipulative, ghost-y men on campus yet is just too hot for you to handle. The way he wears dark silver rings on his left thumb, middle, and pointer fingers that accentuate his slender, pale fingers and clean-cut nails. The way the small, dark tattoos on his knuckles, right forearm, and collarbone add an aura of mystery and aggression to his being that just exudes sex. The way he wears a gold chain necklace with distressed jeans and a plain t-shirt that’s just a little too tight and shows off his pecks. Or the way he wears long black joggers and an oversized long-sleeve black shirt that makes him look taller. The way he doesn’t wear his mask correctly, always hanging on one of his ears which compliment his stud earrings and devilish smirk. The way he is broke because he’s always spending money on the newest, trendy shoes. The way he always uses way too much cologne… One look at him, and you can sense his ‘asshole attitude,’ but you can’t deny it makes your lower regions pulsate.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who’s body is so perfectly sculpted and toned that it leaves you thinking dirty thoughts in class. The way he sits in class with his sleeves rolled up, laying back relaxed in the chair, right leg bouncing out of boredom as his hard cock becomes noticeable in his grey sweatpants makes you want to run to your dorm and touch yourself. The way his abs call out to you to graze your fingertips against them when he lifts his shirt up to wipe away the sweat after walking home from the gym. The way his beautifully slender fingers hold his phone or push his hair back when he’s frustrated makes you think about how good they would feel inside you. The way his accentuated collarbone peaks through his thin t-shirts, allowing you to see the hickeys and imprints of love bites from god knows how many women makes you jealous. The way his skin is so pale and so soft that his blonde leg hair becomes barely noticeable. The way his golden hair brings out a plethora of the shades of blue in his eyes, and oh how his haircut suits him perfectly, shaping his jawline very well. How his beautiful blue eyes dangerously lure you into him, the soft but manipulative stares he gives you. How he can’t seem to maintain eye contact with you for more than three seconds because he looks at your breasts. The sinister yet sexy smiles he has plastered upon his face when talking with his friends about ‘some other whore’ he fucked the other day… Armin is attractive, and he knows he is attractive. Though you hate how arrogant his looks have made him, his suggestive stares and lip bites from such a handsome man make your heart flutter and mind only focused on one thing.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who is always posting thirst traps on instagram. You know… The pictures with the squinted eyes and the bitten lower bottom lip, either showing off his money or new shoes, pictures beside a nice car, suggestive pictures with the new girls he’s been fucking recently, biting his chain necklaces because he thinks it’s sexy. Only follows ‘successful’ men and offensive meme accounts but mostly follows half-naked women and supermodels. Leaves nasty comments on ugly womens’ pictures, calling them whores while he’s in hot girls’ DMs sending unsolicited dick pics and asking for nudes. Has thousands of followers, mostly from the party girls and rude men who go to his college. Won’t let you tag him in a photo unless he ‘looks hot.’

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who takes slutty gym pictures with his shirt off, abs out, shorts low enough to see his V line, hands in his hair, and a wink. Sends it to every girl in his snapchat contacts and posts it on his story with the ‘slide up’ text.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who hits you with the “you up?” at 2am on snapchat after ghosting you for two months. Tells you how much he misses your lewd moans and sloppy cunt, and then after pressuring you to give him nudes, he saves them and then doesn’t talk to you for at least a week.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who is so intelligent and dangerously manipulative. Who is so smart that he doesn’t need or want to pay attention in class, who convinces you to let him keep the nudes you sent him on snapchat, who reels you right back in when you try to move on from him.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who was nice to you at first, befriending you when you looked so alone, shy, and innocent, who only chose you because you looked so easy to take advantage of when he finally closes in on you.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who says he doesn’t want ‘any of that relationship stuff’ because all of his exes were crazy and that he only wants to date hot chicks.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who only texts you at ungodly hours during the weekdays and plays games like ‘20 questions’ with you so he can ask you if you’re either a virgin or a whore, if you like oral, if you’ve thought about him in dirty ways before… or truth or dare, asking you if you if you want to be his slut or daring you to send him lewd pictures of yourself.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who takes every chance he can get to turn anything sexual: the way your skirt is just a little too short that makes him suddenly grab your upper thighs, the way you innocently lick your ice cream cone on a hot summer day - he tells you to put your tongue on his cock instead, how you put your hair up in a high ponytail just makes him want to pull on it and kiss the crook of your neck… it all leaves him clouded with dirty thoughts.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who calls you ‘babe’ and refers to you as his ‘girl’ even though he has a million bitches on the side.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who makes you feel like shit about yourself because he’s constantly sending you womens’ profiles on Instagram, saying you should look more like them and ‘get a nicer ass.’

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who becomes more controlling as your sexual relationship continues, basically forcing you to let him check your phone in case you're messaging other dudes and being naughty for men besides him but gets defensive when you want to see his phone.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who refuses to eat you out but expects you to praise his cock with your slutty mouth and wet tongue.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who doesn’t really care about your personal problems or pain, and whenever you tell him you’re hurting on the inside, he offers to let you come over to his house so that he can fuck you: “once my cock is inside you again, you’ll forget all about your sadness.”

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who doesn’t use condoms because he ‘can’t feel anything’ when he wears them, so he just assumes that you’re on birth control when he cums inside you.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who violates your privacy when he’s online gaming with his closest friends, Eren and Jean, as he tells them through the microphone about how tight and wet your pussy is and how much you enjoy being treated like a slut, your mouth full of his cock and pussy dripping with his cum… going as far as sending secretive videos he took of you to them where you’re whimpering and begging for Armin’s cock.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who pressures you to do risky things you don’t want to do, but you just can’t find the courage to say no to him when he stares at you with his intense blue eyes… like when he asks you to sit next to him in the back of the class then without your approval, sneaks his slender fingers into your panties and starts harshly playing with your clit. He devilishly smirks as you try to suppress your cries of disapproval. Or like when he convinces you to let him take videos of you when you’re in a position that exposes your slick cunt to him so well. Or even how he manipulates you into trying something new that you’ve never been comfortable with, like swallowing his thick cum, letting him put you in a full-nelson, maybe letting him choke you while he spits in your mouth.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who finally closes in on you, begging you to help him study for the upcoming test since he wasn’t paying attention in class because ‘you’re just so distracting’ to him, acting so smart and innocent and respectably in front of the teacher when Armin really knows that your slutty outfits and wet pussy says otherwise… so you excitedly go over to his dorm, thankful that finally it will be a normal get-together where you could actually find out more about Armin instead of finding out more about how he likes his cock sucked. Upon entering his dorm, it is apparent that he never planned on studying with you as his textbooks are nowhere to be found, and he is sitting on the couch half-naked with Netflix on the TV.

ᵔᴥᵔ “Oh hey, y/n, didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” he says nonchalantly. You unknowingly stare at his broad shoulders, his strong chest, and of course his V-line that is not hard to miss as he carelessly talks shit about his teachers. “See something you like?” arrogance seething from his teeth as he brushes back his blond hair. You don’t say anything as your face grows red. He takes your hand and leads you to the couch. “Come on, let’s watch something.”

ᵔᴥᵔ The sound of skin slapping drowns out the voices on the TV. You don’t even know how Armin managed to get you into this position again where you’re so submissive under him, giving into him yet again. He flips you over on your back, and he props himself up, looking over your figure that’s so pathetically displayed below him. You can see his angelic hair stick to his forehead as the sweat drips down his soft but sharp cheeks. The look in his eyes has gone dark, and his smile is sinister as if he was a predator about to devour a prey. He wickedly laughs as you grind your needy cunt against his hard cock. This is where he really gets mean.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin loves to degrade you like the whore you are, constantly reminding you just how easy you are to take advantage of, how easy you are to win over with just some dick, how easy it is to make your sloppy cunt squirt and tingle from multiple orgasms, how easy it is to make you whimper and beg for his thick cock to make a complete mess of your pussy.

ᵔᴥᵔ “You really didn’t think I invited you over just to study, did you?” he snickers as he cruelly and slowly thrusts into your aching cunt, making eye contact with you and grinning as your face turns red. He grabs your throat, choking you, and begins to thrust faster which pulls shaky moans from under your breath. He inches close to your ear and whispers, “you even came over here without wearing underwear under that short skirt of yours…” he switches to the other ear, “and when I started touching your dirty cunt during the movie, you were already so wet,” you shiver at his words. He pulls back and gives you a gentle slap with his left hand, his rings stinging your face, and uses his right hand to twist your perky nipples. He begins to laugh, “but I’m not surprised that a filthy slut like you - my filthy slut - would think of such impure thoughts during something as innocent as watching a movie.” Armin leans closer to your face again, still thrusting into you at a quick pace. His warm breath raises goosebumps on your skin. He harshly grabs your mouth and tells you to open, which you submissively comply with, and he spits into your mouth which causes you to whimper. He smacks the side of your thigh. “You like being treated like some depraved slut don’t you?” You don’t reply, but the fluttering in your tight pussy says otherwise. He flips you onto your stomach, your breasts mushing into the couch, and without warning, he forces his girthy cock into your tight pussy. He is thrusting into you at an ungodly pace, making you scream and moan incoherent words. “What’s my little slut saying? Use your words, baby,” he teases. At this point, you can only call out his name. “A-armin…” He begins to torturously thrust into that one spot, and within seconds, you're bucking your hips, intensely squirting onto his couch and leaving a sopping wet dark spot. “Fucking whore, gonna have to buy a new couch because you can’t control your filthy cunt,” he growls into your ear. He quickly flips you over onto your back again, wanting to see your face. Your face is contorted with such pleasure; your eyes are rolled to the back of your head, and your mouth is wide open with drool dripping down your jaw. Armin shudders, his cock getting even harder in your tight pussy. “So hot… such a lewd slut.” He immediately brings out his phone, taking a picture. “Want me to show my friends what a cock-hungry whore you are?” You quickly nod. “So fucking pathetic,” he snarls. “I’m going to destroy your cunt, slut.” He shoves his warm tongue in your mouth, gently grabbing the hair on your foggy head. “I’m gonna break you in so bad,” he mumbles, wiping the tears from your face.

ᵔᴥᵔ fuckboy!armin who maybe in fact does want to have that ‘relationship shit’ with you ~

__________________________

Requests are open, and feedback is appreciated <3

#armin arlert #armin x reader #aot x reader #armin smut #aot smut

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mostlycompetentwriter · 3 years

Note

Hi hello! So pleased to hear your requests are open! Can I please request for a marriage au mafia style where the reader gets hurt or assaulted by the rival gang in front of him and due to being restraint he can't get to her and he cries and begs for her stop. Then thankfully Chan and the others come to the rescue and you want nothing more than to be in chnagbins arms. Maybe a lot of angst and fluff afterwards too. Can't wait to see what you come up with 💕

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Changbin

Warnings: Mention of violence and blood; cursing and language; lots of angst and some fluff at the end; mature content

Genre: Mafia AU; Established Relationship

Where are you?

It feels like a dream. The very strange sensation of that in-between state because you were incapable of distinguishing consciousness from something less than.

Am I alive?

You must be, aware of the sensation of cold, shivers running down your spine, raising little bumps across your arms...

“Princess!”

What? Did you hear that?

“Y/N!” the voice came again. More urgently this time.

You realized then, with the grounding agency of that sound, that your eyes were closed, but it was a struggle to open them, slowly coming back from whatever had sucked you down, wincing at the dull pain in your head.

“Y/N,” the voice sighed this time. Like it was relieved to see you cognizant. “Tell me you’re okay, love.”

Love?

It hit you at that moment, the sound of the voice. One you could recognize no matter the degree of darkness holding you under, and you managed to open your eyes enough to meet Changbin’s gaze from across the room.

“Changbin?” you questioned. Or, at least, you thought you said his name. You couldn’t be sure since the sounds around you made it seem like your head was underneath water, distorting everything, and the roof of your mouth was dry and tasteless.

“That’s right, love,” Changbin said, and you struggled to keep him in your line of vision, watching his form swim and dance in strange directions.

“I don’t feel good,” you admitted, hearing what might’ve been a sharp intake of breath.

“Where does it hurt?” Changbin asked, and you frowned at how difficult the question was since you weren’t sure how to answer it.

There was too much numbness, and you were far more concerned with restoring your senses, slowly feeling your ears open back up and the things surrounding you come into focus.

Meanwhile, Changbin was still talking. “I’ll kill them all,” he growled. “This was never supposed to happen.”

Them? you thought to yourself vacantly, gingerly turning around as much as your bindings would allow, realizing only after a brief relapse of confusion that your hands and legs were tied to the metal chair you sat on.

“Where are we?” you asked, finding your voice amidst everything else.

“I’m not sure,” Changbin whispered, and he suddenly sat upright in his chair, eyes narrowing and features taking on that practiced hardening that you associated with your husband at his most dangerous.

But a Changbin bound and tied by seemingly impossible to escape restraints didn’t exactly scream power to you. In fact, it seemed more like a power imbalance, and you were left reeling for answers when the sound of a distant door opening and then closing filled the space between you both.

“I see you’re awake now,” an unfamiliar figure announced, voice slightly accented. He walked with an arrogant swagger, matching the exaggerated steps he took and the smirk he wore on his grizzled features. “We’ve been waiting.”

“Don’t touch her!” Changbin snapped, jerking against his restraints as the veins in his neck visibly popped in response to his obvious anger and frustration.

“Who? The girl?” the man asked with a lazy gesturing towards you. “Then you’ll give us answers, no?”

“What do you want?” Changbin asked, and you noted how his fingers were clenched tightly against the arm rests attached to his chair.

“The new shipment of weapons,” the man said. “Your men took them from us the other night. Came in and shot my best sniper.”

Changbin sighed, clearly frustrated. “They were originally assigned to us.”

“But then we made a better deal!” the man growled. “It was my name on that contract, and you had no right to interfere.”

“Says who?” Changbin asked, fishing for more information.

“I can’t tell you that,” the man replied. “I’m only the messenger.”

“You act like it’s more than that.”

“Oh?” the man smirked. “Well, I am a big deal.”

Changbin glowered at the arrogance. “I don’t lead the organization.”

“I know, but you’re an important player,” the man continued. “And your name was everywhere when I started investigating.”

“The weapons were a necessary exchange,” Changbin argued.

“But they were ours!” the man declared passionately, and Changbin knew better than to try to argue with someone so overzealous.

“Fine,” Changbin huffed. “I’ll have my men restore the weapons.”

“Wonderful,” the man sighed, tucking his hands into his pocket. “There is one more thing, though.”

“One more?” Changbin snorted.

“I know of your importance, Mr. Seo,” the man said. “I assume that you’re someone in possession of good information.”

“Like what?”

“Like that little bar you opened downtown,” the man continued, taking another step closer.

You froze when he pulled a knife from his pocket, studying the way the light reflected off the harsh metal. “What about it?” Changbin grumbled, eyes focused on the obvious danger in the room.

“I’m curious about its sudden success,” he said, and you shivered when he started circling your chair. “Seems like something is missing.”

“Just good business,” Changbin said, but you could tell he was trying to get one step ahead of the guy - discerning the meaning of this unexpected conversation.

“Or, you figured out how to delegitimize the competition,” the man harshly exhaled, and you whimpered when you felt the cold blade of the knife tease the sensitive skin of your neck.

Changbin sat up just a little higher, biceps flexing against his restraints. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Obviously,” the man hissed, digging the blade just enough to draw a tiny pinprick of blood. “You’ve sent your men undercover to spy on my business! To spread rumors and lies and turn my clientele away!”

Changbin chuckled at the outrageous claim, but it was devoid of any humor. “You probably fucked your business over yourself.”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” the man growled, searing metal against flesh. “I know men like you, Mr. Seo, and I’m willing to bet that you’ve played a bigger part than what you’ve let on.”

“I have better things to do than fuck with some second rate booze club,” Changbin growled. “We’ve got clubs all over downtown. They’ve all been successful, and it has nothing to do with sending off the competition.”

Changbin smirked then, something harsh and mocking. “Maybe you’re just a really bad businessman.”

But it was the wrong thing to say, and you withheld a scream of terror when the man suddenly wrapped biting fingers into your hair. “You want to save your cocksleeve?” he growled, gripping even tighter to your aching scalp and wrenching your head back to expose your throat and the small laceration he had left there on the smooth skin. A puddle of red amidst the rest. “Tell me why you did it!”

“I can’t!” Changbin snarled in return. “My guys never stepped foot in your territory.”

“LIES!” the man roared, and you were teetering precariously in your chair, back legs lifted from the safety of the floor.

“If you hurt her,” Changbin said, and his tone was staggered and weak. “I will make sure you suffer a thousand times worse.”

The man laughed, incredulous as he looked around the room. “And what do you plan to do about it?”

Silent tears fell down your glistening cheeks as you felt the man’s warm breath against the side of your face. “Maybe violence isn’t enough for you. Maybe I need to get what I need by other means.”

Your stomach dropped at the guttural tone, trying to meet Changbin’s eyes from across the room. “You’ve been warned,” Changbin said. “The grave you’ve dug for yourself is deep enough.”

“Oh?” the man laughed. “Well, since you think you’re in such control here, let me remind of you of the reality of the situation...”

“Changbin!” you cried when you were abruptly lifted from your chair, knife cutting through the ropes binding you, sending you colliding back against the solid mass of an unfamiliar form, loose hands roaming across your torso.

“Stop!”

Changbin’s voice was just veering on the edge of desperate, recognizing that you were in no position for him to sound anything less than serious.

“Stop?” your captor repeated in a mocking tone, and you felt the blade of the knife return to your throat, slicing down harder and finally triggering the hair-raising scream that you had been suppressing. Trying to be brave for Changbin.

“You can’t do this!” Changbin cried, and you were amazed to see the faint rivulet of a tear stain - the mark of weakness that your husband tried so hard to suppress in this violent line of work.

If you thought about it, there were only a handful of times that you had ever seen Changbin cry.

“I’ll do anything,” Changbin whispered. “I’ll even take her place! Just don’t hurt her anymore.”

“Hmmm?” Your captor relinquished his threatening attack, and you could breath a little easier when he turned his attention back to Changbin.“What if I offer you a compromise? Tell me how you’ve managed your business affairs, and I won’t kill your little plaything.”

Changbin inhaled sharply, gaze full of a sinister rage you knew was reserved for his greatest enemies. “You’ll be screaming for a death of your own by the time I’m done with you.”

“You still don’t understand,” the man sighed, and you gasped when chapped lips brushed against your cheek. “Maybe I’ll fuck her first...”

“You won’t have the time.”

“Says who...”

He trailed off then. The last words you ever heard from your captor before an enormous explosion interrupted the tension, walls and floors shaking as dust and debris fell from the ceiling overhead.

You could feel the body behind you trembling as well, but you knew that it wasn’t from the explosion. It was from fear, and in a split second of panic, the man shoved you to the ground, and you yelped when your head collided hard against the concrete.

You attempted to pull yourself back up, but there was something numbing and weighty keeping you on the floor, darkness swimming threateningly in front of your eyes once again.

There were familiar sounds: the sharp click of a gun, the whizzing of bullets flying overhead, and the cacophony of screams and yells.

The pain was keeping you from focusing, aware of vague figures passing in and out of your periphery, running and moving in all sorts of directions. It was chaos at its finest, and you were incapable of comprehending any of it. Instead, you could only focus on two things: the pounding of your pulse against your eardrums and the intermingled buzzing of familiar tones.

There was a hand on your shoulder, but you were incapable of responding to their call, succumbing to an irrefutable and dreamless sleep.

The first thing you noticed when you were capable of understanding your surroundings, was the silky fabric of the bed sheets.

They were smooth to the touch and you flexed your fingers around them, humming in contentment when you silted open your eyes just enough to confirm that they belonged to you and Changbin. The ones you used on the King-sized bed in your shared room.

But therein lay the problem: you were alone in the bed, and the only voices you could hear certainly didn’t match the same tone of your husband.

You swallowed hard, flinching when the motion brought attention to the thick bandage around your neck, and upon touching the material, you were bombarded with a barrage of images reminding you of everything that had happened the previous night.

It was enough to leave you shaking, seeking some form of comfort as you roused your body just enough to turn around to the sound of those voices, recognizing Chan, your husband’s boss, and Seungmin, the residential healer.

“Chan?” you groaned, grimacing at the dryness in your mouth.

“Y/N,” he acknowledged you, rushing over to your bedside in an instant. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” you said, watching as he lifted a bottle of water to hand to you.

“Drink this.”

You nodded, taking it from him. “Where’s Changbin?”

The question was met with silence, and you frowned when Chan and Seungmin exchanged quick glances. “Well, if nothing hurts, then I have other appointments,” Seungmin said, hurriedly dismissing himself from the room.

“Coward,” Chan muttered, but he was nothing but smiles for you, coming to sit down at your bedside. “Changbin...he’s busy.”

The answer wasn’t satisfactory, and your heart started beating a little faster. “Where?”

“Downstairs,” he said, and you knew exactly what that meant.

“He brought him here?” you muttered, hating the idea of having someone like that under the same roof you called home.

“Changbin insisted,” Chan replied, and you realized that he disapproved as well, but it still didn’t help your tender sensibilities, and you were ready to implode from the inside because you needed Changbin’s comfort.

“I need him,” you said, fixing Chan with a stern look. “Can you ask him to come up here?”

“He won’t be convinced until he’s done,” Chan said, but his gaze was soft as he leaned in closer. “I can help, if you’d like.”

It was a nice gesture, and normally you might take him up on an offer of comfort, but Chan wasn’t going to heal the turmoil bubbling inside of you.

The emotions burst forth, and your eyes had already glossed over from tears shedding themselves like dead leaves falling from a tree in the middle of a windstorm. “I just want Changbin,” you sobbed, and Chan was barely perceivable through the mess of your tears.

You could tell Chan was upset by your dismissal, even as his fingers tried to brush away the wetness dotting your cheeks. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said, and it spoke to a history between the two of you that often when unsaid.

You had been given to Chan, your organization’s leader, as a peace offering from a rival mafia group. It was a cruel trade, and you resisted as much as you could, especially since, at first, you were meant to be his betrothed.

And you came into the Miroh Group with a determination to resist them to the very end.

Until Changbin stole your heart.

From there, you couldn’t believe that you had gotten so lucky, falling in love whole-heartedly, capable of forgiving Changbin’s worst sins.

Including his more sadistic tendencies.

“You can try to see him,” Chan said, seemingly satisfied after wiping away most of the evidence of your internal breakdown.

You nodded immediately, even though you understood that what you might find downstairs wouldn’t be anything comforting.

You felt a little unsteady on your feet, even with Chan helping you down the concrete steps descending into a place you tended to avoid.

The smell of alcohol and blood were both overwhelming, and you stumbled on the final step, rearing back at the sound of a truly gruesome gurgle that reminded you too much of drowning.

In the middle of the room you managed to make out Changbin, wearing dark pants and a white t-shirt, allowing you to see all the blood painting the texture in ugly patterns.

But then your attention wandered over to the poor soul strapped to the chair, barely recognizable because of the damage caused by your husband, the one who was gaping at you while holding a knife in one hand and scissors in the other.

"Y/N,” Changbin whispered. “Why aren’t you resting?”

You shook your head, looking past the gruesome, mangled damage to see the pained expression of your former captor.

Changbin had made good on his threat to tear the asshole apart, and your stomach rolled at the awful display of violence.

Done at the hands of the man who made the sweetest love to you in the dark recesses of your bedroom.

Still, you craved his presence, falling into his open arms as he held you close after tossing aside his tools. “Shhh,” he whispered to calm your tears.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” you sniffled.

“I’m sorry, love,” Changbin said, soothing your cries with soft cooing.

You savored his closeness, tucking your chin over his shoulder and opening your eyes to look upon the decrepit appearance of your former captor. “What are you doing to him?” you asked, and you felt Changbin sigh as he pulled back from you.

“I know you don’t approve, love,” Changbin said, and he glanced down at his ruined t-shirt and jeans, drenched in blood.

Under most circumstances, you would agree, but you felt your hand jumping to your throat, wrapping around the bandage covering your wound.

Changbin frowned at the movement, likely remembering the events that led to your injuries. “Kill him,” you said, and both Changbin and Chan seemed taken aback by your response. It was completely out of character, coming from someone who often disapproved of the murderous part of their work.

“Y/N,” Chan whispered, and you could see that he wore wariness on top of his horrified expression.

“Come upstairs soon,” you said, squeezing Changbin’s hand with your own. “I need you.”

Your husband nodded, looking at you with something akin to awe as you left the downstairs basement with Chan hot on your heels and torturous screams assaulting your ears.

Chan only left your bedroom once Changbin arrived, showered and clean, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Careful,” Chan whispered to him on the way out, and you shivered.

But there was nothing that could warm you up more than Changbin, and you even managed a smile when he climbed into the bed behind you, wrapping a strong arm around your waist to pull you closer. “Hi, princess,” he whispered, and you felt like bathing in the sensual tone of his voice.

“Changbin,” you sighed in return, turning around so that you could face him.

“It doesn’t hurt too much, does it love?” he asked, reaching out to tenderly stroke his fingers across your bandages.

“Not anymore,” you said. “Seungmin did a good job.”

“He better,” Changbin rumbled, and you tried not to roll your eyes at your husband.

“I was really upset earlier,” you said. “When I couldn’t find you.”

“That’s my fault, princess,” Changbin said. “I didn’t know you would wake-up so soon....and there were things I needed to take care of.”

You sighed, closing your eyes hard against a distant image of your mind conjuring the bloodied and ruined form of your captor. “Did you find out who he belonged to?”

“Yeah, a small organization under Park,” Changbin said. “He was more than willing to talk after I took one of his fingers.”

Your heart twisted at his nonchalant tone. “I guess you silenced him.”

Changbin hesitated, pausing to look at you with concern. “Are you mad at me?”

“Just...disappointed,” you said. “I couldn’t hold myself together.”

“It would’ve torn me apart,” Changbin replied. “If I let him go without making him suffer for touching my princess.”

You closed your eyes, feeling Changbin trail his fingers across your arm. “But you’re here now?”

“Of course,” Changbin agreed, leaning in to kiss you gently. “I’m yours, love. For as long as you need me to hold you.”

“Might be all night,” you said, moving up to kiss under his jaw. “I need you in a lot of ways.”

Changbin chuckled at your implications, leaving nothing to be imagined as you grazed one finger over the front of his sweatpants where his cock lay flaccid. He titled your chin at a better angle, a glaze of lust darkening his eyes. “When you feel better,” he purred. “I’ll take care of your little pussy.”

You shook at his seductive promise, curling even closer to him as Changbin’s thudding heart lulled you into a comfortable peace.

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