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wontontrap · 5 months

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Feast for Kings | Part 1

【 Eddie plays with your pussy in front of Steve before letting him have a taste

【 18 +

【 fuckboy eddie | cuck eddie | bully eddie | steddie x reader

【 content warnings: voyeurism, exhibitionism, manhandling, cuckold behavior, mean!eddie, bully!eddie, dub-con turns into consent, reader has established relationship with Eddie

【 Part II | Prelude

The party had ended just an hour earlier, and only the three of you remained holed up in the camper belonging to Eddie's neighbors. They were "old heads" as Eddie put it - hippie types that didn't mind he and Steve hotboxing the hell out of it.

"They were probably at Woodstock!" Eddie always says with revel and a bit of jealousy.

You on the other hand lay down on the small bed in back trying to catch some semblance of a snooze. Normally by this time of night you'd be at home cuddled in your bed, or on Eddie's couch. Sweet uncle Wayne wouldn't allow you to sleep in his bed while he was present in the house. Of course, you thought, he must know you sleep together when he himself is out all night or out of town. You shudder to think how disappointed in his nephew he'd be if he found out some of the things you let Eddie do to you when you're alone.

You'd had enough of listening to them kid and laugh behind the paper thin partition. Unable to snooze, and with uncle Wayne out for the night with a lady friend of his own, you set your mind to coaxing Eddie out of the camper and into bed with you.

Slowly, you opened the partition to the bedroom, peeking your head out. Eddie was wildly talking with his hands, joint hanging from his lips, Steve doubled over in laughter. You stepped out into the small corridor and they both turned to look at you.

"Did we wake you?" Eddie asks. Beside him, Steve recovers from his fit of laughter.

"No, I couldn't sleep. I was just lying there."

"Well, sweetheart, that is one of your many talents," he says.

You give him a sheepish look. The kind of sheepish look that lets him know you need him in that way.

He passes the joint to Steve and walks over to you. He plays with the hem of your skirt as he talks to you in a hushed tone.

"You need me, huh?"

You nod your head, a faint blush creeping onto your cheeks.

"God!" he exclaims. He goes on even louder, "You are so cute when you're embarrassed!" He punctuated those last few words enough for Steve to catch onto the private conversation. He turned to look at you both.

Still playing with the hem of your skirt, Eddie started to drag it up with the tip of his finger. In your feeble attempt to swat his hand away, you accidentally flashed your pussy. Steve began coughing and stood up, quickly turning around so you could right yourself. You smoothed your skirt down compulsively. This wasn't your plan for the night.

Eddie's new found love of showing you off in the most obscene ways was something you were still getting used to. Even the bullying turns you on. The first time Eddie offered to share you with Gareth you could've died of embarrassment right there in the Hellfire room, but with Gareth pounding into you from behind and Eddie fucking your throat, you no longer cared about anything, let alone feeling embarrassed at your boyfriend's newest kink.

"God, Harrington, I love this woman. No panties!" he exclaims, before lifting your skirt all the way up to your stomach.

Eddie laughs as you struggle to cover your self once again. Steve was still turned away, but you were feeding into the game now and starting to get really turned on.

Eddie grabs you by the waist, manhandling you through the corridor and flops down onto one of the motor home's vinyl couches, taking you with him. You land on his lap with your dignity in tact for the moment.

"What's the matter, Harrington? All those nice young ladies you must've conquered as king of Hawkins High and you're scared of a little pink?"

"Well, there was only ever-"

"Turn around asshole! I can't hear you!" Eddie barks.

"Chill out, man!" he replies. He turns around and starts again, "There was only ever Nancy and it was kinda dark, you know."

Eddie laughs hard.

"You mean to tell me you've been in a pussy, but you've never seen one? Not even in a porno mag or anything?"

"You know I don't read that shit, man." Steve replies.

"They're not for reading, idiot." Eddie says, giving him the finger.

"Need to get you a girl like mine," he continues, "I mean, look at this shit."

You fight for only a second as he pries your legs apart, keeping them there with his own. With his legs caging yours in, and his left hand around your throat, he uses his right to flip your skirt up once more and spread your pussy open for Steve. He turns away quickly again.

"Ah, ah, ah! Turn around, buddy," he scolds.

Steve turns around only for a moment, meaning to tell him that this wasn't funny, but he can't help glancing at it.

"Don't do this to me, Eds, that's your girl" he says.

"This girl?" he sarcastically asks, "Nah, man, this is our girl."

You were starting to become feral for the situation. The intimate exposure. Eddie enveloping you. Steve's attempted chivalry.

"Oh? What's this?" Eddie asks you, "Is somebody enjoying this?"

He ran his fingers up your slit, gathering your growing arousal.

"You want me to dip into this little honey pot right in front of Harrington?" Eddie asks you.

A small moan escapes you. "Yes," you say softly.

"So fucking filthy," Eddie rasps before inserting a finger into you.

"Oh my god," you squeal, laying your head on Eddie's shoulder. He lets go of your throat. Steve's eyes now fully on your pussy growing wetter by the second, with Eddie's finger inside you to the hilt.

"Let's give Stevie here an anatomy lesson, sweetheart," he says, removing his finger. He takes his left hand and pulls back the hood of your clit.

"See," he says, "sometimes it's hiding from ya."

With your clit fully exposed, and with a small amount of pressure. Eddie starts to rub his first two fingers over it at punishing pace.

You start to breathe heavily, panting. He's locked you into this torturous embrace and you struggle to close your legs, the overstimulation too much. You feel your orgasm coming as your stomach begins to tighten. You love what Eddie's doing to you, you always do, but you focus on Steve now sitting across from you on the other vinyl couch, hand down his pants and eyes hungry.

"Be a good girl and show Harrington your little trick," Eddie says.

Just as you're about to cum, Eddie sticks two fingers in you, curling them, while his thumb presses down on your clit. You squirt onto Eddie's leg and the carpeted floor below.

"Gotta love the water works!" Eddie says with a smile.

His smile quickly fades noticing the pent up Steve before him.

"C'mere, Harrington," he says. Steve hesitates.

"It's not a suggestion, motherfucker, get over here and get down on your knees." he orders him.

Steve complies and looks from your eyes to Eddie's.

"I'm guessing you've never eaten pussy, huh buddy?"

"No," Steve replies.

"Chop, chop big boy, I got our girl all hot and ready for you. What are you waiting for?"

You gently stroke Steve's face with your fingers.

"C'mon, Steve," you say sweetly, "it won't bite."

Your participation earns you a low chuckle from Eddie.

Eddie reaches out, putting his hand on the back of Steve's head and guiding him toward you. You flash Eddie a mischievous look and a slow smile paints his face before shoving Steve's head right into your aching cunt. You cry out, reaching for Steve as well, you and Eddie now both holding his head - your cunt suffocating him.

You wished you could see the three of you. You on Eddie's lap, legs spread wide. Steve lapping at you like an animal, you and Eddie roughly holding his head in place.

"It's the fountain of life, Harrington. Drink up."

Steve tried his best but it was obvious he had never done this before and needed practice, even with Eddie roughly guiding him.

"That's enough." Eddie says. His right leg was free with you having squirmed to his other, and he kicked Steve square in the chest with his right foot, heavy boot almost knocking the wind out of him.

"I gotta do everything around here..." he says, trailing off.

He picks you up as he stands, and immediately throws you back down on the couch. He positions himself in between your legs, exposes your most sensitive nerve, and latches onto you. You scream. You look over at Steve who now has his cock fully out. He's jerking himself hard, staring at Eddie's face buried in your soaking wetness. The slurping sounds that Eddie's making mixed with the slapping sound of Steve abusing his cock are absolutely obscene and turn you on even more. You pull your top down to play with your own nipples, exposing your pierced tits. Eddie looks up and groans, still attacking your clit. Steve lets out a pitiful moan, having never seen a pair of pierced tits in his life. Eddie had done them for you in the trailer with ice and a hot needle and it was his new favorite thing about you.

"C'mere," you softly said to Steve.

He crouched down, still jerking his now slick cock, and wrapped his mouth around your hard nipple. You moaned and Eddie stopped his assault to give that low chuckle again.

"Alright!" Eddie suddenly exclaims, giving your pussy three quick slaps. You cry out again.

"Let's settle you up, sweetheart," he says again.

Again with his first two fingers he begins to finish you off after all those minutes of teasing you with only his tongue. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, curling and twisting, all while his other thumb abuses your already sensitive clit. Steve still has his mouth around your nipple and his jerks start to become erratic as his body curls inward, stomach starting to hollow out.

"I think Harrington's gonna blow, baby!" Eddie says, a wide grin on his face, "Why don't you help him out?"

While Eddie brings you to the edge you reach your hand down and start stroking Steve's aching cock. Knees spread he uses his newly free hand to squeeze your other tit, while still suckling the first. You and Steve cum together. His body shook as you used his cum to violently jerk him through his huge orgasm. Eddie was clapping and hollering as you two lay spent. After a few moments of silence, you hear the distinct sound of Eddie's cuff belt being unbuckled.

"Get the fuck up Harrington," he tells Steve, "It's my turn now."

#steddie x reader #steddie x you #steddie smut #steddie fanfic #steddie #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things

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katiexpunk · 4 months

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Nightmare Before Christmas | Pairing dark!Joel Miller X Fem!Reader

This story is a gift fic for @xdaddysprincessxx as part of the @pedrostories Secret Santa event. You wanted dark and I hope I delivered. Merry Christmas, babe.

Summary: As an escort, you’ve found yourself in some pretty fucked up situations before. Years of experience have taught you to navigate such situations with a combination of tact and assertiveness. Most of the time the men who exude an air of sleaze shrivel back into the corner, embarrassed and limp dicked. Most of the time. Tonight is not one of those times. Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word Count: ~3.6K Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Tommy and Joel are not nice guys in this one. Escorting. Non-Con. Guns. Knives. Kidnapping. Spitting. Ropes. Chloroform. Alcohol. Degrading pet names. Joel calls reader kitten. Reader jumps out of moving vehicle. Blood. Rope burns. Unwanted creampie. Conflict on pleasure. Fingering. Explicit/rough penetration. Breeding kink. No major physical descriptions of reader/graphic is for visual purposes only. No specific age gap mentioned. No use of Y/N. No happy ending. Authors Note: Special thank you to @kewwrites for lending me her brain on this one. Additionally, thank you to @toxicanonymity for writing dark content that I had to binge-read to put me in the headspace to even write this lol. And thank you @sydneyinacoma for holding my hand as I wrote this one. Also submitting this as part of @romana-after-dark's Dead Dove December event. Merry Christmas? Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications Extra dark smut below the cut.

As an escort, you’ve found yourself in some pretty fucked up situations before. Years of experience have taught you to navigate such situations with a combination of tact and assertiveness.

Most of the time the men who exude an air of sleaze shrivel back into the corner, embarrassed and limp dicked.

Most of the time.

Tonight is not one of those times.

++++

It’s Christmas Eve, and you’re in the bathroom of your sleek apartment on the twenty-fifth floor in the heart of Los Angeles, preparing for another evening of playing the part of whatever and whoever your client wants you to be.

Sometimes you’re the arm candy, sometimes the new girlfriend, and sometimes you’re just something to look at. It wasn’t always easy, not at first, but the rewards are well worth the endure.

You slept with a handful of your clients early on, only because you needed the money, but now it’s your hard line. You ensure your prospective clients know your rules before you agree to go out with them, and for the most part, they don’t try to cross them. Sure, some try, but all it takes is a quick threat of I’m leaving and they’re happy to fall back in line. You think half of them are convinced that they’re charming enough to make you break the rules, just for them, but none of them ever are.

You stand before the mirror in a chic ensemble that accentuates your curves without revealing too much. Wear something black and don’t make it trashy, his instructions said. You run your fingers through your hair and give it a final touch before fastening a pair of statement earrings that sparkle like the lights on your Christmas tree.

The gentle chime of your phone signals a new message. You pick it up, the screen illuminating your face with a soft glow. Your client for the evening, a successful entrepreneur named Tommy, confirms the details for the evening and informs you that a car will meet you at the agreed-upon location at 8:00 pm sharp.

You check the time and still have another 15 minutes. You meander over to your bar cart, pour yourself a nip of vodka over ice, and sip it while you kill time. You’re not usually nervous, but tonight feels different.

Not before long, you take a deep breath and head out the door.

++++

The night air is crisper than usual for LA this time of year, but you ride with the windows down anyway. Your destination is a trendy rooftop bar where Tommy has chosen to meet. He hasn’t told you the occasion or why he’s hired you, but your best guess is that it’s some swanky holiday party or circle jerk between a bunch of rich people.

The car pulls up to the entrance, and the driver walks around the vehicle to open the door for you. You adjust your dress with sweaty palms as you step out and head into the building.

The rooftop offers a panoramic view of the city. Much to your surprise, nobody is there, except for the waitstaff and a man far from the entrance. Tommy is seated at a corner table, engrossed in the cityscape. You approach with grace, and as Tommy turns to greet you, your eyes lock in silent acknowledgment.

The night unfolds as most of them do.

There’s nothing strange about it. He orders a bottle of Dom, and you share a meal over casual conversation. He tells you that he rented out the entire rooftop because he wanted some privacy. Which isn’t unusual, you figure he might be some high-profile figure, or maybe he’s married, but you’ve come to learn it’s best not to ask.

There’s nothing inherently different about this client than any other.

But for whatever reason, you can’t shake the pit of lead that’s settled in your stomach, and the gnawing little voice inside your head that’s screaming danger.

He touches your bare knee under the table and gives you a dark look, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to rise to stand. The gnawing little voice might as well be an opera singer at this point.

You clear your throat and take your phone out of your purse to check the time. Fuck. You test your luck and try to excuse yourself early anyway.

“Well, this has been lovely, but I –” you start to say, but you’re cut off by his dark eyes.

“Nuh-uh, you’re mine for another two hours, doll,” he says in a raspy low voice.

You watch as he slips a few $100 bills on the table. As he silently rises to stand, you catch a glimpse of the handgun that’s fastened on his hip beneath his suit jacket. Your pulse quickens at the sight.

You follow him to the elevator, and he presses the lobby. Standing next to you, you realize how much bigger than you he is. He’s broad and built, he looks like he could rip a phonebook in half with his bare hands.

Stay cool, stay cool, stay cool.

On the ride down, you feel him snake one hand behind you and he hikes the hem of your dress up and runs his cold fingers up the back of your thigh and over the curves of your ass.

“Tommy, I don’t sleep with my clients. Please stop,” you ask, your voice firm.

He turns to face you and cages you against the elevator wall. He’s so close, you feel his hot breath on your lips. Your eyes glance over at the screen above the numbers, and you still have another 15 floors to go until you’re at the lobby. Your stomach drops.

“You’ll do whatever I ask you to tonight, doll,” Tommy rasps, his voice cold. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel a hard metal pressed up against your ribs – the gun. “Do you understand?” he asks, not questioning.

Tears well up in the corners of your eyes, and your adrenaline courses through you like an F1 car. When you don’t respond, he presses the barrel of the gun harder into your ribs. Ow. “Better answer me now, Doll, or this isn’t gonna be fun for you,” he threatens. You manage to rasp out a shaky “I understand.”

Just as you do, the elevator signals that you’re in the lobby and the doors open. He steps back from you and you slump down the wall for a moment, utterly terrified. He nudges his head toward the exit and walks closely behind you, the gun now positioned on your lower back. There’s a dark suburban waiting at the entrance of the building.

You slip into the vehicle, the cool black leather cold on the backs of your legs, and he follows in behind you. There are three other men in the car, two in the front, and one in the far back. They’re all dressed in dark colors, most of them covered in tattoos, and you’re willing to bet that all of them are armed.

“Ooo, she’s a pretty one. We’re gonna have fun with her,” the one in the back says in a heavy voice.

“Fuck you,” you yell back, spitting on him. It lands on his face, and a terrifying look crosses it.

He wipes the spit from his eye before he grabs the gun from his side and holds it firm against your temple. Your breathing catches in your throat and your heart freezes mid-beat.

“You better behave you little cunt, or I’ll make it hurt more than I’m already going to,” he rasps and you let your eyes go glossy as you stare out the window, silent. He removes the gun from your head and sinks back into the seat.

As they drive off, you consider your options. You could fight them, you think, but that probably wouldn’t end well for you. You consider trying to grab the handgun from Tommy, but he’s so much bigger than you, that probably wouldn’t end well for you either; plus you’re not even sure you’d know how to shoot it. You could grab your phone and try to call 9-1-1, but Tommy would notice you rummaging through your purse for it.

As they’re driving, you notice that they failed to lock the doors. You’ve never kidnapped anyone, but even you know that’s a rookie mistake. You watch the road blur behind a road of tears, and then it dawns on you – your only option is to jump. You clear the tears from your eyes, set on your escape plan, and wait for the perfect moment.

Once the car is at a reasonable speed, or so you guess, you don’t know how fast you’re going, and there seems to be no car directly behind you, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. You swiftly pull the door handle, and do your best imitation of a duck-and-roll.

You hit the pavement with a loud thud, and roll a few times, completely fucking up the skin on your knees and palms. Giving yourself no time to think, running on pure adrenaline, you stand up, abandon your heels, and make a run for it.

“FUCK!” Tommy yells, “God damn it, man, turn around, we gotta go get her!” he yells to the driver.

You have no idea where you are or where you can go, but you allow your legs to propel you forward.

Don’t stop, just run.

You look over your shoulder and see the suburban making a U-turn, and you assess your options once again. You see a Taxi idling in the distance. You don’t think, you just pound on the glass for a quick second before opening the door and slipping into the vehicle.

You’re panting, out of breath, and borderline hyperventilating. You scream “DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE.” The Taxi driver looks back at you, eyes wide, noticing the blood that’s dripping down your legs in thick streams.

“Did you hear me!? Drive, please they’re going to find me,” you scream. He turns his head back to the windshield, pulls the lever into gear, and hits the gas. The back wheels of the taxi spin out in the gravel as he deftly pulls out into the road ahead.

With your breathing still erratic, you look behind you through the rearview mirror and are pleased to find that nobody is following you.

Holy shit. You escaped.

You sit back normally in your seat and hold one hand on your heart, and the other on your stomach. You assess your hands and legs, noticing you’re covered in blood and gravel. You go to reach for your purse, but shit, you must have lost it when you jumped.

“What the hell was that about?” the taxi driver says in a raspy low tone, looking at you through the rearview mirror. You don’t respond, your hearing still muffled and ringing from the adrenaline.

He drives for a few minutes and then turns into a dark alley.

“Wh – what are you doing?” you ask, keyed up, running on fear. Your hand instinctually finds the door handle, like you might need to jump again. He unbuckles his seat belt and whips around to face you, the leather of his seat squeaking a little as he does.

He’s big, you can tell he has broad shoulders and thick biceps. Salt and pepper curls grace his head, and he has a scruffy beard to match. There’s a deep line between his eyebrows and a rugged handsomeness to him.

“You haven’t told me where you want to go, and you’re not listening to me. ‘M not driving you anywhere until you tell me what the fuck that was about. And ‘sides, you’re bleeding. Can’t have you getting blood all over the back of my car,” he says.

He turns back around and opens the driver's side door.

“Where are you going?” you ask, voice shaky. What the hell?

“‘M grabbing the damn first aid kit out of the trunk,” he retorts, a tinge of annoyance to his voice. You’re not sure why he’s being so rude in the first place. You hear the trunk pop open, the sound of ruffling like he’s grabbing something, and then the sound of the trunk slamming shut.

He rounds around to your passenger side door and opens it.

“Look I’m fine, I don’t need you to –” he shuts you up with a thick rag pressed firm against your face.

You swear you see him smirk before your vision blurs and fades to black.

++++

The air in the dimly lit basement hangs heavy with dampness, and a faint odor of mildew lingers in the stale atmosphere. As your consciousness slowly returns, you realize you’re standing and tied up against a support beam in the middle of the room.

Your wrists are bound with coarse ropes above your head in a tight knot, causing them to lose circulation. You try to wiggle yourself free, but your body is pinned firmly against the wood by ropes that also extend across your legs. You try to scream, but there’s no point. A thick strip of duct tape covers your lips, muffling even your loudest of efforts to cry out.

You frantically observe the room around you. It’s illuminated by a single flickering light bulb overhead, the walls are concrete that have been stained with age. The only audible sounds are what you assume are footsteps in the house up above. You try and wiggle yourself free, but it only exhausts you.

You float in and out of consciousness. As your eyes fall closed, you hope that when you wake up you’ll find that this was all just one big fucked up dream. A nightmare before Christmas.

++++

You awake to the sensation of cool metal on your cheek. You groggily come to, and once your vision clears, you see the face of a man – the taxi driver. Your eyes bug out and you whimper beneath the duct tape.

“Shh, shh, hush kitten,” he coos, running the flat blade of the knife over your soft cheek. “You’re okay, ‘m gonna take real good care of you, I promise.”

Hot tears well in the corners of your eyes, your eyes now bloodshot. You whimper something that sounds like a muffled “please,” under the tape and you see his pupils dilate. A devilish smirk crosses his face.

“Oh my kitten has manners, does she,” he rasps, dragging the knife down the razor edge of your jaw, over your sternum, and down the valley of your breasts. “Say it again for me,” he says. You’re a full-blown factory of tears at this point, and you muffle out another masked please. You tug on the ropes and stare back at your captor.

You flinch as he uses the knife and cuts your dress down the middle. Your perky tits spill out of the tight fabric, and he looks at them with hungry eyes. He sheaths the knife and uses his thick hands to rip the rest of the fabric off of you until you’re completely bare before him, minus the thin scrap of your underwear.

“Well shit, baby. Look at you,” he takes a step back and admires your body, bringing his hand to palm at the growing bulge in his pants.

You turn your head so you don’t have to look at him, trying to focus on something, anything but him. You hear the clanking of his metal belt unbuckling, and the faint sound of his zipper coming down. He drags his pants and underwear off of his body, and stands before you, fully hard, his large cock throbbing and red. He looks down at it and spits.

Massaging his length in one hand, he stares at you and tells you, “Look at me, kitten.”

You don’t.

A deep growl escapes his chest, and he steps closer to you. Still massaging his cock with one hand, he uses the other and grips your jaw tightly, smushing your cheeks together, forcing you to look at him. “There she is, my pretty girl, that’s better,” he taunts.

“See what you do to me?” He says, nodding down to his cock, his jaw slack. “This is what you’re gonna get for tempting me,” he darkly adds. He continues to work at his cock; to him, you may look like you’re watching him, but you’re doing your best to blur your vision, to think about anything else.

His hand leaves his cock and comes to rest on your chest with his palm flat. He trails it over your breast and cups the weight of it, rolling your nipple to a stiff peak between his index finger and thumb.

“If you promise you’ll be a good little kitten for me, I’ll make this feel good for you,” he says. All you can do is whimper and cry as he uses you.

He drags his flat palm down your body, over your tummy, and cups your pussy over your underwear, feeling the warm heat of it. He growls and hooks his fingers under the fabric until the tips of them are nudged into your slit, near your hole. He dips the tip of his middle finger into your cunt, and you flinch.

“Good little kitten, already wet for me,” he says, and then plunges the length of it inside of you. You gasp, and he smiles. He drags the length of his finger, now covered in your slick, up the seam of your pussy until it lands on your clit. He begins to draw tight circles there, and you can’t help but moan at the sensation of it.

A low growl reverberates through his chest as he works at you, his dark eyes trained on your face. You try to suppress the need to come, and he can tell. “Filthy little girl, pretending you don’t want to come for me. Go on, baby. I know you want it,” he says darkly, coaxing you closer and closer to your orgasm.

He alternates between fucking his fingers into you and rubbing your clit. You don’t want to come, but you can’t stop it. Can’t fight it. As much as you hate it, you’re at his mercy. You’re scared to admit what it might mean if you were to come under circumstances like this, but you’re so tired, you just want to feel something good. “Be a good little slut for me, kitten. Come on my fingers, know you want to,” he says, and shit. Your vision goes white, and for the first time tonight, you don’t feel anything except pleasure.

He collects the slick that’s formed as a result of your orgasm and uses it to coat his hard cock. He watches you and admires the fucked out look on your face.

“Gonna free your legs now, kitten. Don’t go getting any ideas or I’ll find another way to use my knife other than cuttin’ these ropes, got it?” he rasps. He ducks down, pulls the knife from his back pocket, and uses it to saw the ropes until you’re free before once again tucking it away.

He drags your now-soiled panties down and off your legs. You know he’s going to fuck you. And as fucked up as it is, and as much as you don’t want it, there’s a little tug at your low navel, a thread of arousal that tells you otherwise.

He uses his hands to grab your hips and he tugs at them until your back is slightly arched against the beam. Your wrists hurt, the harsh rope burning your skin, but it pales in comparison to the thick stretch of him in your cunt.

He fills you in one thrust, giving you no time to adjust to the size of him. He holds you up, your legs wrapped firmly against his core, and he fucks into you. He fucks you hard, his thick cock punching against your cervix with nearly every thrust. You whimper from the intensity of it.

“That noise…keep making it,” he begs, his voice wrecked. You fight your hardest to stay silent after hearing that. “Need to know, kitten – are you on birth control? IUD? Anything?” he asks, and you think if you tell him the truth, maybe he won’t come inside of you. Stupid, stupid mistake. You shake your head “No,” and he groans.

His hips slow and stutter. “Fuck, fuck – yeaaaahhhh, kitten. Fuck, you’re mine,” he pauses with himself buried to the hilt deep inside of you as he pumps his seed deep inside of you.

“So good for me, kitten. You’re so good,” he says, caressing your cheek with his thumb, still inches deep inside of you. He rips the duct tape off your lips in one swoop, the tearing sensation causes your eyes to water. He plants a soft kiss on your lips, before biting your bottom lip hard enough to bleed.

“Taste good, too,” he adds, licking your blood off of his lips.

He pulls out, leaving you completely wrecked, and his cum smears all over your thighs.

“Names Joel by the way,” he says, his voice impossibly dark, “just thought you might wanna know the name of the man who’s gonna make you a mother.”

END

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yandere-daydreams · 8 months

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Title: Extra-dimensional.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Spot x Reader (Spider-verse).

Word Count: 6.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle-Adjacent Sex, Prolonged Stalking, Psychological Abuse, Themes of Grief, and Kidnapping.

You were starting to think that your apartment might’ve been haunted.

The science-focused part of your brain was forced to look at the evidence, to acknowledge how many well-accounted-for articles of clothing and minor keepsakes had gone missing over the past few weeks, to count how many times you’d caught shadowy figures flickering in the corner of your eye, to take stock of all possible causes and admit that, tragically, a temperamental spirit was the only remotely plausible explanation, even if you had to use the term ‘plausible’ more loosely than you’d like to. It made sense – or, it made as much sense as invoking supernatural entities could, anyway.

On the other hand, the part of your mind that paid rent every month and vacuumed twice a week really, really didn’t want your apartment to be haunted and vehemently denied that ghosts – unseen, untouchable, unsolvable ghosts – were something you’d have to deal with a down payment like yours.

Both parts of your brain could agree that leaving a fully in-tact, as-of-yet unopened bank vault would be a weird thing for a ghost to do, though.

Teeth grit, still dressed in the clothes you’d worn to the memorial, you stood with one foot planted on its overturned side and another lodged in your carpeting, the end of a crowbar you’d borrowed from your loudest downstairs neighbor lodged between the door and the wall where a badly beaten mechanism bound them together. You’d already called the cops, as little as you wanted to do with them or the quote-on-quote ‘heroes’ who’d failed to save him, but the operator had laughed you off of the line and despite the hours you’d spent buried in the deepest trenches of any search engine that would have you, the only report you could find of a bank robbery had taken place in London, on the other side of the world. You’d considered, briefly, that grief had driven you to hallucinations and this was just the first sign of an upcoming downward spiral, but that idea had been swiftly vetoed when you’d tripped over the damn thing and decided it was very much, very unfortunately real. The idea to pry it open had come a few minutes later, after deciding that you probably had a legal right to anything to investigate anything that spontaneously appeared in your living room – ghosts or no ghosts.

You heard something snap, felt the reverberation of a fracture underneath your palms, but the vault didn’t budge. The only thing that changed was your crowbar – the bent claw replaced with a jagged, broken-off tip when you managed to dislodge it from the vault. You winced, swallowing back in an agitated grown. Trial One: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. So far, the vault reigned victorious.

You tried to take a deep breath, to count to ten and tell yourself that this was no different than a failed experiment, a half-baked test that just hadn’t gone your way, but you could still hear church bells ringing in the back of your mind, still picture two empty seats at the front of the chapel – one for Dr. Octavius and the other meant for the CEO of the Alchamax, neither brave enough to show their face. You weren’t even sure why you were so angry. It could’ve been the clipped speech delivered by a company representative who’d barely known him, the closed casket, the way your coworkers could barely bring themselves to meet your eyes despite your stunted attempts at making conversation through the knot lodged in your throat. It could’ve been everything. It could’ve been something else entirely. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. There were already tears streaming down your cheeks, dripping down your chin as you pulled the crowbar back and swung it into the vault’s door. The force of the collision rattled through your body, but you steeled yourself and did it again, then again, then again, until the smooth, black metal was dented beyond any hope of repair and your crowbar was warped and misshapen. Finally, when you were panting and breathless, when your hands threatened to cramp and your shoulders ached in their sockets, you drove the blunted crowbar into the vault’s door with what was left of your quickly draining strength. In the end, your aggression was rewarded with a metallic clang, the sound of something cracking open, and then, what was left of the vault door fell open – nearly taking out one of your feet before you stumbled out of the way.

You clenched your eyes shut, forcing out a ragged exhale and re-tallying your score. Trail II: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. Although the vault put up a good fight, the crowbar’s endurance ultimately persevered. Interference from external factors and researcher’s bias will be considered later on with the assistance of a glass of wine and a mediocre romcom you’ll cry your eyes out to.

Once you’d managed to dampen the lingering heat of your grief-fueled anger, you turned your attention to the bank vault’s contents – the fruits of your labor, the results of your little experiment. You weren’t sure what you expected. Jewelry, maybe, artifacts or century-old paintings some underground dealer had to ditch in a stranger’s apartment for reasons you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Part of you, the part of you that remembered the number written across your last paycheck, couldn’t help but hope for something simple; a disorderly pile of unmarked bills that you’d count and stow away and pretend you weren’t dying to waste. That part of you wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Neatly stacked in the overturned bank vault, only slightly disrupted by your attempts to pry it open, were stacks upon stacks of neatly organized dollar bills. Or, that wasn’t quite right, actually. They were bills, but they weren’t dollars.

You took one of the bundles in your hand. English pounds – sorted by color and bound together by paper bands toting a logo you didn’t recognize. Huh.

Maybe your next call should be an international one.

By the next month, you’d escalated from a vaguely haunted apartment to a full-blown spectral presence that you just couldn’t seem to shake.

Spectral presence. You still weren’t convinced it was a real term, but you’d picked it up after a conversation with one of your coworkers (former coworker, now, you had to remind yourself, one of your former coworkers) when you both stepped out of a quickly lulling group session and you’d off-handedly mentioned your little ghost problem. In the moment, you’d laughed and shrugged and promised to let them know if you ever called an exorcist, but the phrase had stuck, resurfaced the next time you couldn’t find the threadbare t-shirt you’d been wearing for the better part of a decade and cemented itself in the forefront of your consciousness when the aforementioned shirt reappeared on your balcony, a jagged tear running from the collar to the midriff and the hems eaten away to nothing. If that didn’t count as a presence, you weren’t sure what would.

That was the first time your little ghost problem had followed you out of the house, but it wouldn’t be the last. You could practically feel it, now; constantly looming over your shoulder, constantly watching, constantly leaving little trinkets in places it knew you would be. If you could even call them that. They were more like… oddities – rings made of a kind of metal you couldn’t recognize, puzzle boxes you couldn’t seem to figure out, things that should make sense but just didn’t when you looked into them. The only one you’d been able to make sense of so far was a pair of glasses, one of the lenses sporting a hair-line fracture. You’d spent the rest of that day huddled in your closet, the door shut and the lights off. You considered that you could have a stalker, someone or something who loved you enough or hated you enough to follow you around, leaving things you didn’t want to see in places it knows you’d find them, but you didn’t know how a stalker would even start to get their hands on something like that. You didn’t know how anything of his could’ve survived that explosion, but you weren’t in a place to ask those kinds of questions, anymore.

Currently, you weren’t in a place to do much of anything. You’d spent most of the night before sleepless and huddled into yourself, and now, you were glassy-eyes and exhausted, staring down an aisle’s worth of produce blankly as you tried to ignore the chill fanning over the nape of your neck. You kept your tongue caught in your teeth, counting out the micro-seconds between one breath and another with a precision refined by years of measuring the time between stimulus and reaction, holding yourself stiff enough to drown out the unsteadiness. It’d pass, soon enough. It had to pass, eventually. You just had to—

Something brushed against the small of your back and you straightened, snapping over your shoulder and finding, predictably, nothing. You tried to write it off as just another figment of your stress-induced paranoia, a symptom of so many late nights and so little external stimulation, but any hope of calming your racing heart was torn away with you by the feeling of something settling against the curve of your shoulder-blade, then dipping lower, following the curve of your spine before sliding to your hip. It was a phantom sensation – cold and weightless, hollow and so close to intangible – but you could feel it clearly enough to recognize that it was pressing against you directly, frozen tendrils sapping the warmth from your skin without clothes to buffer its awful touch. There was something else to it, too, a sort of buzzing that you couldn’t seem to compare to anything but static. It burnt. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

If you’d been braver, you might’ve glanced down, tried to see if the fabric of reality had opened to reveal some terrible, eldritch thing, but you weren’t and it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut, to cross your arms over your chest and pray that would be enough to protect you from the thin trail of frigid, searing static slowly creeping up your side, drifting to your navel, following the curve of your chest until it was resting just underneath the base of your throat. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of. That it would hurt you, maybe, that the thing that was haunting you for months would realize it could touch you and take the next logical step. You didn’t want to die in a grocery store. You didn’t want to die at all. You didn’t want to—

“Do you mind, dude?”

The static disappeared, dissolving into the open air, and your eyes shot open, immediately finding a strung-out teenager standing next to you, awkwardly attempting to reach for something you must’ve been standing in front of. More out of reflex than anything else, you stepped back, muttering an apology under your breath before retreating out of the store entirely. You decided, when you were a block away and just starting to catch your breath, that you’d never be going back. You decided you were never going to think about what’d just happened to you again.

And, later on, when you realized that you wouldn’t be any safer at home, you decided not to think about your little haunting at all.

~ It was creeping up your spine, again.

“You’ve got more than enough experience for the position we’re offering.”

Lingering at the nape of your neck, pausing, then circling to your chest to trace over your collarbones.

“And I saw your resume, too – very impressive stuff. We’d love to have someone with your qualifications on our staff.”

It usually waited until you were alone, locked in your apartment or curled up under your sheets. It hadn’t touched you again in public since your first physical encounter – something you were thankful for and horrified by in equal measures. You didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was a conscious entity. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean if it knew what it was doing to you.

“There’s just one question. You mentioned that you were formerly employed at,” A pause, a polite smile that meant ‘depending on your answer, you might not be in my office for much longer’, “Alchemax?”

You forced yourself to smile, too, shifting slightly in your uncomfortable leather seat and hoping that would be enough to dispel the trail of frost now gliding down your chest. “Unfortunately,” you started, and your specter dipped lower, past your stomach and into the space between your thighs. You clenched your legs shut, then thought better of it and crossed them, but that did little to stop the chill now washing over your lap, fanning over the inside of your thigh. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it groping. “I wasn’t in that department, if that’s what you’re wondering. Our work was supposed to be completely theoretical. None of us knew what was really going on until – well, until everything knew.”

Your total rejection of autonomy appeased the interviewer, who rewarded your sacrifice by nodding his head and shuffling the papers on his desk before launching into some lengthy monologue about benefits and turn-over rates that you couldn’t bring yourself to concentrate on. Your crossed legs offered little protection. The entity’s touch expanded, infecting everything it contacted with that awful static and turning your skin warm, hyper-sensitive. A strange, alien weight fell onto your clit, pressing down harshly enough to earn a sudden gasp, to make you jerk forward and wrap your arms around your stomach. The interview went silent, his expression turning to one of sympathy-tinged confusion. “Oh, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just—” You tried to straighten your back, to brace yourself on the arm of your chair, but the entity dipped lower, two finger-like projections tracing down the length of your slit and you forced yourself to stand in spite of your unsteady legs. “It’s just been so humid, lately. I think I might need to step out and get something to drink—”

“Please, let me.” No, no, no. You needed to be somewhere else, to find a broom closet to hide in until this was over, but you couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain that all you wanted to do was get away from here and run farther than this entity would be able to follow you. You couldn’t say much of anything as you fell back into your seat, as your interview offered a curt apology and fled his own office before you could do the same. You might’ve thanked him, but you couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

As you feared, the entity seemed to know that you were alone. Its formerly ginger touch turned aggressive, dull fingertips (because they were fingers, you couldn’t deny it any longer, couldn’t claim this thing was as far from human as you hoped it would be) burrowing into the inside of your thigh harshly enough to bruise before pulling back and turning their attention back to your cunt, your clit. It was more than just the ghost of sensation, now – the pad of a thumb pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves and drawing loose, quick circles into your clit. Your body, senses dialed up by paranoia and defenses thinned by exhaustion, reacted instantly, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in your core as you dug your nails into the leather seat and tried to hold yourself still, tried to stop your stupid, stupid body from doing anything that’d suggest you wanted to be molested by a ghost.

You grit your teeth, to clench your thighs together, but your resistance only seemed to make it more aggressive. You felt a hand curl around your ankle and jerk your leg to the side, forcing your legs apart. It was quick to fill the empty space, three fingers pressing into your entrance as the heel of a palm continued to torture your clit. Whatever chill it carried, you were burning hot enough to balance it out, now, to leave you struggling to ignore the slick starting to dampen the inside of your thighs, the wet sounds that echoed off the blank office walls as two fingers slid into your pussy – only vaguely muffled by fabric still between you and it. Suddenly, the material of your dress-pants felt thin, transparent, and against your better judgement, you forced yourself to look toward the door. The interviewer had closed it on his way out, but it wasn’t locked. You doubted it was soundproof, either. If you were lucky, they’d be short-staffed, and no one would have a reason to pass this specific office though this specific hallway. And, if you weren’t…

You choked back a ragged groan as the fingers inside of you started to move, started to do more than just grope and tease and haunt. Rather than numb, rather than paralyze, the static seemed to tote a much, much worse side-effect. There was a sort of… buzzing vibration, a resonating tremor that made you want to lean back, go slack, and let the sensation wash over you. You couldn’t, though. Even if you forfeited the job, gave up on the idea of ever working in this industry, you knew you’d never be able to show your face in public again if someone walked in and you had to explain what was happening to you right now. That was, if you even could explain what was happening to you right now.

You caught the inside of your cheek in your teeth, biting down until you tasted blood. The digits quirked upward, rubbing against your pulsing walls before scissoring apart, stretching you open. There was no pattern to it, no method you could track and prepare yourself for. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it experimental. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it clumsy.

You could feel your face heating up, a knot of tension growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, but rather than sped up, push forward, force you further towards that inevitable ledge, the entity’s hand pulled back, rubbing one more careless pattern into your clit before falling away completely. You let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, letting one last disgusted shudder run through you before straightening your back and—

And forcing a palm over your mouth just in time for a tongue, wet and thick and cold, to run over your cunt, hauling you back to the edge just as quickly as you’d pulled away from it. It was rough, the texture too savage to be human, and so wet, the slick you’d been trying to ignore was immediately replaced with thick, freezing saliva. Even the length seemed designed to torture you – long enough to lap over your entrance and your clit in the same slow, aching stroke; to thrust into you and fill the space its fingers had left empty. Memories of a course on specialized biology resurfaced in the fog of forced pleasure and helpless confusion, something about the evolution of a giraffe’s tongue and then, in another lecture, of the practice of masturbation among dolphins as a marker of their intelligence. You’d hated that fucking class. You hated that you were thinking about it now, instead of doing anything useful.

Its tongue was wider, more flexible than its fingers had been. It didn’t have to stretch you open, no, not when it was big enough to keep you full as its tapered end curled and probed against the walls of your cunt. Two fingers pressed into your clit, drawing loose patterns while its tongue split you open so gracelessly, so brutally, it almost circled back around to feeling good. You didn’t try to stop yourself from grinding into it, anymore, letting your legs twitch and your hips buck freely as it worked, as it tore you apart with all the care of a predator gnawing at slabs of raw meat. Every scrap of your limited energy was devoted to keeping yourself quiet, to stifling the needy whimpers and little whines that managed to escape despite your best efforts to silence them. That terrible buzzing seemed to grow stronger, now intense enough to send pulsing jolts of pure electricity from your pussy to your core, and you doubled over, blunt nails biting into your own skin as that thing finally shoved you over the side and brought your body to a trembling, blinding orgasm.

It nursed you through your climax, and as the euphoria faded and the aftershocks dulled into sharp, searing pangs, you managed to speak, your voice hushed and shaking for reasons that were entirely beyond your control. “Go away,” you forced out, praying that your interviewer had left the building, that there had never been a research center here at all and you were just sitting in a condemned building crying about nothing because grief had driven you insane weeks ago and you were just too lost in your own delusions to notice. “Please, go away.”

There was a second of hesitation, a lingering chill against the inside of your thigh, and the entity chose to show its first sign of mercy and finally, finally leave – its cold tongue lapping over your cunt one more time before disappearing completely. You had a second to pull yourself into a more dignified position, another to make sure you didn’t look like someone who’s just gotten finger-fucked by a ghost in the empty office of a higher-up who had to already think you were some mad-scientist reject before the door swung open, your interviewer stepping back in and smiling at you as if nothing in the world could’ve possibly been wrong.

His eyes flickered over your hollowed expression, your wide eyes, your unsteady posture as he handed you a lukewarm bottle of water. You could only wonder why it’d taken him so long to get. “Are you…” A pause, a slight wince. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “…feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” you said, your voice hoarse, barely audible. You managed to brace yourself on the arms of your chair, pulling yourself upward and leaving the bottle forgotten in your lap. You didn’t want to drink anything. Not until your hands stopped shaking, at least.

“I think we were talking about my qualifications?”

You got the job, despite everything. They asked you to start as soon as you could, but you’d made your excuses, cited a half-remembered clause that’d come with your suspension package and got whoever was in-change of that kind of thing to hold the position for another month. You couldn’t imagine willingly stepping back into that building again, not yet. You couldn’t imagine doing much of anything, not when he still hung over your life like the smoke of a funeral pyre.

It'd been a bad idea, looking back on it. You should’ve worked harder to get yourself out of your stifling apartment. You should’ve done more to keep up with the friends you’d pushed away after the incident, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself socially isolated and alone. You should’ve left town. You should’ve fled the country.

You should’ve done everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up where you were now, facing down the thing that was currently standing in your bathroom doorway.

Your ghost, you figured – even if it’d been weeks since you genuinely thought you were only dealing with a run-of-the-mill haunting. It looked… blurry, for lack of a more creative descriptor; the white, chalky outline of a humanoid figure standing sharply out against the entirely black background. If it had a body, it was lost in the shadows of the hallway beyond, the shadows it’d created when it appeared out of nowhere and took every light bulb in your apartment out with a single pulse of extra-dimensional energy. Right now, the only source of light was the phone you were clutching in your right hand, your left similarly preoccupied, busy keeping your suddenly very, very thin towel wrapped around your torso. It probably didn’t matter. As far as you could tell, this thing didn’t have eyes, let alone genitalia.

That was what the rational, scientific part of your brain said, at least. The rest was replaying the memory of the way its hand had felt as groped at your thighs and couldn’t seem to comprehend much else.

You half-expected it to lunge at you, or rather, to creep at you, to disappear and reappear just outside of your peripheral, too far to see but close enough to sense. In the end, it only had to take a step forward, its movements slow and jerky, as if it wasn’t used to carrying its own weight just yet. Did it even weigh anything? Could you weigh something that clearly wasn’t supposed to exist? It didn’t really matter. You already knew it could touch you. You already knew it could kill you, if it wanted to.

Another step, then another. It closed the distance between you easily, coming to a stop less than arm’s length in front of you. You could see it more clearly, make out a smear of color in the void, like light catching on an oil spill. The white lines that bordered its form were moving in a way you hadn’t been able to make out from across the room, too; trembling and shaking, constantly shifting as if it was only ever a second away from falling apart entirely. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be tempted to reach out, see what happened when you made contact with it, rather than the other way around. If you weren’t so afraid, you might’ve been able to do anything.

It lifted a hand, reaching towards you with those same unnatural movements. Its fingertips brushed over your skin, painting a strip of frost across your cheek, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You couldn’t hear the buzzing, but then again, it might’ve just been a sign that you’d already gone deaf with fear.

You opened your mouth, but speech was hindered, your internal monologue limited to a never-ending mantra of ‘go away go away go away go away go away’. Eventually, you managed to spit something out, even if your voice was barely above a whisper by the time it reached your lips. “I don’t want you here.”

There was a second of stillness, of silence. You started to wonder if you’d made it angry, if it could be angry. You started to wonder if it could understand you at all.

Your makeshift flashlight wavered, sputtering a few times before giving out completely. You scrambled to turn it back on, to not be left alone in the dark with a monster, but your apartment flickered back to life and you found yourself standing alone, the entity having blinked out of reality in the time it took your eyes to adjust to the light. The only proof that it’d been there at all was your dead phone and how violently your hands were still shaking.

You considered leaving your apartment. You considered leaving the city – renting a car and driving as far as you were able to. You’d sleep in whatever shady, cheap motels would have you, start a new life across the country with only your meager savings and multiple PhDs to keep you afloat. You’d change your name. You’d get away from here, away from it. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, now that the infestation had spread to your sanctuary, too.

You took a shuddering breath, then set your phone down and let your towel fall away. You didn’t bother getting dressed before climbing into bed and curling up underneath your sheets, hoping in-vain that your comforter would be enough to hide you from any unseen voyeurs.

Some part of you must’ve already known that it wouldn’t.

You couldn’t remember waking up.

You must’ve, at some point. But, if you had, you would’ve remembered being brought here, would’ve been able to recognize the feeling of countless hands wrapping around your wrists, your ankles; countless mangled tendrils tangling around your fingers and dripping down your arms, snaking up your legs until you were entirely at its mercy. The numbers didn’t add up. There were too many hands, too many moving parts, too many things for your confusion-addled mind to keep track of. You couldn’t seem to figure out if you were suspended mid-air or if the gravity was different, if you were genuinely as weightless as you felt. That, more than anything, fueled the growing nausea twisting in the pit of your stomach, the growing sense of wrongness that threatened to tear away what little stability you had left. What little sanity you had left.

You tried to look past the awful things wrapped around you, to ground yourself with something beyond shifting colors and distorted limbs, but whatever pocket dimension you’d been dragged into didn’t offer much comfort. An expanse of white stretched on as far as you could see, only interrupted by free-floating pools of pure darkness; drops of ink spilled across an otherwise blank canvas. Occasionally, the landscape would waver, leaving you in a pure void broken up by streaks of colorless flesh that’d burn themselves into your sight and linger as phantom visions for seconds after the false reality corrected itself. Even the feeling of its skin against yours was off-putting, unsettling, lacking the warmth that would’ve accompanied the touch of anything human. Where there should’ve been comfort, there was nothing, a total absence of life and familiarity to a degree you’d never experienced before. Where there should’ve been intimacy, there was strangeness, and you’d never taken well to strangeness.

A pang of pure ache ran from your cunt to your core, a sort of numbing electricity that made your legs twitch and your body seize. Right, you’d managed to forget. It was touching you, beyond just the hands shackled around your wrists and ankles and the amorphous tendrils laving over any part of you they could reach. Two fingers kept your pussy spread open and vulnerable while a thick, tapered tendril thrust into you at the kind of idle, languid pace that was simultaneously infinitely merciful and too agonizing to put words to. That was one of the only things you could feel – the agonizing stretch, the tight knot of tension sitting in the pit of your stomach. If you’d been able to move anything beyond your eyes, you might’ve gagged. If your body had been something tangible, something real, you might’ve felt sick.

The tendril curled inside of you, and every fiber of your being seemed to wither. Struggling was pointless, but you still had to try, thrashing against your restraints, digging your nails into that obsidian flesh and praying to whichever deity would listen that it wouldn’t think to fight back. Fortunately, your blunt nails and weak thrashing didn’t seem to faze it. You weren’t sure if it knew you were there beyond some unconscious tactile sense, like a freshly triggered venus flytrap closing around its victim. You weren’t sure which was more horrific – the idea that there was some sentient, self-aware being knowingly and decisively doing this to you, or the passing thought that you’d just been caught in the mouth of some mindless creature that happened to like the way you tasted.

You decided not to think about it. You decided not to think about anything. You decided that, if you kept your mind totally blank, if you refused to count how many times you’d caught a lingering shadow in the corner of your eye or felt a stray hand brush against the small of your back, if you refused to feel its disembodied tendril filling your cunt, then none of this was happening, then you weren’t trapped in an plane of endless nothingness and you weren’t being fucked by the monster that’d been haunting you for months, now. You clenched your eyes shut and promised yourself that you couldn’t feel its dulled tip rubbing against that sensitive, softened spot inside of you, that your hips didn’t buck as another hand appeared from a puddle of kaleidoscopic ink and pressed three fingers into your abused clit, that it didn’t matter if warmth was starting to pool in your core because it couldn’t matter.

Ignoring it wasn’t an option, though. It wouldn’t let you ignore it – its pace changing, speeding up, getting rougher as you failed to stifle your reactions, failed to swallow down the little gasps and moans that slipped past your parted lips. It was almost brutal in its unyieldingness, fucking into you with enough force to bruise as you writhed and scratched and screamed. There was no remorse, no care, just its forceful affection and your body’s response. Another tendril wrapped around your midriff, another hand falling to your chest, and you let out a long, wordless cry. The entity reacted immediately, the blunt head of a tendril forcing its way past your lips and lodging itself in your throat, forcing you to gag around its bulk. It smelled like ozone – fresh and thrilling and terrible all at once. It tasted organic.

This one, mercifully, didn’t seem to want to hurt you. It seemed content to explore you, to twist around your tongue and prod at every corner of your mouth. Still, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chest as you attempted not to choke, as you tried not to let the deformed mass fucking into your cunt tear you apart. Your vision was distorted, blurred and darkened around the edges, but you forced yourself to open your eyes, to stare blankly at the new well of ink forming some indescribable distance above you. It was bigger than the others, soon interrupted by a border of white appearing in the darkness, the shape wavering, sketchy, like chalk line drawn with an unsteady hand. Eventually, you made out a shape not unlike the one you’d seen in your apartment all those weeks ago, the ghostly entity that’d barely had to lift a finger to terrify you. This one was different, though – harsher, flitting and flashing in and out of existence faster than you could comprehend. If it’d been a breath away from falling apart the last time you saw it, reality was struggling to hold itself together around it, now.

A head emerged from the darkness, then a neck, then the entity’s broad shoulders. A hand materialized, extending from the pull of darkness and reaching towards you, towards the mess of dark matter and appendages that now all-but entirely encompassed your form. Its fingertips brushed against your jaw, then cupped your cheek, it’s touch careful, ginger, cautious. As if it was trying to be gentle with you. As if it was trying to be loving.

You’re not sure what part of your exhausted mind made the connection, which piece slid into place first. You let your head lull to the side, your jaw fall limp around the tendril in your mouth. You grunted, a premature attempt to speak that it could separate from all the other meaningless, ragged sounds that’d been forced out of you by its invasive touch, and the tendril pulled back, wrapping loosely around your neck. It still took you a moment to find your voice, but you managed to spit out something nearly coherent.

“…Jonathan?”

For a moment, the hands wrapped around your limbs loosened, the tendril attempting to split you in two faltering and before going still.

Then, there was a resounding, resonating purr that seemed to emanate from every corner of the micro-dimension. When the tendril started to move again, it thrusted into you with twice the force, twice the mania. This time, you didn’t have to pretend. You were floating on air, your thoughts blank and your mind empty – your body numb and unfeeling. This time, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.

This time, you didn’t even bother to try.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderverse imagines #spiderverse #yandere spot #spot x reader #jonathan ohnn x reader #yandere jonathan ohnn #yanderecore #yancore

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feralnumberfive · 2 years

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Who are The Kennedy Six?

I went back and screenshot the book Viktor was reading at the beginning of 3x02 and found something really, really, really, interesting you guys need to see

Here's the text version (Note: I will not be using Viktor's deadname and pronouns) and also man there are a few continuity and capitalization errors in this so I'm going to correct them:

The Kennedy Six is a group of Communists said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963.

Hargreeves, Viktor: A Soviet spy and founding member of The Kennedy Six, a group of Communist said to have orchestrated the assignation (Note: that is an error and is supposed to be "assassination") of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Though no date of birth is known, education and medical records place Viktor Hargreeves in Saint Petersburg, Russia, as early as 1947. Official reports released by the CIA, FBI, and U.S. Department of Defense provide evidence of Mr. Hargreeves' involvement in the establishment of Soviet Satellite States, during which time he is said to have [con]-tact with American Double Agent and-[cut off]- The Kennedy Six, Luther-[cut off]- [con?]-tent of their familial- (last word is mostly cut off ->) [mn/ed]

First part of Diego's is cut off: -Communist-[cut off]-the Cuban Government-[cut off]-[founding?]-member of The Kennedy Six, a group of Communist said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Once thought to be a [sleeper?] agent for the Cuban government who was smuggled into the country as a baby and [trained?] to become radicalized against the U.S. democracy from an early age, his true origin remains unknown due to a lack of official records of his birth or origin. The FBI can only officially place him in the United States as-

early as 1963. According to official reports from the CIA, he is believed to have been in communication and a disgraced former high-ranking intelligence officer for the Cuban government. It is rumored that he lost an eye in Cuba in a cigar attack as punishment for compromising an intelligence operation. His association with The Kennedy Six is believed to be on behalf of the Cuban government and their interest in removing Kennedy from office by whatever means necessary. While the FBI and other federal law enforcement agencies have been unable to prove this connection, unofficial reports place him in Cuba shortly before his arrival in Dallas and eventual rendezvous with his co-conspirators. His whereabouts to this day are unknown, though he is widely believed to be hiding in Cuba.

Hargreeves, Allison: As an American born civil agitator recruited by radical terror groups to infiltrate the American Civil Rights Movement in an attempt to disrupt and discredit the country's Federal Government. A hairdresser by trade, Allison Hargreeves sought ot use her position in local politics to lure John F. Kennedy to Texas, setting up the 35th President for assassination on November 22nd, 1963. Though any direct involvement with The Kennedy Six remains [the rest is unintelligible]

Number Five: Known only by his KGB Codename, Number Five is assumed to be the youngest member of The Kennedy Six, a group of Communist said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Though existing records remain seal (supposed to be "sealed") under the US Espionage Act, Number Five is widely known to have been handpicked by First Secretary of The USSR, Nikita Khrushcev, to recruit American citizens in the effort to collect sensitive political and military information as relating to The United States policy of Communist Containment. A Federal Grand Jury is issued an indictment for Number Five's arrest in December 1963. The indictment remains open.

Hargreeves, Klaus: A prominent religious leader of an influential cult movement and believed to be a member of The Kennedy Six, a group of Communist which is said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Initially believed to be a recruitment camp and training facility for potential religious movement-[cut off]-federal authorities-[cut off]-the latter was eve-[cut off]-was levied with-[cut off]-charges of n-[cut off]-[unintelligible]-cy fo [the rest is unintelligible except a few words at the end]-or how he first-[unintelligible]-The Kennedy Six, and his [whereabouts are?] unknown to this day.

Hargreeves, Luther: An American -[unintelligible] - boxer with connection -[unintelligible]-mafia crime families, and a [member of?] The Kennedy Six, a group of Communist which is said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. According to reports from the -[unintelligible]- U.S. Department of Defense, [Mr.?] Hargreeves was an agent and known -[unintelligible]- Jack Ruby, and his involvement in The Kennedy Six is believed to be on behalf-[next paragraph is mostly cutoff]- A coordination of mutual interests shared between Soviets and the American mafia. Authorities remain in pursuit of him this day, though he was rumored to have perished in a robbery near his Argentinian hideout sometime in the mid 1980's.

They can't be The Hargreeves from this (the current at the time Sparrow 2019 timeline) timeline because they weren't born, this was in the 60s, and why would they have ended up in the 60s anyways? They obviously aren't our Hargreeves from the 60s either because of all the information in the text and the pictures of Five in a military uniform along with Luther and Klaus's mugshots. Unless this is the FBI lying to try to cover up and tie loose ends and create false identities because they failed to truly discover our Hargreeves identities back in the 60s? Have the Hargreeves been changed in the history books?

So, who the hell are these Hargreeves?

it's-it's just the FBI making them up....

#I just can't believe this holy shit #tua #the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #tua s3 #tua spoilers #tua s3 spoilers #luther hargreeves #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #number five #five hargreeves #viktor hargreeves #hargreeves siblings #the kennedy six

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mimble-sparklepudding · 3 months

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Symbolism of Metals OC Questions.

A little list of OC questions based on the symbolism of various metals throughout history. This is not intended to be an exhaustive list of all symbolic meanings, but rather just a small selection for entertainment, rather than educational, purposes.

Iron - Inner Power, Rage and Primal Urges.

Has your OC ever regretted something they have said or done in anger? Perhaps this has happened more than once?

Has your OC mellowed as they have got older? Or are they just as quick to anger, or as easily irritated, as they ever were?

Upon what does your OC draw to get them through situations of great adversity? Their sense of purpose? The thought of their loved ones? Sheer overwhelming rage? Or perhaps something else entirely?

Does your OC struggle to contain their baser emotions, such as lust, aggression or greed? What helps to keep these feelings in check (if anything actually does)?

Are others ever surprised by your OC's steely resolve or ability to endure hardship? Or are they generally regarded as someone with great inner reserves of willpower?

Gold - Wisdom, Wealth and Nobility.

If your OC was called upon to arbitrate between the nobility (or an equivalent social elite) and the common people, on which side of the table would they be sitting during negotiations?

Do those that know your OC consider them to be wise? Is this quality seen as distinct from intellectulism or book-learning in their case? Or do they posess both academic knowledge and the wisdom of experience?

Does your OC struggle to believe anyone is truly smart unless they are also rich?

Does your OC hold that some social groups have an inherent nobility unavailable to others? Do they perhaps believe in the idea of a "ruling class", with qualities that the lower orders could never hope to evince? Or, conversely, do they believe in the unsullied nobility of the poor, in contrast to the decadent and corrupt upper classes?

If your OC could pass on a piece of wisdom to others starting out on a similar path to their own, what would it be and where does it come from?

Lead - Sin, Death, Transformation and Toxicity.

Which experience of loss or bereavement has most affected your OC?

What is your OC's most anti-social trait? Do they acknowledge it as such? Are they even aware of it themselves?

Which sin is your OC most likely to be accused of by others? Would this be fair criticism? Or are their actions often somewhat misunderstood?

What has been the most transformative experience your OC has been through? Was it an experience of loss? The first time they ever felt loved? A traumatic or violent event? Or something else entirely?

How does your OC believe they will die? Peacefully in bed surrounded by friends and family? Or alone in the wilderness? Or fighting against overwhelming odds? Or perhaps they have a different notion altogether?

Silver - Intuition, Honesty and Wisdom.

Does your OC ever base their decisions on a "gut feeling"? Or do they always weigh up the pros and cons carefully and dispassionately?

How tactful is your OC? Are they able to frame criticism constructively and give feedback in a way that protects against potential hurt feelings? Or are they blunt, or even callous, in their attitude to the failings of others?

Does your OC believe they can assess someone's character upon first meeting them? Or are they inclined to give everyone the benefit of the doubt until they get to know them better? Or even to assume the absolute worst of people until it is conclusively proved that they are not an enemy?

Does your OC ever deliberately make themselves appear less wise or astute than they actually are? Perhaps in order to ensure that others underestimate them?

What is something that your OC would find incredibly hard to lie about? Even if they really wanted to do so...

Copper - Love, Beauty and Creativity.

Does your OC believe that they are beautiful? Is their beauty, or lack of beauty, something to which they ever give much consideration?

Does your OC enjoy creating things? Are they particularly artistic? Or do they prefer to focus upon creating things with a practical use?

Was your OC loved as a child? What difference has the experience of love and nuture during their early years made to their character as an adult?

Of all the places your OC has seen, which do they consider the most beautiful?

If your OC were to be immortalised in art, what would be their preferred medium? An epic poem? An exquisite statue? A flattering painting? Or something else entirely?

Tin - Life, Breath and Flexibility.

How quick is your OC to adjust to changing circumstances? Are they more likely to keep going with an existing approach or strategy, even though the situation has changed?

Does your OC work well with others? Even if their approach or attitude is markedly different to their own?

Does your OC believe that all life is sacred on some level? Or are some types of person more valuable than others? Can someone's deeds ever make them deserving of death? Or would your OC never consider that an appropriate sanction, no matter the circumstances?

What does your OC believe makes life worth living? Assuming that they do, in fact, believe that it is?

Has your OC's life turned out how they were expecting when they first began their journey? How well have they adjusted to any differences in this regard?

#oc ask list #oc questions #oc ask meme #OC ask #oc asks #oc meme #oc prompts #oc development #ffxiv #ffxiv ocs #OC development #ffxiv OC #ffxiv wol #final fantasy xiv #ff14 ffxiv

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spockvarietyhour · 13 days

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A first successful beam out. "First Con-tact"

Bonus:

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silkscreaming · 3 months

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I made a volume 10 trimax vash cosplay for MAGfest and I am SO proud of how it came out :) Some process stuff below! Warning for image and text heavy.

Truthfully this cos is only about 85% complete—I’d purchased a bunch of hardware to really go in on a volume accurate version of his undersuit and belts, but simply ran out of time before the con. It was the first cosplay I’ve sewn since 2017 and the first wig styling I’ve done since 2020, so I’m not gonna beat myself up too much!

(This is all purse hardware off Etsy and some buttons from M&J trim)

This was my first time ever making a muslin mock-up, but I knew it was going to be necessary to get the coat to lay the way I wanted it to. I really wanted to try and create proportions that elongated the legs/torso and widened the shoulders by placing the coat tail splits appropriately and raising up the shoulders with some padding. And of course arm and leg details that I’ll get to someday lol.

I created two mock-ups. One of basic muslin that helped me go from an existing pre-bought pattern to something more Vash-shaped, then a second one on a slightly sturdier scrap fabric with my finalized torso proportions with padding so I could accurately pattern out the sleeves and collar.

I was tracing my pattern pieces onto newsprint and vellum as I went, so once all of those were finalized, it was time to cut my fabric! I used a heavy cotton twill from B&J fabrics and two kinds of fusible interfacing from Mood (I’m spoiled by being local to the fashion district these days). A smarter person would have bought a thinner fabric to line the inner torso with, but I did not feel like getting that complicated with my first ever muslin-drafted AND lined project, so I simply cut double of every pattern piece in order to create a lining.

Sleeves were done by interfacing and cutting into a top panel, carefully snipping at the cutout portions, ironing and fabritacking in place, and then top stitching the whole piece to the main sleeve. I later added some leather backing squares and interfacing behind the larger eyelets for aesthetic while keeping the ventilation in tact. Ideally in the future I'll also add a strip of fabric to the gun arm that creates a slight bunching effect since that sleeve is a little more ruffled over the cuff. Photos below also include three shoulder pads pinned together on each shoulder, but I ended up forgetting not using them on my final wear.

Unfortunately at this point I was approaching con time, so I started cutting some corners that I made easily replaceable for future upgrades. The coat tabs are just painted craft foam cut to the size of the buttons, tacked in place where the button pierces through the tab and where it wraps around the edge of the front panel. The straps that attach to the lapel and wrap under the arms also were just decorated with some silver trim instead of hardware, and I skipped the side button panels at his hips for pattern-making simplicity and time. They'll be added later! I'd also love to do some weathering, but don't think I can quite bring myself to riddle the coat tails with bullet holes as some people do haha.

Gun arm attachment was also a quick and dirty addition, just some vinyl trim on eva foam attached with contact cement and a decorative button. First time working with contact cement somehow, but I look forward to also being able to upgrade this at a later date to a more accurate shape with the full belt attachments!

I was also hoping to update the shoes a bit by making some boot covers for them and rub-n-buffing the soles to disguise the platform a bit, but I love my pick for the cleat-look that Vash has! Some good ol' Demonias in classic vash fashion :)

Last but not least: The Wig. My pride and joy.

I got lucky enough to nab an Arda sale, I think right before Halloween, and picked up the Morpheus lace front in black, along with some extra wefts in pale blonde. (I also bought a whole separate pale blonde Morpheus wig, boldly thinking I could swing a normal trimax vash wig lol. It made for a convenient Eriks wig in the mean time.)

Since I was aiming for the end of volume 10 post-Wolfwood death look, I started by trying on the wig, roughly tracing out my hairline, then gently unweaving that portion of black in order to re-ventilate it with blonde.

After I replaced that whole strip of plucked hair, I tried on again to finalize where I needed to ventilate to cover my own hairline, and completed my outline with both blonde and brown-black wefts (i had them on hand lol). All in all, I ventilated more than 4 square inches of blonde, and at least a solid centimeter extension of the black hairline across the whole front of the wig. Probably close to 30 hours of work in the ventilating alone, but I am a little slow since I haven't ventilated in a few years and didn't keep clear track of time.

If there's one thing I should be used to by now about Arda wigs, they are THICK. There is zero teasing in this wig. None. Just got2b, a blowdryer, and a prayer. And a good load of bobby pins. The wig was also sadly a last minute hotel room mad dash, and I do hope to restyle it under less duress, but I do think I successfully achieved the Trimax swoop and am very proud of it! It was unbelievably windy on the walk from our hotel room to MAGfest, so the photos in the start of this post show a bit more droop than my initial styling, but I think I'll be able to touch things up next wear.

And of course, shoutout to my partner for gifting me the official glasses for Christmas :) And thank you to my roommates who barely saw me for a month and a half except for when I needed help with a hem lol.

All in all, I am unbelievably proud of this cosplay, I can't wait to put some more love into it and wear it again!

#cosplay #trigun cosplay #magfest

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sapionic · 1 year

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Placements In Taurus

Astrology information about SOME(not all) placements in Taurus. If you don't see a particular placement, it's intentional, not accidental.

Taurus Sun ♉ ☀️ As a Taurus Sun, you're born during Taurus Season which means your life will be centered around earthly pleasures and striving for stability and maintenance in your life. You're likely always busy doing many things and being engaged with many different situations. You usually don't have a problem with meeting people and creating friendships. Multiple income streams comes naturally to you and plus you're likely to have friends that introduce you to things anyway. Your daily circumstances are changeable and as a fixed sign, you'll have to master some flexibility to maneuver these changes that's bound to happen regardless if you're ready or not.

Taurus Moon ♉ 🌙 You're naturally grounded in yourself around anyone. You're comfortable in general and always striving to maintain that comfort. You like environments that are jolly and lighthearted in nature. You feel stable when you're stimulated. You like good food and you're likely to become better at cooking if it doesn't come naturally to you. You're emotionally motivated to create a home for yourself that you can feel proud about. You're naturally receiving attention although it's not what you're striving for. In family settings, the attention may go to you.

Taurus Mercury ♉ 🦜 You're naturally grounded in your beliefs and may have a one track mind or a main way of thinking. Once you're having a conversation with someone, you probably can talk a mile a minute. You're comfortable in your voice and what you have to say. Your voice is calming or soothing. Your speech is clear and notable. Your tone may increase in volume around people you're comfortable with or family. You are probably more animated with your family. You make logical decisions.

Taurus Venus ♉ 😍

You're likely into yourself so much that you maintain your cleanliness and appearance. You are naturally good at having a clean look about you and presenting yourself with tact when it comes to appearance. This same thing attracts you to a person. A person that can keep themselves up is great. Upon making connections, you definitely like to keep your options open, but as things develop into frequency, you open up and can be more nurturing in these connections. You have a soft spot for the people you connect with habitually. You enjoy skilled cooking/food and also enjoy indulging in it with the people that matter.

Taurus Mars Before you take action, you consider the logical reasoning behind it. You are likely not quick to do something unless you truly feel you want to and have considered it worthy. You're meant to take action in a slow manner. You're meant to weigh pros, cons, and possibilities. You're likely always buying and eating foods that you like as if it's mandatory. You're someone that has to warm up to situations which is why people shouldn't take you for granted. Likely attracted to people who have a laid back persona.

Taurus Rising

You're naturally independent and focused on your responsibility of the moment. You're patient when it comes to doing what needs to be done. You come off very direct and practical. You're likely always surrounded by your siblings. They are a big part of your daily life. You may help them or even make decisions for them or because of them. They're your first friends and then you make your actual friends. If you aren't the one cooking, you're helping cook. You're likely very bold in family dealings and can be counted on to hold the family together in some way. Your life experience becomes fiercely about structure and serious matters. There could be certain situations that happened in your life that felt practically tough, but you're likely to overcome those things a huge deal. You have a social disposition so people won't consider the many things you've dealt with, but you'll always likely have a clan of people by your side.

#astro community #astrology #astro notes #astro placements #astro rambles #natal chart #taurus mars #taurus #taurus mercury #taurus sign #taurus sun #planets #zodiac signs #zodiac

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weenwrites · 10 months

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Predacons reaction to cybertonian crush giving them shiny gems they found cause they thought the cons would love it

Extremely aware that it means they said yes to a marriage proposal cause the predacons have been giving them gifts and trinkets, soo they researched about it and realized the mfs been COURTING them so why not give the darling a response?

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

Predaking

He's very touched that you decided to return the favor, but never would he have guessed that you'd decide to propose! Being ever so lovestruck and pleasantly surprised, he accepts without a smidge of hesitation.

Ideally, he'd want some fancy commemorative ceremony. Something very grand and pompous to show off his new partner. But given the fact that both Cybertron and Earth don't have much to offer, he'll just have to settle for something small. On the other hand, if you don't want any big, fancy ceremony, you'll have to sit down and talk it out because he loves the idea the ceremony a bit too much.

Skylynx

He's happy, yes, but he handles this much more carefully with more tact than the other two do. He'll sit you down and talk about what this means, what will happen, et cetera.. And after the two of you talk things out and clear things up, he'll gladly accept.

He may not know much about cybertronian culture, but when he learns about marriage or conjunx ceremonies, he thinks that they're lovely ways to commemorate and officiate your love. He's not too particular about how it should go, and he's fine with the bare minimum, but if you don't want any ceremony that's fine by him.

Darksteel

He's just as lovestruck and eager to accept your proposal as Predaking is. No second-thoughts, no talking it over, he says yes there and then. He doesn't care about any fancy ceremonies to commemorate your love, and he doesn't really see the beauty in it. All he cares about is the fact he'll finally get to call you his partner. He's so excited that he scoops you up in the biggest, tightest hug, and he doesn't even realize he was hugging a bit too tightly.

#tfp imagines #tfp headcanons #tfp x reader #tfp predaking #predaking x reader #tfp skylynx #skylynx x reader #tfp darksteel #darksteel x reader #x reader #reader insert #self insert #weenwrites

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thecreaturecodex · 2 months

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Archon, Wheel

[Sponsored by @razzelmire. I really like how fleshy the eyes of the wheel archon look, and the weird sinewy tissues in the hub/mouth. It's interesting that they are inflexible paladin types explicitly in the flavor text, more so than other archons. Is it because they're less humanoid? Is it a reference to the Book of Ezekiel, and how its depiction of God (in the first two thirds, anyway) is judgemental and destructive? Or was it an author trying to differentiate different flavors of Good for different celestials in the same product? It could be all of these, or none of them.]

Archon, Wheel CR 16 LG Outsider This being is a wheel the size of an elephant, seemingly made of fire and golden plates. It has a staring eye on each spoke, and its hub is a mouth-like orifice.

The wheel archons are among the least humanoid of the archons, and among the least forgiving. Wheel archons are stubborn and indomitable, and rarely go on missions requiring tact or diplomacy. They are often sent to deliver a message to a prophet, or as a herald of the armies of Heaven. A wheel archon’s view of good and evil is rigid to the point of inflexibility. They are excellent at following orders, but eschew moderation and forgiveness for righteous wrath. They view themselves as the arbiters of Heaven’s laws, and are willing to be judge jury and executioner all at once if need be. They do not tolerate dishonesty in any form, and respond to lies with violent retribution.

A wheel archon’s strategy is as direct and forthright as everything they do. They fly into the thick of battle, spraying flames and slamming into enemies with their spiked rims. Their stern gaze can dispel illusions and force shapechangers to resume their natural shapes, and if they suspect that they are fighting disguised enemies, use this ability liberally mixed with attacks. Fires created by a wheel archon, whether by its spells or sprayed from its fiery spokes, burn through fiends despite any fire resistance they might have. Wheel archons do not accept surrender or surrender themselves unless they are explicitly ordered to do so by a superior.

Wheel Archon CR 16 XP 76,800 LG Huge outsider (archon, extraplanar, good, law) Init +9; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +39, true seeing Aura all knowing eyes (30 ft., Will DC 24),menace (20 ft., Will DC 24)

Defense AC 30, touch 18, flat-footed 20 (-2 size, +1 dodge, +9 Dex, +12 natural) hp 253 (22d10+132) Fort +15, Ref +21, Will +18; +4 vs. poison DR 15/evil; Immune electricity, fire, petrifaction, sleep; SR 27

Offense Speed 30 ft., fly 50 ft. (good) Melee slam +26 (3d12+9/19-20 plus 1d6 fire) Space 15 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks fiery spokes, focus gaze Spell-like Abilities CL 16th, concentration +19 Constant—true seeing At will—discern lies (DC 17), greater teleport (self plus 50 lbs. objects), scorching ray 3/day—flame strike (DC 18), empowered holy smite (DC 17) 1/day—antimagic aura, heroic invocation, holy word (DC 19), prying eyes

Statistics Str 23, Dex 29, Con 22, Int 21, Wis 22, Cha 16 Base Atk +22; CMB +30; CMD 40 (cannot be tripped) Feats Combat Expertise,Dodge, Empower SLA (holy smite), Great Fortitude, Improved Critical (slam), Mobility, Point Blank Shot, Power Attack, Precise Shot, Spring Attack, Whirlwind Attack Skills Acrobatics +34,Fly +34, Intimidate +28, Knowledge (arcana, history, local) +27, Knowledge (planes, religion) +30, Perception +39, Sense Motive +39, Spellcraft +27; Racial Modifiers +8 Perception, +8 Sense Motive Languages Celestial, Draconic, Infernal, truespeech SQ holy flames, spiked rims

Ecology Environment any land and sky (Heaven) Organization solitary or procession (2-5) Treasure incidental

Special Abilities All Seeing Eyes (Su) All creatures within 30 feet of a wheel archon take a -5 penalty on all Bluff checks. Any creature in disguise or in an alternate form in the area must succeed a DC 24 Will save or be sickened as long as it remains in the aura and for 1d4+1 rounds thereafter. Fiery Spokes (Su) As a standard action, a wheel archon can spray fire in a 60 foot radius. All creatures in the area take 16d6 points of fire damage (Ref DC 27 half). A wheel archon can use this ability once every 1d4 rounds. Focus Gaze (Su) A wheel archon can focus its gaze on a creature within 30 feet as a move action. The creature must succeed a DC 24 Will save or return to its original form, dispelling spells and negating supernatural abilities. Whether the creature succeeds or fails its save, it is immune to that wheel archon’s focused gaze until the end of the archon’s next turn. Holy Flames (Su) Fire damage dealt by a wheel archon’s spells and effects ignores the fire resistance of creatures with the evil subtype, and deals half damage to creatures with the good subtype. Creatures with the evil subtype and fire immunity, such as devils, are treated as having fire resistance 20 against a wheel archon’s fire spells and effects. Spiked Rims (Ex) A wheel archon’s slam attack deals bludgeoning and piercing damage.

#pathfinder 1e #pathfinder rpg #pathfinder 2e #wheel archon #be not afraid #archon #celestial #outsider #ophanim #galgalim #sponsored post

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dark-omegaverse · 2 months

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Omega!Itachi x Alpha!reader

Summary: As the leader of your country, finding a husband was a big deal. Itachi was from a strong, loyal family, devastatingly pretty, and versed in literature and art. He was perfect. The only thing left before you signed the contract was his medical exam. You were sure he wouldn't mind if watched. Sub!Itachi x Dom!reader.

Warnings: Mean!reader, non-con situations, but no sex, power difference, watersports (pissing in container), reader bullies and humiliates Itachi for their own personal pleasure. (The first part of this was posted on my other blog, I didn't steal it 😉)

“His heartbeat is strong,” your head medic said, moving the stethoscope away from Itachi’s bare chest. “There’s no issue I can hear.”

“Excellent news,” you said idly, not even slightly surprised. As the son of such an important family, he would have gone through these sorts of medical exams before they put him up to compete to marry you.

The doctor left the examination table and went to note down the results of this test. Itachi’s parents were standing stoically in the corner of the room, personally chaperoning the exam to ensure their son was treated fairly and his innocence kept in tact until you had signed the marriage contracts. You paid them no mind; there were better things to be looking at, mainly the beauty on the examination table, who looked like he was doing everything in his power to refrain from fidgeting.

His robe was still tied at the waist, but his chest was completely bare, having removed his arms from the sleeves at your instruction. Unsurprisingly, his nipples were pebbled. You had to suppress a smirk; you set up this examination in a room without a fireplace for a reason. You weren’t allowed to touch him, not yet, but you could still have your fun.

He was simply the sweetest little thing, how could you resist?

The doctor returned to the examination table and crouched down so that his face was level with Itachi’s chest. Itachi stiffened imperceptibly before attempting to at least appear relaxed. The poor darling was clearly uncomfortable.

“It is not ideal for your nipples to be hard at this moment,” the doctor said, exactly as you’d instructed him to. “It will interfere with my examination.”

Itachi jolted, looking over to his parents for a moment, before swallowing nervously.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a soft voice. He cleared his throat awkwardly and the next words came out a little stronger. “It is very cold in this room.”

“Perhaps we can-” Fugaku started, but you cut him off with a hand, standing from your chair.

“I have a solution, don’t worry,” you said, heading over to the door. You pulled it open widely, and while you couldn’t see him, you could hear the little gasp from the sweet man on the examination table at the thought of his body being on display for whoever happened to walk past. You addressed the servant waiting outside in a low voice.

"Fetch what I have requested, quickly."

She nodded, and then quickly disappeared around the corner, the echoes of her feet slapping against the stone following.

With that taken care of, you entered back into the room, purposefully leaving the door wide open. The position of the examination table had him as the first thing anyone would see if they happened to walk past.

“My servant will be back shortly, but she is not allowed to knock on doors like these, lest she interrupt something important, so the door will remain open until her return.”

This time you got to watch Itachi react. The little bit of panic in his eyes, the way his breathing was increasing at the thought of being seen. You watched him subtly lean forward, attempting to hide his bare chest with his hair. How adorable. He would have to get over such compulsions once you were married though; you had a bad habit of flaunting your beautiful lovers for everyone to see, and you had no intention of stopping even if this lover would be your husband.

“Your majesty,” the servant said, announcing himself as he walked back in with a bowl of hot water and some cloths. She had been extraordinarily rapid, but of course, you had instructed her to be prepared in advance.

“Thank you, you are excused, please shut the door on your way out.”

“This will help relax your nipples,” the doctor said, taking on the the cloths and dipping it into the hot water. He made a show of draining the excess water, but you had explicitly asked him to leave the cloth as wet as he could.

With the cloth in hand, the doctor walked over to Itachi and pressed it firmly against his left nipple. Itachi sucked in a breath at the temperature change, but your favourite part came a few moments later. Droplets of warm water started to run down his chest, finding their way down to his stomach before soaking into the robe tied around his waist. Itachi’s stomach jumped at the ticklish feeling of the water but both you and the doctor pretended not to notice.

A minute later, the doctor removed the cloth, revealing the glistening, soft nipple to the air. Quickly, before the cold air pebbled it once more, the doctor instructed Itachi to put his left arm up and began prodding, poking and squeezing at his chest.

Itachi’s breath quickened and his eyes closed. You wondered if he was feeling good or embarrassed, perhaps both. The little squeaks he was letting out were music to your ears, though, regardless of their cause.

Over in the corner, his parents shuffled uncomfortably and his father averted his eyes.

The doctor repeated the process with the other nipple before speaking.

“Everything feels in order,” he said, moving away to wipe his hands on a towel before jotting down his findings. “No abnormalities nor anything that would suggest he will have trouble providing milk for any children in the case that you decide against a wet nurse.”

“That is wonderful,” you demurred, eyes fixed on Itachi even though he wouldn’t look at you. “I’ve always wanted my husband to feed our children himself. It is uncommon in high society, but I think there are many… benefits… to that sort of arrangement.”

No one in the room responded, so you carried on.

“However, my dearest doctor, you seem to have neglected to drain the cloths sufficiently, you’ve left poor Itachi soaking.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, as if he’d just noticed the massive wet patch on Itachi's lap. “My apologies. On the bright side, I was just about to ask you to remove your robe, anyway.”

“Of course,” Itachi said quietly. He looked to his parents for support, and at their encouraging nods he slipped off the table and tentatively untied the robe from his waist, revealing everything to your eager eyes. The doctor quietly took the robe while you busied yourself taking in the sights.

His thighs were very delicate looking, and pale in a way that suggested they had never seen the sun. You wouldn’t be surprised if that were in fact the case. The divots in his hips drew your eyes next; they looked like perfect places to grab. But of course, the star of the show was the little, soft cock sitting between his legs.

Itachi could see where you were staring and immediately flushed bright red, his thighs and arms twitching as though he were having to consciously refrain from hiding himself from your admittedly predatory gaze.

You couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad though… It was in the nature of a tiger to prey on the little lambs.

The doctor wasted no time in grabbing the tape measure from his desk and getting to work measuring around his hips, thighs and waist, and everywhere he needed. It would be great to finally have his exact measurements to send off to your seamstress. You had a frankly impressive collection of sketches and ideas of outfits you were going to fill your husbands new wardrobe with. The Uchiha were such a modest clan, and so you couldn’t imagine any of his current wardrobe would be suitable.

The first outfit that came to mind was the one you’d been sketching last night. The base of the outfit was similar to a purple bikini, although the fabric designed to run between the legs was actually two pieces of fabric held together with a couple of tiny buttons that could be undone at any time. On top, you designed a silver body chain, although looking at Itachi naked here in front of you, you made a note to change it to gold; it would suit him better. Finally, on top would be a dress made of gauze. It would give the illusion of a proper outfit, a classy silhouette, while of course being entirely see through.

It was not your most creative idea, but still one of your favourites. Perhaps you would get him to wear that to the birthday party you were throwing for him a few weeks after your marriage date.

“Just under 3 inches soft,” the doctor announced, delicately measuring Itachi’s limp penis.

Ah, that was another measurement you needed. You wouldn’t want his first chastity cage to be ill fitting.

You looked up to Itachi’s face to see that he was no longer attempting to close his eyes, but had now seemingly picked a random spot on the wall to focus on instead.

“Right,” the doctor said, standing up and jolting Itachi’s attention to him. “There’s only one more thing we need to do before we get you up onto the table and into the stirrups.”

Itachi visibly gulped, but your stomach lurched. This was one of your favourite parts.

The doctor pulled out an unassuming container, about five cm deep and 10 cm wide, and placed it on the floor in front of Itachi.

“We need a urine sample.”

There was silence in the room before Mikoto spoke up.

“Is there a private room for him provide it?”

“Unfortunately not,” the doctor said with fake sadness. “We had issues last year with a man who managed to fake the sample once he was alone, so it is pertinent that the sample be collected with witnesses.”

The dark haired beauty in front of you was almost shaking. How cute.

His parents did not look happy, but ultimately this wouldn’t be worth fighting the reigning monarch over, so they backed down.

“I know this can be difficult, but we have other tests to proceed with, so please try to be as fast as you can,” the doctor said. He placed the plastic container on the floor at Itachi's feet and then stepped back to his desk.

You could hardly contain your excitement as you watched the panic quickly build in Itachi's eyes as he realised he'd be getting no privacy. He didn't seem to know what to do, and you certainly didn't provide instructions. You wanted to see what his natural inclination was. Would he pick up the container or would he squat over it?

The silence continued, and the omega made no move to do as he was asked.

"Itachi," a rosy-cheeked Fugaku said. Itachi startled and looked up at his father. "Go on."

"If you need some help, I'm sure my doctor can-"

"No!" Itachi cut you off immediately. You smirked at the response. So shy. "I - I can do it."

With the threat of another person coming to help him, Itachi gingerly picked the plastic container off the floor and held it at his crotch height. He slightly opened his thighs to make room for the pot, and used his free hand to gently point his little cock. His head was hanging down, covering his face with his hair, and his thighs were shaking with humiliation.

You tilted your head, watching as he struggled to pee, but refusing to interrupt. You heard a couple of quiet sniffles and you wondered if he was crying. This was another thing he would have to get more comfortable with if he wanted to be married to you. You loved making them perform like this. Perhaps at your wedding you would have him wet his wedding outfit?

You considered it for a moment. Yes, you liked that. It would be symbolic to have him ruin the last piece of Uchiha clothing that he would be allowed.

Right now though, he would have to piss in the container.

So gently that you weren't even sure if you were imagining it at first, a tiny trickle flowed out of Itachi and down into the container. Clearly, once he had forced the first little bit out, the floodgates opened.

You hid your grin as you watched him piss, the loud spattering sound ricocheting off the stone walls and making it seem louder than it was. Slowly, the container filled up, and for a glorious twenty seconds, everyone in the room watched in silence at the beautiful spectacle, until his stream slowly petered off.

With his legs shaking so much, you were surprised (and slightly disappointed) that he hadn't made more of a mess.

"There," your doctor said, voice condescending. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" He took the pot and put it on his desk.

Itachi said nothing as he tried to discreetly wipe his eyes.

"Now, it's time to get you in the stirrups. Hop back onto the table for me."

#itachi #itachi x reader #a/b/o #omegaverse #n-sfw #p/iss #alpha!reader #alpha reader

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