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ssahotchnerr · 5 months

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Ok I just got this image in my head of working out at the FBI gym to unwind after a particularly bad case, and Aaron had the same idea and so you're just there getting distracted because you can't help but stare at him and maybe he finally notices and he's amused - I would die (a happy death)

distractions

you and me both <3 cw; gn!, bau!reader, mutual pining, suggestiveness, your basic cm case descriptions, aaron being hot per usual

your first priority after the jet touched down - the bau's gym.

the case had been unsettling; a not-so-happy ending. sure, you had gotten the guy, but not before he had taken out his most recent victim. he had known it was only a matter of time until he was caught, he had known police had shut down the surrounding area, and managed to complete his endgame before being apprehended.

it happened, sucked when it did. and rather than going straight home, a distraction was in order; to move your body instead of laying in the dark internalizing what could have been done differently.

at the late hour, you expected the gym to be empty, and you had been correct, until aaron walked in about ten minutes after you did.

he seemed just as surprised to see you as you did him, silently nodding a hello at you, heading for the treadmills.

you had been on a yoga mat, stretching and warming up your muscles before doing anything strenuous. but at the sight of him, your impending workout plans were far gone.

you were used to seeing aaron in his usual suit, you'd seen him in casual clothes a few times due to team outings, but nothing could have prepared you for the skin-tight black shirt he was sporting. it was clinging in the all right places - his torso, biceps, and yup - you could've sworn he did have the faintest of abs.

you've always been attracted to him, but this. your mouth had immediately gone dry, your body felt warm despite your lack of movement, and no pure thoughts were in your mind in any capacity.

you tried your hardest to not look, but you couldn't tear your eyes away. how could you not? first reason being, it was him. and then the longer he ran, the sweat caused his shirt to stick to his skin more if it were possible, his chest rose up and down the heavier he breathed. as he jogged his calves flexed, and god were his thighs sexy. his shorts were on the longer side, mid-thigh to be exact, leaving more to the imagination than you would have preferred. but the slightly, newly exposed skin was still, well, new.

so you stayed put, choosing to just admire the view before you. but hopefully to not be too obvious, you performed sit ups; lingering upright to grant yourself the visual before laying back down.

well, at least this is one way to forget about the case.

give or take another five minutes, aaron adjusted the treadmill's settings, slowing to a stop.

"that's it?" you teased, a soft laugh leaving you as you straightened your legs out, reaching for your toes.

as if you were the one to speak, barely moving an inch.

"yeah," he took a swig of his water bottle, panting as he caught his breath. "it's a bit hard to focus with you here."

caught.

"oh my god," your face burned with embarrassment, scrambling to your feet. "i didn't mean to- i mean, you just looked so..."

aaron laughed handsomely, approaching you as your words trailed off. "i meant i don't want to trip over my feet. especially not with you here. it wouldn't look very good for me, i don't think."

oh? "oh."

"but go on." aaron teased, his lips pulling into a smirk as his eyes met yours, dropping for a moment. he was studying you this time around - the light sweat coating your skin, and not very subtly staring at your lips. his breath picked up again, his gaze returning to yours. you also realized, he was dangerously close. "i looked...?"

you swallowed, blinking up at him and managing a soft, "what?"

"i saw you staring. now c'mon, don't start something you can't finish, sweetheart."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x you

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freedomfireflies · 8 months

Text

Red*

Summary: An extra for Mine*

The one where your mafia boss boyfriend, Harry, comes home covered in wounds and bruises.

And the sight is more than you can handle.

(CW: Use of a safeword!)

Word Count: 2.8k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

“Red.”

Immediately, the bedroom falls quiet. The squeaking of the old mattress is silenced, the desperate gasps for air are held, and the heated words of encouragement vanish.

Within an instant, Harry is readjusting his hold on your hips and lifting you off his cock to place you beside him. You can’t see his face through the collection of tears in your eyes, but you imagine it’s petrified and concerned. Perhaps even a little surprised and guilt stricken.

And the idea makes your stomach ache.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, slipping a palm around your jaw to help guide you into his side. Holding you tight as he sucks in a strained breath. “Okay, red. We’re done. We’re done, mama. It’s okay.”

Your sobbing is soft but pained. The images in your head nearly impossible to escape as you shake in his arms and nuzzle your nose into his neck as though to hide.

You’re trying, you are. Desperately attempting to think of anything else. Anything…besides the marks on his body.

When you close your eyes, they’re all you see. The bruises littered along his temple. The scratches down his chest. The bandages around his ribcage.

The reminder of what he’s been through.

This is how he’d come home to you earlier this evening. Covered in wounds and lesions from a deal gone south. He’d been gone for almost twenty-four hours, leaving you to sit in your distress until you finally got word that he had been rescued and was on his way.

He’d been in rather good spirits when he walked through the door. Grateful to see you while joking about needing a hot shower and a good meal.

But the sight of him – covered in blood with skin turning an unsettling shade of purple – had nearly sent you onto shaky knees.

You’d taken him to the bathroom to help him clean and dress the wounds. You helped him shower and eat. Had given him some pain medication and proceeded to do everything you could to help him feel comfortable.

But what the two of you had really needed…was each other.

The rush of adrenaline and anxiety and utter relief had consumed you. Nearly knocked you over until all you wanted was to feel him. To know he was okay. That he was home and safe.

That he came back.

But despite how loving his touch, and how deep his thrusts, and how sweet his kisses…you couldn’t shake the panic you’d felt from losing him. Couldn’t look anywhere else but the bruises painted across his beautiful skin or outrun the scenarios in your mind of how he must have gotten them.

And you wanted to continue. Wanted nothing more than to feel secure again. Safe and comforted by the fact that he was home and in your arms once more.

But every time you’d look at him, tears would flood your eyes. And you’d be reminded of what could have been.

“Sugar?” he whispers now, lips gently pressing to the curve of your bare shoulder. “Baby, can you look at me? Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened?”

However, all you can do is sniffle and shake your head once, scooting even closer as though trying to disappear through him.

You hear him sigh before his arm loops around your hip to pull you flesh to his side. “Are you hurt? Did I go too hard? Or hold you too tight?”

More sniffling and head shaking.

“Was it the position? Was it uncomfortable or painful?”

A hiccup this time.

He grows quiet, cheek pressing to the crown of your head. “Mama…I know it’s a lot right now. But I need to know if you’re hurt or feel like you’re in danger. I need to know how to make you feel safe again. Can you…can you please try to tell me? I won’t be mad, I promise. I just wanna help.”

But you can’t find the words. Can’t offer him the answer he wants. Because it was nothing he did or anything he said. It wasn’t his touch, or the position, or the situation. And you’ve never felt safer than here in his arms.

So how do you explain this?

“I almost lost you,” you finally whisper, the admission nearly getting lost into his heated skin.

You feel him shift, and you assume he’s glancing down at your trembling frame. “What?”

Swallowing another sob, you say, “They hurt you. They hurt you and they almost took you from me. They…they did this to you, and I…I…”

The rest of your sentence evades you, but he seems to understand, his hand slipping around the back of your neck to encourage you out of hiding.

You whimper in protest, not wanting to see him when you feel so small, but he doesn’t accept this. Instead, he takes your face in both hands and forces your eyes on his. Keeping you in front of him as you attempt to squirm away.

“Mama,” he exhales, stern but soft. “Listen to me. I’m right here. Okay? I’m right here and I’m okay. You didn’t lose me. You could never lose me.”

Yet the tears only fall faster. Dripping down into his hands like watercolors on a canvas, wet and warm.

He merely tightens his grip, refusing your wrestling. “Hey – hey. Look at me, baby. Look at me. I’m okay. I’m all right. Yeah? I need you to see that. I need you to see that I’m okay—”

“But you weren’t,” you blubber, grabbing onto his wrists for security. “You were gone, and I…I didn’t know. I didn’t know if I’d see you again—”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he murmurs, surging forward to press his forehead to yours. “I know. I know, sugar, but I’m okay. They could never keep me from you. Nothing will ever keep from you. Do you understand?”

You want to understand. Want to believe it more than anything. But just because it was true this time doesn’t mean it always will be.

And the thought guts you.

“I need you to look at me,” he says again, thumbs sweeping across the high points of your cheeks. “I need you to see that I’m okay, yeah? I need you to do this for me.”

Your lashes flutter but you can’t oblige his request. Not yet. Just the thought of seeing those scratches – that don’t belong to you – makes your heart wrench.

He brings you closer, lips sweeping down the bridge of your nose, the arch of your brow, and the edge of your hairline. “Please look at Daddy. I need you to see me.”

So, you do. But the moment your eyes find his battered chest, another wounded sound scrapes from your throat. Broken like the cracks of a sidewalk as you reach out to hover your fingers near the marks.

He glances down as well, watching your hesitancy with a gentle frown. “It’s okay,” he says again, guiding your hand to his torso. Letting you feel him despite the way you gasp. “See? S’just a scratch or two. Couple of stitches and I’ll be fine. You and I have done way worse, yeah?”

He’s attempting to tease, but you feel your insides twist. “It’s not okay,” you mumble, the words heavy like the weight atop your chest. “It’s not okay, look at you. They…they did this to you?”

When he realizes you’re beginning to panic again, he squeezes your palm and presses it flat against his heart. “Hey. It’s all right. D’you feel that? I’m okay. It’s steady. Still beating, still stable. M’gonna be around for a long fucking time.”

You sniffle again and trail the tip of your finger around the edge of each bandage, tracing the bruises and scars with reverence.

“I’m okay,” he repeats. “I promise. I promise, mama. Don’t want you to worry about me. Or think about it. Or feel scared. I want you to feel safe, I want to make you feel safe.”

“You do,” you tell him, whimpering again as you melt into his touch. “You do, always.”

His brows furrow and you notice a look of regret settle onto his expression. “Except today.”

Confused, you glance up.

“I scared you today,” he explains, reaching up to brush some hair behind your ear. “I made you feel unsafe. I didn’t see how much you were struggling, and I should have. I failed you—”

“No,” you nearly gasp, almost insulted by the insinuation. “Never, Har—”

“It’s my job to look after you,” he continues sternly. “My job is to make sure you’re comfortable. To anticipate your needs in moments you can’t tell me, and I didn’t. I failed you—”

“No,” you whisper, scooting back onto his lap until you can wrap your arms around his neck and bury your lips against his throat. “No, I promise. Please don’t say that. Please—”

“I promised I’d never push you that far again,” he reminds you, a bit softer but still riddled with regret. “And I’m so sorry I did.”

“Daddy,” you sigh, hoping the dominant nickname will be enough to reach him. To make him understand. “Didn’t push me, I swear. It just caught up to me. Seeing you so hurt. I didn’t realize how scared I’d been until we got here, I guess. And it was all I could think about.”

You hear his breath catch and you know him well enough to know he’s internalizing your admission. Perhaps punishing himself for something completely out of his control.

“I never want to scare you,” he says, and you feel your chest cave in. “I never want what we do to scare you or make you feel unsafe. And I should have waited longer before suggesting it—”

“No, I wanted to do this,” you assure him. “I needed to do this. I needed to feel you, to be with you. To know I’d gotten you back. That you were okay.”

You lean back to see him and notice the way the corners of those beautiful green eyes are turning red. The way his lashes flutter, the way his mouth presses into a thin, distraught line.

“Harry,” you murmur, nails sweeping through the curls lying against his neck. “This is not your fault. I called it because I got overwhelmed but you couldn’t have known that. And you did everything you were supposed to do. You stopped and you talked to me. You made me feel safe again.”

He seems unconvinced and it makes your heart ache to know he feels so much remorse. “I just want you to be okay.”

“I am,” you exhale, leaning forward to press your mouth to his. Kissing him as though your sanity depends on it. “I will always be okay with you.”

He seems to settle into your reassurance, hands once again squeezing your hips as though trying to tell you how much he adores you.

And it seems to dissipate this tight feeling in your chest as you lace your tongue with his and travel your touch down to his cock.

He’s still hard, the tip swollen and stained red. You feel a twinge of guilt over leaving him this way when he so clearly needs the release, but before you can wrap your palm around him, he’s snatching onto your wrist.

Kind eyes find yours while his mouth curls up into a gentle but resolved smile. “No, baby. Not right now.”

Your expression falls as fast as your stomach. “What? Why? I’m…I’m okay now, I want to help.”

His only response is to bring your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss into the tips of your fingers as he murmurs, “We’re taking a break right now, okay?”

“But…Har, I’m okay. Really. I wanted to wait because I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop crying but I’m okay now. I’m green.”

However, despite your insistence and your honest pleading, he merely shakes his head. “I want us to wait for a while, okay? Just until we feel ready.”

You feel yourself pout but you know there’s no arguing with him, despite the anxious pulling on your heart. “But I am ready, Daddy.”

He chuckles at your attempt, sitting up to kiss your right cheek. “Well, Daddy’s not ready yet. I want to kiss you for a little, is that okay?”

You make a rather needy noise before relaxing into his embrace and his comforting touch. “Yes, Daddy.”

Pleased, he guides you back onto the bed beside him, angling your body until he can gently sweep his mouth along yours. Kissing you slow and with more love than you know what to do with.

His tongue feels like silk. Dancing along your bottom lip so effortlessly that it leaves you breathless. Until you’re squeezing onto his hip for balance.

You feel him grin against you. “My sweet girl,” he whispers. “Love to just have you like this. To be here with you.”

He smells so comforting. Good and familiar. Like his body wash and shampoo that you love to inhale. It turns your brain to mush as you focus on the feel and the smell of the man pressing himself into you. Keeping you warm and secure against his chest.

He kisses your top lip before smirking. “Can I tell you a secret, mama?”

You nod, palms slipping around his strong, broad shoulders.

He pauses, just long enough to meet your eye. “I like the pain.”

You feel your breath hitch as you stare at him, a rush of excitement and intrigue filling the aching space between your thighs.

“Liked it then…like it now,” he admits quietly, kissing you once more. “I like when you touch them. Like when you press on them. Like when you scratch your nails down the scars and make them bleed.”

With a delicate and depraved whimper, you shuffle closer, slipping one of your legs between his almost greedily.

He smiles again and it’s so smug. “All I could think about when I was there was how excited I was to feel your hands on them. To feel you touch me. Make the pain worth it.”

Your eyelids feel heavy. A drunken state of lust washing over your subconscious while he kisses you deeper into the mattress. Curling his body over yours until your head nearly sinks through the pillow.

“And I fucking love these lips,” he murmurs between frantic licks to your tongue. “God, could fucking stay here forever. Tasting you. Having you. Feeling you kiss each bruise.”

He’s painting you a new picture. Resetting the trauma in your head until you associate his marks with pleasure instead of pain. With promise instead of regret. Excitement instead of disappointment.

You feel his cock brushing against the edge of your thigh, and you whine again at his insistence on teasing you. “Har, please—”

“Shh,” he breathes, nosing under your jaw to trail his mouth along the curve of your throat. “Just want you to lay here with me.”

Your pout returns. “It’s not fair—”

“No? I think I’m being more than fair,” he retorts, large hands sweeping across your ribcage. “I’m giving you all my love and attention. Isn’t that what you want? Always beg me to just lay with you and cuddle. S’what we’re doing, yeah?”

You make another noise and push your tits into his chest, hoping for any sort of friction. “Hurts, Daddy.”

“Hurts?” His brow raises curiously but he seems to understand what you really mean. “Hurts how, sugar?”

“S’achy. Feels…feels empty.”

“Empty, hm?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, that’s no good.”

“Mm-mm.”

And for a moment, you think he’s going to cave. You think he’s going to dance those perfect fingers of his down to your cunt and take a little taste. Give you what he knows you need until you’re writhing and crying for him.

But just when you feel him move his hand…he’s taking it away and stretching it out beside him with a yawn.

“Gosh, I’m just so exhausted,” he sighs, fighting a rather large smirk when he sees your reaction. “I think we should have a little nap, hm?”

Before you can respond, he’s looping that same arm around your waist, flipping you around until your back is against his chest, and settling. Chin tucked over your shoulder and touch firm.

You stumble over a gasp and a rather defeated groan, attempting to ignore the feel of his cock pressed so deliciously against your ass.

But Harry’s resolve is unmatched, and even without seeing him, you know he’s grinning.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he finally whispers, and the feel of his breath against your neck sends a chill down your spine. “Once we wake up, if we want to try again…we can. Does that sound good?”

It’s not the perfect solution, but you know it’s the only one he’s going to offer you. So, with a quick nod and another pleased sigh, you slip your fingers around his wrist to keep his hold on you.

He chuckles.

“That’s my girl.”

IN CASE IT WASN'T SUPER CLEAR, THIS ONE-SHOT TAKES PLACE OUTSIDE OF THE CURRENT ASHER TIMELINE/DILEMMA! Just something for fun! 😭💞💞💞

Next Part:

~ Lost

Previous Part:

~ Pillowtalk*

~ Full Mine Masterlist

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @acesofspadess @stylesfever @virginvirgo @pagesfalling @creativelyeva @char112244 @snwells @armystay89 @oh-my-hecky-padalecki @blackbookwhore @nellylayhoohoo @22fallenangel22 @watercolorskyy @ilovedilfs32 @nicodoesntexist @lelenikki @happypoptart

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maviezz · 4 months

Text

Mr. GhostFace

Pairing: Stu Macher × Fem! Reader

Summary: You where on a phone call with your friend laying on your bed, when suddenly you hear something stumbling behind you…

Genre: Smut

cw: fingering, knife play, stalking, mentions of murder, dubcon (lowkey)

Word Count: 2,2k

pd: this is my first ever fic, so please let me know if there’s a spelling mistake or anything, I’ll be glad to know!!

after finishing up a gruesome murder accompanied by his accomplice, Billy, Stu ended up near your place. Picture this: he's walking down the street, fleeing from the morbid crime he had just committed, and oops, there's your house all lit up like a Friday night. Curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn't resist checking it out.

Stu's not your typical guest, and you're not big on inviting folks over. No need to bother with doorbells for him. Instead, he takes the unconventional route and climbs up to your unconventionally opened window.

So, there he is, peeping through, his eyes scanning your room , then his gaze falling on your body, trying his hardest not to make any noise that might startle you. You're having a regular chat with your friend, over the phone, not knowing you've got an unexpected audience. Stu's like, "Hey, I'm just here for the show” but little do you know, he's been high-key obsessed with you, ever since he fist laid his eyes on you.

Lying on your stomach during the phone call,swinging your feet in the air while casually twirling strands of hair. Unbeknownst to you, Stu looms as a silent observer. His gaze, a mix of fascination and a hint of obsession is fixed on every animated expression. The ordinary act of twirling hair and swinging feet becomes an unwitting performance for Stu, who watches with an eerie intensity, emotions oscillating between anticipation and a peculiar connection to the conversation. The air is charged with the unspoken presence of this uninvited spectator. In an unsettling twist, Stu makes a fateful move, generating a subtle noise that draws your attention.

A sense of unease permeates the air as I detect fumbling behind my back, a shiver coursing through as the realization dawns—window is wide open. Dread takes hold; a killer is on the loose, and turning around becomes a perilous decision. Despite the inner turmoil, curiosity prevails, and I slowly shift my body and slowly turn my head back to where the noise was coming from. The visual that greets me is bone-chilling. A visceral scream tears through the air as my eyes meet those of the masked killer, an embodiment of the very fear that lurked in the shadows.

He sensed the fear etched across my face, a pang of regret gnawing at his heart. Contrary to the ominous aura, he harbored no intentions of harm; instead, a fascination with the sight of innocence under the pale moonlight took root within him. "Don't be afraid, baby," he whispered, his emotions masked by the cold exterior of his hidden face.

His tall silhouette loomed above, a revelation that he exceeded my mental image. Gradually, he eased into my personal space, his voice softening the eerie atmosphere. "No harm will come to you from me... I just wanted to get closer to my cute crush." The unexpected confession hung in the air, a disconcerting blend of fear and an oddly misplaced sense of flattery. A chill ran down my spine as his cold, gloved touch made contact with the skin on my cheek. Beneath the black robe and mask, his warmth was an unsettling contrast. Struggling to recognize his voice, an unsettling realization dawned –The psychotic killer that is terrorizing Woodsboro was inside my room, his hand grazing against my face.

"W-what do you mean? Who are you?" I stammered, the air thick with uncertainty. However, the futility of my inquiry hung in the silence; it was evident he had no intention of revealing his identity. His gloved hand traced a light caress along my cheek, savoring the softness of my skin. With audacious intent, he gently tilted my face upward, our eyes locking beneath the eerie glow of the moonlight. "Call me Ghostface," he uttered, the words hanging in the air.

"P-please don't kill me..." I pleaded, my voice trembling with fear. The Ghostface's touch sent shivers down my spine as he carefully pushed me down onto the bed, his firm grip holding my jaw. His knee positioned in between my legs created a sense of vulnerability. Although the option to run was within reach, a peculiar force seemed to immobilize me, as if my body had taken on a will of its own, drawn to the mysterious enigma of the man on top of me. The room hung heavy with suspense, the moonlight casting an eerie glow over our unsettling connection.

A devilish smile played on Ghostface's lips beneath his masked face as he sensed my lack of resistance. With a sinister grace, he pulled himself closer, a strange yet intense sensation coursing through his entire being as my delicate form pressed against him. "Don't worry, baby... I only wanna play with you," he whispered, the words hanging in the air, dripping with an ominous promise that left the room steeped in an unsettling tension. I gasped in horror as Ghostface pulled out a knife, holding it softly against my neck. "Please..." I pleaded, the dread tightening its grip on my trembling form. Slowly, he ran the blade down my chest, tearing my shirt and exposing a vulnerability that left me in display for him to feast on. A mixture of fear and helplessness hung in the air, as my breath got caught in my throat.

A shiver of anticipation ran through the Ghostface as he felt my soft skin against him. He savored the moment, relishing the intimacy, before teasingly pulling away. "You have beautiful tits” he remarked, his thumb tracing slow circles on one of my sensitive peaks, the air hung heavy with tension.

“m-mhm- fuck!” A gentle, almost imperceptible sound escaped my lips—a soft mewl—when his cold-gloved fingers delicately traced the contours of my nipple, each touch sending subtle shivers through my whole body.

The Ghostface couldn't help but express his delight through a low grunt, leaning in to whisper, “You're so captivating... I've dreamt of having you like this.'" My breath caught sharply as he violently tore apart my shirt, the fabric being tossed across the room...

“p-please don’t do this” My mind recoiled, hesitant and fearful, yet my body, in stark contrast, responded with an undeniable allure. Despite the trepidation, the man behind the mask exuded a captivating charm that stirred within me a sense of arousal, the wet spot on my panties making it impossible to hide.

He smirked behind the mask as you tried to push him away while also reacting to his touch. He slowly trailed his gloved hand down your stomach, making your skin tingle in anticipation “I won't do anything you don't want, baby." His hand found its way to the hem of your panties, slowly pushing them down to reveal your shivering and oh so damp folds. The scent of arousal was overpowering in the small room, making him even harder than before. He leaned in closer, his hot breath caressing your neck “You're so wet for me... It's like you want it."

My palms met his chest, pressing them flat against it, detecting a subtle firmness. "I'm going to call the cops," I stammered, my voice wavering. His eyes met mine as I felt the warmth of his chest beneath my hands.A sly grin adorned his lips, and he remarked, "Go ahead, make the call. But can they beat the clock?" The room seemed to pulse with tension as I hesitated, torn between the urge to reach for my phone and the magnetic pull of the man before me. His eyes held a challenge, daring me to follow through on my threat.

As the seconds stretched, I could sense the weight of his challenge in the air. The room became a battleground of wills, my hand still lingering on his chest. The unspoken tension crackled, I decided that it was best for me not to piss him off. The Ghostface smirked, enjoying your confusion. “Good choice, princess... but don't be surprised if my next move leaves you drenched." He slowly pushed his middle through your wet folds, moaning quietly as he felt just how ready you were for him. He pulled his finger out and teased your swollen clit in slow circles making it throb against his touch. A soft moan escaped my lips involuntarily as his touch sent shivers through me, his thumb pressing wet circles on my hardened nub . "F-fuck-Please don't do this," I whispered, my plea hanging in the charged air between us.

He continued toying with you, feeling your body become more and more aroused under his fingertips. He leaned in closer and whispered softly in your ear “You're such a tease, baby... making me hard for you." His voice was low and seductive as he felt your wetness begin to drip onto his finger. The realization struck him like lightning— he knew, in that very moment, that he desired you.

Flushed with embarrassment, I found myself incapable of pulling away or resisting. My pussy was glistening with my arousal, my body succumbing gradually to the allure of his touch. "D-don't," I stammered, the plea escaping my lips amid the internal struggle.Ghostface sensed your body yielding to him and couldn't resist any longer.

With a sudden movement, he slipped two long fingers into your wet cunt making you gasp in surprise. He slid them in and out slowly savoring the feeling of your warmth surrounding him. His other hand cupped your left breast, fondling it softly, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath the latex of his glove. “s-stop!” i whimpered faintly, the feeling of his middle finger inside my aching core was heady mixture of intoxication and delight sweeping over me, compelling my fingers to delicately clench the bedsheets beneath my quivering body, each thread bearing witness to the intensity of the moment.

He chuckled softly, his eyes dark with desire as he looked down on you. His fingers found your sweet spot and began to tease it mercilessly, causing your hips to buck up against him in desperation. "Do you like that, hmm?"

With a gradual nod, I acknowledged my surrender. Lost in his touch, the resistance that once lingered vanished; I no longer felt the need to push him away.

The Ghostface saw your submission and pushed his fingers deeper inside you, curling them to maximize your pleasure. Your breathing grew heavier as the sensation began to consume you, making you feel like a bundle of fire. “I'll give you what you want... just let me have my fill." He watched with satisfaction as your body arched under his touch. His other hand reached over to your core and circled your clit in time with his fingers, driving you closer and closer to the edge. With a groan, he leaned in closer, his masked face against your ear. "You're mine now”. He coos. In that shared moment of lust and pure passion, the room seemed to shrink, enveloping us in a cocoon of intimacy. We were entangled in a dance, where every touch, and every pump of his fingers inside my sopping hole spoke more than words possibly could.

“m’gonna cum~”i grunted softly, my hips bucking onto his fingers, my back slightly arching off the bed, spit was dripping down my mouth. The scene unfolded like a cliché scenario from a porn movie, akin to something you might find on a Blockbuster rental shelf—undeniably sensual and provocative. He felt your pussy clamp around his fingers as you reached the peak of pleasure.

He rode the wave with you, relishing every tremble until it slowly subsided. His eyes roved over your flushed and sweat-drenched body, making him even harder “That's it baby, cum for me." his fingers kept pumping inside of me as I milked my orgasm, my whole body shook in pleasure, soft gasps leaving my body “f-fuck…” I muttered, my chest rising up and down softly as I came down from the high of the wrecking orgasm.

He pulled his fingers out slowly, coating them with your arousal. He brought them up to his mask and breathed in deeply, savoring your scent before trailing them over your sensitive clit “You're delicious, baby."

A loud moan involuntarily escaped my mouth in response to the unexpected slap across my drenched cunt. "O-ow!" I exclaimed, the sting resonating with a mixture of surprise and discomfort.

The Ghostface's wicked laughter echoed, a chilling soundtrack to my discomfort. "You wanted it, now take it like a good girl," his words, laced with dominance, hung in the air, adding a layer of intensity to the unfolding scene. "Why are you leaving?" I questioned, the vulnerability in my voice evident, as he stood up from the bed and adjusted his robe. My gaze followed him as he walked towards the window. A smile played on his lips, but you couldn’t see it. He looked down at me over his shoulder. "I'll see you soon. Don't forget our little secret," he whispered before vanishing from sight.

Left in his wake, a mix of arousal and puzzlement lingered, the room now filled with the aftermath of an enigmatic encounter.

Confusion swept over me, grappling with the surreal reality of the town's masked murderer appearing in my room, fingering me, and then abruptly vanishing as if nothing. The experience felt terrifyingly unbelievable, leaving me bewildered in its wake.

#stu macher #stu matcher x reader #stu matcher x you #stu matcher imagine #scream #billy loomis #scream 1996 #scream fanart #stu macher smut #stu macher x you #slashers #slasher movies #stuart macher #matthew lillard

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r0-boat · 23 days

Text

Instinct

Male! Dragon! OC x AFAB!gn!reader

Feat: Yandere OC Silas

Cw: possessive behavior, yandere character, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, animalistic behavior, biting, claiming bite.

NSFW

Thank you @devotion-disorder for this lovely art piece I'm so glad I commissioned you!!

You smell good.

So good.

Your Skin;

So Soft to the touch,

smooth and unblemished,

just begging for a mate to pin you down and sink his fangs into. Your mere presence was tempting.

Silas knew full well that as the months got warmer and the snow melted, more primal desires started to call to him. An animalistic need that demanded satisfaction. However, a Duke dub Cedric from a neighboring kingdom invited him to a ball and offered he could not refuse even if he wanted to. The Duke was kind enough to Grant him a plus-one, and now, standing before you in an outfit that the maids and tailor specifically prepared for you, how the woven silk fabric hugged every part of your body, oh, how he wishes he could forget that stupid party and rip your outfit in two and ravish you right here in this carriage.

His hungry eyes did not go unnoticed by you. Even now, as elegant and princely as he looked, Silas looked like a caged, starving animal. His eyes were only on you the entire night, even as other more elegant women wine and flaunted their bodies to get his attention, only to clutch their pearls in frustration when the prince only had eyes for you.

Silently stalking behind you like your shadow glaring down upon you like a premium steak on his plate ready to devour you.

But Silas held back his urges for the sake of his reputation, as all Noble eyes were on him. He stopped following you around like a lost puppy and began mingling with Sir Cedric. Talks of trade business gossip from other kingdoms were a much-needed but small distraction from the burning in his core, but now and then, he would sneak a little glances at you. His pupils waning into slits as he watched the other attendants stare at you with the same hungry eyes he had been.

Veins rush with adrenaline when one of the Nobles who had been eyeing you gets the courage to approach you.

The conversation becomes background noise as he tries to concentrate on what that man is saying to you, glaring daggers at the noble, making you smile and chuckle. The dragon in him hissed and snarled, becoming more and more restless. To it, you are an unclaimed potential mate being pursued by a rival.

Silas feels his claws threatening to rip out of his gloves. He clutches his fist with images of the noble's blood painting the walls of the ballroom, Imagining the taste of his flesh on his tongue. He quickly storms out as the Duke is still talking to him.

You look over to see Silas approaching the both of you.

Eyes burning with fury, be prepared yourself for a gruesome site only for it to never come.

" Excuse me, gentlemen, my apologies for interrupting your conversation, but I believe I asked this lovely person to dance with me."

Silas said politely, eyes still burned with a jealous rage that you were all too familiar with. A small, gentle smile on his face, Which only made him more unsettling. And his hand ever so gently stroking your hip, has he pulled you closer to him.

The man, a kind soul, really, took the hint. If he were to stay within your presence any longer than he'd had, this Prince would make him disappear.

"Ah, Sorry, Your Highness, I hadn't realized they were taken already."

Yes, taken… They are mine

A shiver goes down your spine when your eyes meet his, giving off a slight draconic glow of violet piercing into your very soul.

As you danced with him, his hold around you was tight, and his touch was borderline sensual as he caressed your parts in ways along with notice. You flushed, knowing that you couldn't do anything while Silas was feeling your body in public. Even as you try to look away, he moves his head to keep your eyes on him.

"Don't look away from me." He whispered a husky, demanding tone, his thumb gently pressing against your bottom lip as he forced your head back to him. His thumbs wipes across your bottom lip. His fang sinks into his, Imagining the taste of your lips upon his

"Eyes on me, dear."

With the last of his self-control, he lasted from the dance the carriage ride home, letting out a low-throated purr, seeing your small body sat pretty in his lap, his large veiny hand underneath your clothes grasping at your bare thigh. He stayed eerily quiet even as you tried to talk to him. He'd only give one-word answers or hums, his mind thinking of only one thing. His gaze focused on your unblemished neck, shoulders, and collarbone. You feel his hand squeeze your plush thigh, fingers dipping dangerously close to your core. Silas's breath tickles your neck, gently pressing kisses up until he nibbles on your ear. Finally, he whispers.

" As soon as we get out of this carriage, you are coming into my bed tonight. Do you understand?" He smiles as he sees you nod obediently.

When the carriage finally does stop as at his Castle, he immediately has you in his arms, carrying you like a bride, to his chambers, throwing you onto his large bed, going back to the door to lock it.

When you sit up, you see him breathing heavily, his face flushed red, looking back at you with that familiar, hungry look. Silas slowly begins to peel off his clothing one by one as he makes his way closer to the bed to you.

"Do you know what you do to me?" A growl rips from his throat, now half naked, his fingers playing with his belt.

" all night, as I suffer, you sit pretty looking up at others with those big doe eyes.

He creeps closer, hands pressing against the mattress as he leans into your face.

" walking around and then gorgeous outfit men drooling over you like panting dogs. Unaware of who has already claimed you.

He caresses your cheek before his hand slides down, grabbing the collar of your outfit. Pulling you downward, your forehead rested against his.

"Strip."

Claws dug into the fabric. If this weren't off in five seconds, it would be torn off your body.

He watched you slowly shimming out of your outfit. With each delicious amount of skin exposed, he touched and caressed.

Your thighs, your hips, your stomach, your chest. The Prince couldn't keep his hands off you. He could barely hold back when he pressed you into the mattress, a hand secured firmly around your throat.

Fingers trail down your stomach, slipping beneath your undergarments. Thick fingers press. Play with your core. Pressing gently at your tight entrance, fondling your walls, listening to the sweet sounds of your insides as he stirs them. He releases your neck, caressing your cheek as he leans down to taste your lips. His breath shakes as he goes down for another. His tongue is sliding into your mouth as he deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair pulling you deeper. He presses his entire naked body against you. You could feel how hard he was straining his pants.

"I want you."

His voice shakes in desperation

"I want to be the only man you look at.

"I want to claim you as mine, to make it so everyone knows who you belong to."

His hand slips to his belt, undoing it, while remaining eye contact.

" I need to be inside you,"

He keeps looking at your core, licking his lips.

" But first, it has been a while since I've tasted you. Let me make you feel good."

Grabbing your ass, he lifts your lower half with ease. He lets out a feral growl as he goes down onto your core, eating you like a starved beast. His eager tongue tastes all of you because he puts his whole mouth on your little body. Lewd noises of his lips slurping your wetness fill the room, which only turns him on more, his feral growls turning into whimpering moans, grinding his hips against nothing in particular. You clenched the bed sheets, wailing and trembling, your body trying its best to squirm away from the intense pleasure only for him to hold you tighter.

You were not getting away from him.

Silas needed to make you cum to taste your essence on his tongue. He needed to feel that satisfaction of knowing that no other man could make you feel the way he feels.

His eyes rolled back when your hand tangled in his hair, pulling on his long jet locks as you braced yourself for your own orgasm. He holds his mouth in place, drinking every last drop of you. Finally, finishing his meal, he drops you like a rag doll, wiping his mouth with his hand before licking his fingers. He was no longer a man at that point, with only one thing on his mind: he flips you over, a firm hand on the back of your neck, pressing you down. He slipped his cock out of his pants, his big hand manhandling your ass open. Your entrance is wet enough with the saliva, cum, and juices, even with his vast draconic cock. He forced himself inside with one motion, mounting you like an animal. You felt his breath already against your ear as he put his hand around your throat. His pace was rough and relentless, grinding his hips with each thrust, trying to drill as deep as he could.

"Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! All mine!"

He repeats like a mantra. You can feel the tip of his dick pressing against the sweet spot inside you, making you clench around his thick rigid shaft feeling every monstrous and inhuman ridge on his dragon cock. His cock felt hot, threatening to burn you out from the inside. You cum again on his cock. Silas is lost and in pleasure, mercilessly fucking you through your orgasm. He removes his hand from your throat, snaking it till around your mouth, muffling your sweet screams when you feel his teeth sink into your neck, his sharp, beastly fangs piercing, breaking your skin as the taste of your blood feels his mouth; he explodes inside you, his whole body is shaking the sheer pleasure making tears well up in his eyes. His hips still as he grinds every last drop deep inside you, claiming you for himself, claiming you in the most primal way any man can. You go limp into his arms, and he catches you, supporting your entire body in his arms. Silas, in a daze licking the new wound on the back of your neck, gently suckling the red liquid from the new mark; his cock throbbed deep inside you, still hard, and his body still felt hot.

"I need more."

#smut #yandere men #yandere oc #Ro.ocs #oc: silas #yandere male #yandere oc x reader #dragon prince #male yandere #tw blood #tw yandere

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danibee33 · 20 days

Text

The Queen’s Guard - Chapter 2: Seen

cw: dark themes, dubcon/noncon, *read at your own discretion*

word count: 2.7k

[<<< chapter 1]

The weeks had been exhausting, to say the least.

You were used to being pulled in a hundred directions everyday, used to being the face for the kingdom, put on show like a prize horse in your fanciest dresses and most dazzling jewels.

But, all you could think when you see your reflection is how heavy they feel; the faceted rubies and diamonds are just pretty chains to you, the uncomfortable whale-bone corset around your waist is a cage, the pounds and pounds of bright velvet and silks weigh you down, making your urge to flee a vain one.

I would never get far.. Though, if I jumped into the pond, I doubt they would ever be able to lift me out in time- would they say it was a tragic accident?

“My Queen.”

The brassy voice startles you from your own thoughts, your eyes meeting warm copper in the mirror image. They aren’t concerned, not really; if anything, you think you see the faintest hint of frustration in his shadowed expression,

“The King waits..”

Oh, right. You were still sat at your vanity, the boar-bristle brush still clutched between your fingers, your long waves hanging freely over your shoulder and back, body only covered in a flowing, white nightgown. And very suddenly, you’re too aware of just how exposed you are in your guard’s presence, too aware of how warm his gaze feels lingering on your skin before he looks away just as quickly.

“Thank you, Ser Simon..” You let your head fall forward, your hair covering the bloom of red that’s settled over your cheeks.

He’s been an attentive guard in his short tenure with you, and at times, you’ve found it quite eerie, the silent way he moves, the way his eyes track everything around you, how his mind and his senses could possibly be so intensely focused on everything all at once.

But, what unsettles you the most is how seen you feel.

The knight has this uncanny ability to read you, as if he were fluent in your body language, in every tiny expression that might possibly flash across your features at any given time. Such as when he sees the way your eyelids settle low over your eyes when you’ve grown weary of a particular conversation, or the way you clench and unclench your fingers when you become restless, the way your jaw flexes when you’re angry-

He’s quickly picked up on every little thing, and you’re still not sure if your find it annoying or are grateful for it,

“Elia?” You call for the young handmaid, her slight figure approaching quickly as Simon’s retreats, “If you’ll just set out my things, you’re free to enjoy the rest of your night.”

After your nights with the King, you preferred the comfort of solitude, preferred to take care of yourself afterward. And by now, it is just as much a part of this primal ritual as the act itself, and the more distant part of you almost looked forward to it- to the after- when you get to be alone.

Because you so rarely ever get to be thoroughly alone..

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

She goes about setting out the small basket of certain items you usually need to get through these nights, a vile of purified olive oil, fresh aloe vera and witch hazel for the times your King might have had a rough day beforehand- clean cloths, et cetera-

“Thank you.” You nod at Elia, giving her a soft smile before looking toward your guard to give him the same gesture; you were as ready as you could be, no sense in putting it off any longer.

As soon as your chambers door is pulled open, His Majesty himself sweeps in- and you just know he’s in a mood-

“Husband.. You look well.”

You notice the door hasn’t closed yet, looking beyond your husband’s slightly smaller frame to see Simon looking back at you- and you realize this is the first time he has been present for these nights, and the look in his eye is full of something..

He can’t possibly look angry, can he? No.. that’s absurd-

You give a small nod, watching how he regards you for a moment longer before returning the movement and closing the doors behind him.

Looking back at your King, it’s all too easy to forget that he’s a handsome man, with his sweeping dark hair and lean muscular build; but there’s something about the ice in his blue eyes that has always made you feel cold in his presence. Even when he steps closer, wide palms resting on your cheek and hip, you don’t really feel the heat of his touch, your body knows what’s coming, but, even so, it fails to find arousal.

“Ah, my pet.. beautiful as ever.”

You’re not sure ‘hate’ is the right word to describe his little name for you, because it doesn’t feel endearing or sweet in the slightest, the way he says it is demeaning and possessive. Like he wants to reiterate and reaffirm that you really are nothing more than bitch in heat for him- but that’s fine, you don’t really think you could handle it if he actually wanted to spend more time with you.

These few times themselves were hard enough to get through; and in the years since the first time he bedded you, you’ve been studious in learning how to work him up to get it over with sooner, rather than later-

“My King..” You drawl, reaching for the leather ties on his trousers, “How I’ve missed you.”

He pushes you down to your knees slowly, eyes never leaving your face, “Hmm.. What have you missed, sweet pet?”

His length falls into your hand easily, already fattening with need, and you’ve never seen anyone other than him like this, so you suppose he’s large- he fits in your palm nicely, your fingers wrapping around his shaft,

“This, my love..”

You look up at him with wide eyes, and watch his head roll back the moment the soft flesh of his tip slides through your lips-

This is how it always starts, and for all you know, this is really all there is to it. Because once you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, and his grip on your hair tightens painfully, you know it will be over soon.

Thank the fucking gods above.

Tugging you up and over toward the sprawling bed, he turns you, watching as you settle on your knees before him, the nightgown falling up your torso, ass in the air, just as he prefers.

Your back arches for his touch, and you bite into your bottom lip as he pushes into your heat- it’s tight and uncomfortable, but that never stops him, he simply leans down to grab the glass of oil before continuing at a brutal pace.

There are no noises made other than the lewd, rhythmic smack of skin against skin, and you’re not sure if it’s seconds or minutes before his breaths grow heavy, his grip becoming a bruising hold on your hips until he slams into you one final time- the familiar, slightly nauseating, warmth pulsing deep in your core as he fills you yet again.

And is it horrible that you now truly hope it takes?

Not because you want to give the wretched man a child, an heir, or that you want to see your belly grow distended and your tits swell into nothing more than a cow’s udder for his helpless babe; but because if it takes, that means you’ll be free of your wifely duties to him for a blissful nine months-

His hand comes down harshly on your bare buttcheek, the sharp pain causing you to gasp out a pitiful sound, followed by a nasally chuckle as he pulls out of your channel without ceremony- surely enjoying the way his spend dribbles down between your thighs as he does,

“How do you like your new guard? Quite the interesting choice you made.”

Yanking at your garments, you stand along with him, not bothering to meet his eyes as you speak,

“He’s fit in well. A proper shadow, as he should be, no?”

There’s a noncommittal sort of grunt made, the sound of leather straining as he ties the straps at his waist before stepping closer.

And what he does next, you really don’t know if he does it because he feels something, no, certainly not- or if he does it because he thinks it’s what you want, which you do not- but he leans down to take your lips. It’s always a harsh and clashing kiss, over just as quickly as the rest of it,

“He’s a protective shadow, isn’t he?”

A flare of anger courses through you at the sly and prodding comment, and it takes more than a deep breath to settle the surge of violence that burns through your gut.

But, your mouth has always seemed to move faster than your brain, unfortunately,

“Well that’s his job, isn’t it?” You shoot back, fingers tangled in your own hair as you twist it into a loose braid, “Pray tell, are you planning to kill this one, too, husband? A warning would be-”

Before you can properly react, a hot, searing pain explodes across your cheek- the force of his back handed slap rattles through your head, and a small whimper is all you give him before biting your tongue and casting your eyes down to the floor.

“You’d do well to mind that smart mouth of yours, wife. Maybe you should be focused on providing my kingdom an heir instead of your witty remarks..” His voice drops into a mocking tone as you flinch away from his touch, “You’ll do that for me, won’t you, pet?”

There’s a crack in the floor that consumes all your attention, but you still nod sweetly, “Of course, Sire.”

Too-wet lips push against your hairline, his palm settled at the nape of your neck, “Good girl..”

Praise has never felt so degrading than when it comes from him. It makes you want to crawl into yourself, hide away from the world-

Fuck, how did you ever get here. How could this possibly be your life? You remember the stories told to you as a little girl, practically memorized them- and this, these horrors were never written into your tales.

Or, perhaps, they were just conveniently left out..

Because you were so sure then, so sure if there was true love in this world, that if anyone would find it, it must be you, right? You had been betrothed to the King since you were just a babe, a perfect little girl born to unite your kingdoms in peace and prosperity-

Ha.. and look at you, now. Poor little Queen.. how foolish I was-

“Your Grace.”

Damn it…

You look towards the door, seeing the black clad figure blocking out nearly the entire width; and it’s only when he sees your face head on, that his body flinches forward- eyes widening behind the sharp angles of his helm.

Clearing your throat, you turn away from him, waving your hand, “I’m tired. And I’m sure your relief will be here soon, just go, Ser. I relieve you in his stead.”

“You’re bleedin’..”

His voice holds none of the usual harshness this time, and it’s like his words turn on the part of your brain that registers pain- hissing when your fingers graze over the deep split at the corner of your mouth.

There’s crimson on the very tip of your finger when you pull away, and the color seems too bright, too foreign in your eyes; the King had never struck you before, yet he managed to draw blood the very first time.

Was I really so weak, and simply never knew it?

A piece of cloth replaces where your fingers had been, and your next breath catches in the back of your throat from the unexpected contact, the surprising gentility in his touch. He’s close now, closer than he’s ever dared come- and you know you should be disgusted at his blatant lack of decorum, you should reprimand him and command him to leave; but, you don’t.

Instead, your eyes travel slowly, up and up the breadth of his armored chest and neck, until finally, you meet his eyes. They’re steady on your lips at first, but like every time before, they find yours quickly- his gaze just as intense as ever.

Gods, has he moved closer?

He’s close enough you can smell him now, his rich scent overwhelming you with each warm breath he exhales and you inhale. He smells like vetiver and steel, warm and cold, like the first frost of winter, and the first cup of spiced wine in the fall-

“Shall I call for your handmaid, My Queen?”

My Queen.. My Queen- it plays over and over in my head, always and only ever in his honeyed voice.. I hate it- no, I don’t.. but shouldn’t I?

It’s just.. He does not say it like the others- he doesn’t say it just out of respect and title, no- gods, it’s like he’s praying when he speaks those two measly words. There is devoutness in his tone and reverie in his gaze- But, that can’t be right. You are just upset right now, reeling from the night, from the week prior, and the weeks before that.

You’re simply imagining these things, giving importance where none is due. You just need to rest-

Tired, yes. That’s all.

“No..” You don’t mean to whisper, but his proximity steals your voice, “I’m fine.. Please- Go.”

Your neck is still craned looking up at him, your lips parted as you struggle to control your breaths, and maybe it’s the stupidest thing you could do, but you find yourself unable to stop. You let your fingers wrap over his gauntlet, not really pulling him away, but hoping he does it on his own- because you don’t think you could, you don’t think you really want to.

“Please..” You beg again, even quieter than before.

Simon gives a small sigh, his head tilting, eyes searching your face again- though, for what, you can’t be sure. But, after a slow blink, he takes one step back, then another, until he’s at your chamber’s door- and you’re forced to realize how painfully cold you feel in his absence.

“Sleep well, My Queen.”

Your knees buckle before the latch is even properly closed, the stone floor unforgiving as you all but collapse into yourself- trying so hard to be quiet, because you’re the Queen, and Queens do not sob, Queens do not let priceless rugs soak up their tears, or wish to drown in them, all the same.

The Queen should be grateful, should be proud of her station, of the gift bestowed upon her by her fortunate bloodlines.

Queens are strong, or they’re supposed to be. And you think you were strong once.. when the world still appeared beautiful and rosy in tint, when the promise of all the things that could be were still so bright and full of wonder.

You don’t consider yourself strong anymore. You feel like a ship without sails, listing dangerously in the stormy waters, entirely at the mercy of the sea. Waiting, just waiting for that one perfect rogue wave to capsize you, to wash you away into the nothingness-

But, truthfully, and it’s a truth you’ll never speak aloud, a truth that sits with you, hangs over you- you really don’t know how much longer you can stand to keep playing this charade of a life.

Not when the dark waters look so appetizing, so peaceful.

She doesn't know that her guard stays just beyond the thick wood, that he listens to her quiet sobs until he’s sure that she’s managed to cry herself to sleep.

It’s a haunting sound to him, for reasons he can’t explain or understand.

Because Simon Riley is not a good man, he is merciless and unkind, a woman weeping has surely never stopped him before- yet, with The Queen, the anguish and desperation in her cries claw at him, they dig themselves into his muscle and marrow.

He only ever wanted this position because he was truly tired, utterly weary and exhausted to his core-

But, His Queen.. she changed everything.

a/n: thank you for being here!

[Chapter 3 >>>]

#knight!ghost #simon x reader #simon riley x you #fic: the queens guard #call of duty #cod fandom #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #reader is the queen #obsessed #ao3 transfer

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hazbinfallinginaspiral · 14 days

Text

Antique Beauty (Be A Doll Oneshot)

Not canon to the AU! Anyway.

CW: Manipulation, mind control, disassociation, loss of sense of self, delusions, lover obsession, mental breakdowns, Vox being Vox, AU typical events

I think that’s all. Let me know if I missed anything!

Summary: Vox finds an antique doll that is strikingly similar to you, so he buys it and gives it to you as a gift. You see this as an oddly touching gesture, and make it a point to keep the doll around or nearby at nearly all hours of the day, to show your appreciation. This new toy has an unforeseen impact, though. As time goes on, Vox continues to use the trigger phrase on you, and you begin to lose touch with reality. You see yourself as a literal doll, just like the one he got you, and you begin to act as such.

In the heart of Pentagram City, amidst the hustle and bustle of the demon-filled streets, Vox found himself wandering through the labyrinthine aisles of an antique shop. His crimson eyes gleamed with interest as he perused the eclectic collection of curiosities, searching for the perfect gift for you, his significant other.

His gaze landed on a striking antique doll, its porcelain features delicately painted and its attire reminiscent of a bygone era. What caught Vox's attention, however, was the uncanny resemblance the doll bore to you. The same delicate features, the same captivating gaze—it was as if the doll had been crafted in your image.

While Vox usually hated anything that was too reminiscent of the past, he was willing to make an exception for you. He preferred change, and didn’t like to linger on the past nor anything made during the time, he’d rather focus on the present or the future. But, this doll was exactly like you, in practically every sense. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get his favorite doll a doll that looked exactly like them.

Without hesitation, Vox purchased the doll, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he imagined your reaction. With the doll cradled in his arms, Vox made his way back to the sleek confines of his penthouse apartment, anticipation bubbling within him like a dormant volcano awaiting eruption.

As he entered the opulent living space, Vox was greeted by the sight of you, engrossed in a book by the flickering light of a nearby candle. There were plenty of lights, windows, and far more reasonable ways to read, but for some reason, this is what you preferred. Vox vaguely rembered you mentioning your love of simpler things like candles, gardening, crafting, and writing poetry. He thought it was somewhat trivial, especially when it wasn’t even necessary. Why would you do something like grow your own flowers when you could just buy some? It made no sense to him. He thought the time could be better spent working or inventing or doing something to do with change. Your preference for this seemed too repetitive and stagnant for him, too quiet and simple. He didn’t like it, but he was willing to indulge you. You were his favorite doll, after all. Your eyes flicked up to glance at him, curiosity evident.

“Darling,” Vox purred, his tinged with excitement as it echoed through the spacious room, “I have a surprise for you.”

Your eyes brightened with even more curiosity as you regarded Vox with a quizzical expression. “A surprise?” You echoed, setting the book aside and rising to your feet to meet Vox’s gaze.

With a flourish, Vox presented the doll to you, a mischievous twinkle dancing in his eyes. “Ta-da! For you, my doll,” he declared, with a grin. He looked rather proud of himself.

Your breath caught in your throat as you beheld the doll, your eyes widening in astonishment. Its porcelain features bore a striking resemblance to your own, a doll that bore an uncanny resemblance to you? Anyone else would have been unsettled, but you weren’t. In fact, you were oddly touched by the gesture.

Its porcelain visage was strikingly similar to yours, from the gentle curve of the cheeks to the arch of the eyebrows. Dressed in a vintage gown of satin and lace, the doll exuded an aura of elegance and charm that seemed to captivate you. From the hair to the eyes to the soft curve of the lips, you were enchanted by it. You reached out a hand to touch its delicate cheek, a sense of wonder washing over you like a tidal wave.

“Oh, Vox,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “it’s… it’s beautiful.”

Vox beamed with pride at your reaction, his chest swelling with a sense of satisfaction. “I’m glad you like it, doll,” he said softly.

You smiled and gave him a hug, then a kiss on the cheek. “I love it! I love you,” you said with a grin. You sat back down on the couch and went back to looking at the doll, still in awe.

As you continued to admire the doll, Vox couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth wash over him. It was a small gesture, perhaps, but one that spoke volumes of his affection for you. Or, rather, what he thought to be affection. It was a twisted sort, really. He thought of you as his very own little doll, just like the one he’d just gifted you, except you were alive. He enjoyed playing with you, pulling your strings, puppeting you around… he loved you, yes, but in the same way a child loves their toys. He’d be careful to never let you break, though. He cared for you too much for that- he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if he lost his favorite little doll. As he watched you admire the antique doll he’d just gifted you, he knew he’d made the right choice. It was the perfect thing to placate you, keep you distracted and happy for the time being.

It started innocently enough, with Vox using his hypnotic abilities on you during mundane tasks. "Be a doll," he would murmur softly, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine. And with each command, your movements became more fluid, more doll-like, as if you were a marionette dancing to Vox's tune. You’d seek solace in the antique doll he’d gifted you, a reminder that he wasn’t all that cruel, but a doll couldn’t fix everything.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, you found yourself ensnared in a web of Vox's making, each passing moment pulling them deeper into the labyrinth of his desires.

You’d be reading with Vox in his study, surrounded by shelves full of books. Quietly reading, happy and content. Vox would lean back in his seat, a smirk on his face. “Be a doll and get me that book on the top shelf,” he’d say, smug. Your eyes would glaze over as you rose from your seat, moving with a sort of fluid grace as you wordlessly get the book and give it to Vox. He’d smile and give you a kiss. “You truly are an obedient little doll.”

It didn’t matter where you were.

It could be late at night, both of you in Vox’s bedroom, Vox in bed and you only just walking in. “Be a doll and come here,” he’d say with a predatory smile and low but commanding voice. You’d falter for a moment then obey, crossing the room to stand in front of him. He’d point to the floor and you’d sink to your knees, at his feet, staring up at him helplessly. “Such a good little doll, always eager to please,” he’d say, running his fingers through your hair.

It could easily happen in public, too.

You’d be attending a lavish gala, Vox standing out in his striking tailored suit, you at his side, fidgeting nervously. He’d lean in close and whisper in your ear, “Be a doll and smile for our guests, won’t you?” And your lips would twitch into a forced smile, your expression wooden and devoid of any true emotion as you plaster on a facade of cheerfulness. “That’s it, doll. Show everyone how much of a nice, obedient little thing you are for me,” he’d say, tightening his grip on your arm. “Show them you belong to me.”

The doll couldn’t stop Vox, but it provided a source of comfort. It was a reminder of how nice he could be.

Your fondness for the doll only seemed to grow. You began to carry it with you wherever you went, treating it as if it were a cherished companion. Vox would watch with amusement as you start to dress in clothes similar to those worn by the doll, your wardrobe gradually transforming to match its vintage style.

You’d stand before the mirror in your bedroom, clad in a delicate lace dress that hugged your figure. You’d tilt your head to the side, studying your reflection with an unnerving intensity. Slowly, you!d raise their hand to your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with delicate fingertips.

Vox would enter the room, his eyes alight with anticipation as he would observe your movements. "Ah, my doll, you look positively radiant," he’d murmur, his voice smooth as velvet. "Such a beautiful little thing."

You’d turn to him, a serene smile gracing your lips, pleased with yourself for earning his praise. It was usually few and far between. "Thank you, Vox," you’d reply softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I feel... different, somehow. Like I'm not quite myself anymore."

Vox would step closer, his hand reaching out to caress your cheek. "That's because you're becoming exactly what you were always meant to be," he’d say, his tone almost reverent. "My perfect little doll."

To Vox's delight, your behavior also began to shift. You moved with a grace and poise reminiscent of the doll, your expressions serene and tranquil. It was as if you had become entranced by the doll's presence, adopting its mannerisms and demeanor as your own. Little did he know, it was because as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you found yourself slipping further and further into a hazy fog of compliance and confusion. Vox's relentless use of the trigger phrase had begun to take its toll, eroding away at your sense of self with each passing command.

In moments of quiet solitude, you found yourself seeking solace in the antique doll that Vox had gifted you. You would sit for hours, cradling the doll in your arms, its porcelain features a stark reflection of your own. With trembling fingers, you would brush the doll's hair and dress it in delicate finery, whispering words of comfort and affection as if it were a living being. Tonight was one of those nights.

As the world outside grows quiet, you sat alone in the dimly lit room, cradling the antique doll in your arms. You stroked its porcelain face with gentle fingers, your touch reverent and tender.

"I wish I could be like you," you whisper, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "So serene, so perfect. No worries, no fears. Just... blissful ignorance."

Vox enters the room, his eyes dark and hungry as he surveys the scene before him. "You already are like her," he says, his voice almost soft. Almost caring. Almost. "You're my little doll, and nothing could ever change that."

You look up at him, your eyes wide and unblinking, like those of a porcelain doll. "I know, Vox," you reply, your voice hollow and empty. "I belong to you. I’m yours.”

The doll provided more comfort than Vox did.

Sometimes you would even find yourself engaging in childlike play, pretending that the doll could feel and respond to your touch. You would make it laugh and smile, pouring all of your pent-up longing and loneliness into the tiny figure in your hands, hoping against hope that somehow, some way, the doll would bring you the comfort and companionship you so desperately craved.

Alone in your room, you’d sit on the edge of your bed, a sense of unease gnawing at your insides. You’d clutch the antique doll tightly to your chest, seeking solace in its familiar presence. But no matter how hard you’d try, you couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that lingers within you.

Vox's voice echoed in your mind, his command to "be a doll" ringing like a relentless refrain. With each passing day, it became harder to distinguish between reality and illusion, between your own thoughts and Vox's whispered commands.

Tears would stream down your cheeks as you’d clutch the doll tighter, your chest constricted with a suffocating sense of dread. "I can't do this anymore," you’d whisper to yourself, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your own heart.

In a moment of desperation, you’d hurl the doll across the room, watching as it crashes against the wall with a hollow thud. But instead of feeling relief, you’d be overcome with a profound sense of loss, as if a part of yourself had been torn away.

The line between reality and fantasy began to blur for you. You would catch glimpses of yourself in the mirror and see not a person staring back at you, but a doll with glassy eyes and porcelain skin. You would hear Vox's voice echoing in your mind, commanding you to "be a doll" and obey without question.

Alone in your room, you’d sit huddled in the corner, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you’d clutch your head in agony. Images flash before your eyes, fragmented memories twisted and distorted by Vox's relentless influence.

"I can't escape," you’d whisper to yourself, your voice a desperate plea for salvation. But no matter how hard you’d try, you couldn’t break free from the chains that bound you to Vox's will.

In a moment of ‘clarity’, you’d reach out for the antique doll, your fingers trembling as you trace its delicate features. "Help me," you’d whisper, your voice barely audible over the roar of your own despair.

But the doll would remain silent, its glass eyes staring back at you emptily. Offering no comfort. You’d be left alone with the realization that you were stuck in this endless nightmare of your own making, with no escape.

With each passing day, you felt yourself slipping further away from who you once were, lost in a sea of Vox's control and manipulation. And as you gazed into the unblinking eyes of the antique doll, you couldn't help but wonder if you were truly any different. Perhaps, in the end, you were nothing more than Vox's plaything, a doll to be toyed with at his whim.

As time passed, your sense of self seemed to fade away completely, replaced by a serene acceptance of your role as Vox's little doll. You no longer spoke or acted like your former self, your personality and individuality erased by the allure of being a perfect little doll.

No longer did you question Vox's orders or assert your own desires. Instead, you moved through your days with the mechanical precision of a well-oiled machine, your actions dictated by Vox's whims and desires. It was as if you were merely a puppet, dancing on strings pulled by Vox's invisible hand.

And as he watched you, now little more than a porcelain doll come to life, Vox knew that he had finally achieved the ultimate conquest—possession of you, in your entirety.

For Vox, it was a dream come true. With your transformation complete, he felt a sense of absolute control and dominance unlike anything he had experienced before. You had become his perfect, obedient doll, ready to fulfill his every desire without question or hesitation.

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tropes-and-tales · 7 months

Text

Obsession

Day 6 Voyeurism (Dave York x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Dave is creepy; voyeurism; smut (PiV, protected; between reader character and not-Dave); 18+ only.

Word Count: 2023

AN: This was requested by the lovely @chemicalalice

It’s a feature of Dave York’s new neighborhood, how close the houses are to each other.

His new neighborhood, rather: after his divorce from Carol, his now ex-wife kept the house, so Dave took the opportunity to embrace a new beginning. He moved from his McMansion in its suburban purgatory into a part of the city where the housing is more varied, closer together.

He buys a small Craftsman-style house, and he makes it his. He settles into his new life. Dave York’s Second Act.

He finds his rhythm. Work, then home. His daily run through the neighborhood. His evenings with a scotch, unwinding on his couch in bad weather or on his back porch in good weather. He has next to no back yard, but he can see where the original plat used to lie: his house’s original carriage house had been subdivided into its own plot, and the former carriage house was converted at some point to a single family home.

Owned by you. Occupied by you.

Dave noted you the day he moved in. He noted all of his neighbors, everyone on his street. He did surface-level searches on everyone—a hazard of his job, his perpetual distrust of everyone—but he dug a little deeper on you.

It’s been months now. Dave and you are on polite terms. You wave hello, call out “good morning” when he’s stretching for his run and you’re walking your dog. Sometimes your mail gets switched because of the off-kilter numbering on your street. That’s the extent of it, though.

Dave wonders how you’d react to everything he’s dug up on you. There’s the obvious stuff, the wide-open social media profiles that give him a good idea of the type of woman you are. There’s the professional website that shows your work history, your education. Easy stuff that anyone could find.

But then there’s the stuff no one should be able to find. The stuff that would probably horrify you, infuriate you, if you ever found out that Dave went spelunking for it. He’s horrified, a little, at himself, but you’ve become something of a hobby to him. An interesting puzzle to piece together. Is it boredom, the long quiet nights without the noise of his family? Post-divorce rebounding? Stress relief from his job? Who can say?

It’s a slippery slope from interested to obsessed.

It’s appallingly easy to hack your computer. It’s easy to pick your front door lock while you’re at work and your dog is at doggy day care. Easy to slip a monitoring program on your laptop, and since you have everything saved on the cloud, Dave has the bonus access to your phone as well.

It’s an obsession. It’s all-consuming. It’s a constant feedback loop of call and response: Dave thinks of you, has the image of your float in his mind’s eye. A moment later, he taps on his phone or laptop, pulls up his spyware, and can see what you’re doing.

Sometimes, you’re not using your phone at all. Or your laptop. Sometimes you must be otherwise engaged: driving or eating a meal, or drinking with friends or walking your dog. Those moments make Dave feel unsettled, irritated that you’re out of his sight, like the sun slipping behind a cloud and casting the earth in darkness.

Then the delayed gratification when you’re back, the sun breaking through the clouds again. You unlock your phone to log your meal—you track your food. You unlock your phone and pull up a playlist, and he can picture you humming along to ‘90’s alternative or ‘80’s New Wave or old hair bands.

You unlock your phone and read smutty stories on a website, and Dave reads along with you, sees the kinks you gravitate towards, and he thinks, “oh, you filthy little girl, the things I’d do to you.”

When your phone activity goes idle right afterwards, he can guess why.

It doesn’t take a genius to see why his obsession grows. Just a bit of boredom before, a way to pass time until Dave’s Second Act could really get going, yet now he thinks of little else, wants little else.

His rhythm: work, then home. His daily run through the neighborhood. His evenings with a scotch, unwinding on his couch in bad weather or on his back porch in good weather, the ghost of you beside him, behind him, in his head, hijacking every thought. The real you, the flesh and blood you, so fucking close—mere yards away, if he’s on his back porch—but you may as well be on Jupiter.

You unlock your phone. You open the dating app that is really just a hook-up app. Dave watches on his own phone as you swipe left, swipe right, send opening salvos to men younger than him, but not by much. He watches those men fumble, fail. He sees the dick pics that come through, pathetic shots of ungroomed dicks with dirty laundry, unmade beds in the background. He sees how politely you brush them off, how you return to the search and adjust the age brackets and the distance to cast a wider net.

Dave goes to bed that night and seethes at how unsure he finds himself. He should make a move. He should leave you alone.

If he makes a move, he’ll definitely come on too strong. His obsession will spill out and scald you with its intensity; he’ll scare you with how much he wants you already, how much he wants to own every part of you. And Dave is like a wolf: if you’re scared and run from him, he will want to chase you.

If he leaves you alone, though, will his obsession ever die off? Will it wilt, then exhale quietly as it dies?

-----

You unlock your phone. You have a match on your hook-up app, and you and this guy—this Eric—text. You make plans.

Dave watches from his darkened living room as you leave your carriage house. Dress, heels, makeup. Hair done up nice.

He seethes. Your phone has little activity for most of the night. Unlocked a few times, and photos of your dog pulled up. You must be showing Nice Guy Eric pics of your dog.

Does Eric pay for your meal, or does he make you split the bill? Does he lay his hand on your lower back, tantalizingly close to the swell of your perky ass? Does he chance a look down your dress; does he lean in close to take in the scent of your soap, your perfume, your pheromones sparking at the male attention?

In the hours when you’re gone, Dave lays out an infinite number of possibilities. Scenarios where Nice Guy Eric isn’t nice at all, and for some unknown reason you call Dave. Dave York to the rescue. Dave York scooping you into his arms, and when his obsession spills over, it doesn’t scald you at all because in this scenario, you’ve been obsessing over him too.

Stupid shit. It’s stupid. Dave is a grown man; he has a job and a mortgage and an ex-wife and children, for fuck’s sake, but he’s here mooning like a teenaged girl daydreaming over a boy band…

You unlock your phone. You order a car. Dave tracks the route from the city center as it gets closer to his home (your home), but when you climb out of the car, you aren’t alone.

Nice Guy Eric is with you. He’s on your heels, his hands on your hips as you fumble with your keys, as you giggle when you try to unlock your door. Nice Guy Eric spins you around, presses you against the door, kisses you. Dave watches from the darkness of his living room, rages to see your hands as they settle on the back of Nice Guy Eric’s neck, on his waist as you kiss him back, then lead him inside your small home.

Dave cannot stop his feet from carrying him outside. He leaves his porch light off, lurks in the darkness, and he knows exactly how it looks. He knows exactly what it is. It’s creepy, it’s borderline illegal, but he cannot stop himself.

His back porch overlooks your bedroom, and though you’ve drawn your blinds, they aren’t drawn tight. Dave on his porch looking down into your room, and he can see you and Nice Guy Eric. He watches as you and he spend long minutes on your bed, stretched out and making out, and Dave wishes it were his hands on you instead of this fucking idiot, because he’s touching you all wrong. He’s groping you, there’s no finesse, and you deserve someone who knows what the hell he’s doing.

Dave doesn’t know where the wellspring of his anger comes from at this moment. Is he furious because there’s another man in your bed, kissing you, fucking you? Or is he furious because Nice Guy Eric is not making it good for you at all?

Because Nice Guy Eric is an idiot. He spends no time seducing you. He doesn’t sit back and admire you: that amazing ass, those tits, all wrapped up in the prettiest pink lingerie Dave’s ever seen. Nice Guy Eric doesn’t ease you out of it; he doesn’t push you back against a bank of pillows to put his mouth and tongue to you. Nice Guy Eric has this opportunity to taste you, to tease you with his tongue and fingers, but he doesn’t take it.

His only foreplay is the making out, and then he’s rolling a condom onto himself, climbing on top of you. It’s a paltry four, five pumps before he’s shuddering and then collapsing on top of you.

The asshole doesn’t even cuddle with you more than thirty seconds. Nice Guy Eric may be nice in other ways, but he’s a selfish lover, and even Dave can see the blatant disappointment on your face as you see your date off.

-----

You unlock your phone. You pull up your hook-up app. Back to the drawing board, Dave guesses.

Dave is ready now. He knows your parameters, and he’s tailored his profile to fall within it. He’s paid the paltry amount to be featured—he already has a slew of matches, but there’s only one he wants.

He needs you to make the first move. In whatever twisted logic is ruling this game of his, he needs you to make the opening gambit, to invite him in.

You scroll through your matches. Dave watches in real time on his own phone, and he sees when you find him: he pictures your thumb hovering over his profile, because you swipe neither right nor left for a long stretch.

You obviously recognize him. You scroll through his profile, and Dave has been honest here. No sense in lying, because you’ve probably seen the girls when they come over for their every-other-weekend visits. No sense in pretending he’s not on his second act.

You scroll through the photos he’s uploaded, a few nice ones and one where he’s shirtless—an outdoors shot from when he ran a half-marathon last year, then shed his shirt afterwards, and he hopes you like his build, that you like the scatter of chest hair and the way his skin glows from the exercise and the sweat and the sun.

When you finally swipe right, Dave nods to himself, then smiles.

*****

Your phone chimes, and you unlock it. It’s a message on the dating app, and you send up a silent prayer that it’s not another dick pic.

Prayer answered: it’s not a dick pic. It’s a text message from the guy who lives in the house that’s at a weird angle to your house. The runner who sometimes gets your mail. He’s cute, so when he popped up in your possible matches, you matched with him and thought, “why not? What’s the worst that can happen?”

His message asks if you’d like to grab dinner or drinks sometime. “No pressure,” he’s typed out. “I’d just like to get to know you better.”

#dave york #dave york imagine #dave york x reader #the equalizer 2 #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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