It pisses me off when I see people draw dinosaur fursonas and they have huge fat tits. That's not a mammal. You do not love dinosaurs, but the idea of dinosaurs. Fuck you idiot. I'll kill you.
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.
when it gets dark, jack’s chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if it’s a group of men. he’ll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groups—jack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he won’t let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if you’re too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesn’t say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when you’re out together. he’ll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if it’s “just” your thighs.
when you can’t decide what to wear, he’ll pick for you.
“the purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.”
he’ll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
“such a pretty girl, mhm?”
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. he’ll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.
“attagirl”
“good job, baby”
“you’re doing so good”
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. you’ll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesn’t grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the world—because to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, he’ll scratch your head until you practically purr.
“you like that, baby?”
“just relax. but don’t fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open f’me.”
it’s your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, you’re jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.
Well... Just broke up with my boyfriend. Everyone be prepared for an onslaught of smutty fanfics as I attempt to cope with the death of four years of my life.
♡ TW: noncon, toxic relationship, misogyny, chauvinism, possessiveness, controlling behaviour, other toxic traits, sorta spineless reader, but not really
♡ FEM reader
♡ PS: sorry to anyone named Franny or Carrie. The story required a couple of girl names.
You're on your way home in the dark.
It rained while you were at the club, having power-washed the asphalt now glittering under the moonlight. It's pretty when it's like this, but as a woman you can't help but feel a little on edge.
Your heart isn't entirely in your throat, but it’s definitely somewhere up there. Heels moving hurriedly, unbothered about splashing in shallow puddles as you stomp decidedly in a pathway straight home.
Drunken groups loiter around as the clubs all close up for the night, some hollering about grabbing a bite, others about grabbing some ass, and all you can think is hopefully, not your ass.
You could have gone home with a friend instead—it would have been smarter maybe, and by smarter you mean safer—but you’re getting older and the older you get the more the urge to sleep in your own bed at night becomes a necessity more than a preference.
Footsteps are all over the place, walking in different directions. Pat, pat, pat, pittering just like the rain. Aside from a few icky stares thrown your way and a handful of catcalls you’re not sure were for you or for some other poor girl, you’re starting to rest easy, knowing you’re nearly there.
But then you single out a pair. Pat, pat, pat, just behind you.
You cast a glance over your shoulder. Heart, now definitively, in your throat, with shudders running through you at the sight of the hooded figure at your back.
You walk a little faster. Eyes skittering around to see if there are any others around to witness the worst of your fears. Seeing you’re alone, you pick up the pace even more. Any faster now and you’d be jogging. Yet, you don’t want to be too presumptuous. After all, you don’t know if the guy’s even following you. It would be rude to treat him like he’s already committed a crime, when he isn’t guilty of anything other than walking home. And so, out of courtesy, you give him the benefit of the doubt and stick to power-walking.
Gratefully, you make it to your outergate. Keys already in your hands. You're happy to find the keyhole on your first try. Even so, with thoughts regarding the worst still unpleasantly lingering in the back of your head, when you pull the door to yourself, you make sure to crack it open just wide enough for only you to slip through. Wanting it to close behind you quickly, so that the automatic lock could do its job and shut out whoever it was that might be following you.
You skip along, through the passage leading to the inner-yard, paranoid with a simultaneous feeling of being silly for feeling paranoid, side-eying the gate again before you turn the corner—utterly horrified upon what you catch in your peripheral.
Shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, he made it inside. It's official then, he’s definitely fucking following you.
This time you skip jogging and go straight to running to reach the door to your block. Hands shaking a little too much to make it on the first try this time, but somehow you manage in your scramble, making sure to pull the door closed behind you, hearing it click in place, signalling that it’s been locked tight. Despite it, just in case you still straight jump up the stairs, two at a time to reach your flat.
You can’t see it, but you hear it—how he makes it through the second door.
Feeling a mix of terror and confusion all at once. You don’t understand, you’re certain you heard the door lock, but somehow now it’s open again. Your keys jingle as you steady them to open your door in a panic. Listening to the stranger climb the stairs. Once it’s open you nearly tumble inside your apartment, all but slamming it shut to lock it—only… along with your keys, there’s another pair jingling in the staircase.
That's when you realize. He’s not following you. He lives here. He’s your fucking neighbour.
He lives in the apartment under you. He lives in the apartment under you and you’d clearly just treated him like some sort of a criminal. He’s your neighbor and you’d all but slammed two doors in his face and sprinted away from him.
Embarrassment takes the place of your fear, filling it with regret and guilt. “Shit.”
But can he blame you though? Dressed like that? Dark hood hiding his face, like some sort of thief in the night. What were you supposed to do? Hold the door open for him and say “Heya there, mysterious stranger, you wanna come join me for a nightcap?”
“Shit,” you repeat to no one but yourself. Now you’re just being sarcastic because you feel bad.
You sigh, then decide you’ll apologize next time you see him. A most dreaded and most-certainly awkward event which turns out to be as soon as the next day.
“Oh! Hey!” Newly awoken from your drunken slumber, you’d just stepped out after a failed mission to find some breakfast in your fridge—having found it completely empty except for a couple of expired tubes of condiments. “Hey, you!”
You rush down the steps, seeing the guy from last night lurking outside his apartment door, keys in hand like he’s just locking up to go as well. He pulls out his earphones once he sees you, a little taken aback by the sight of you panting, all out of breath in front of him.
Jeez, you need to start taking the gym more seriously, you think to yourself as you catch your breath. “Hey, listen, I’m real’ sorry ‘bout the other night. That was so rude and uncalled for,” you apologize. Face all riddled with embarrassment and guilt, smiling at him in the awkward hope of his understanding forgiveness.
The only problem is, he’s got no idea who you are or “What’re you on about?”
Oh, you pause, maybe he hadn’t noticed you? Still, you start explaining, “Last night, or well, this morning I guess, we came home at the same time. I was sorta… nearly, kinda running away from you? I was drunk and paranoid—I didn’t know you live here—I should have held the door open. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”
His chin tilts up in recognition after that, “Ah, right, yeah,” then waves his hand, saying, “No worries. I know how it is. Dressed the way you were, I'd have been scared too. Hardly recognized you without that little dress you had on.”
You look down at yourself, all covered up in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie—a far cry from yesterday’s get-up—now make-up free, not to mention your hair in a messy updo. No wonder he didn’t put two and two together.
“Right,” you giggle then, suddenly feeling embarrassed for a whole other reason. You were just going to pop in and out to the store—you hadn’t exactly accounted for anyone to see you. “Yeah, I was just gonna grab some breakfast. Mornin’ after and all that—need something fatty, you know?”
He returns your smile, way cooler than you, eyeing you like he’s amused before offering, only with a small pause, “How ‘bout we go to the bakery around the corner? I'll forgive you for yesterday if you pay.”
It stuns you. Thinking, that’s brazen—a little impressed by his forwardness. Your smile gets brighter with another laugh. This was not the morning you were expecting. But heck, why not?
“A’right, sure,” you agree, before putting up your pointer, jokingly stating, “But then we better be square.”
He whistles, “Sounds good to me.”
And that’s how you end up having breakfast with your downstairs neighbour.
And as you sit there, opposite each other, you let your eyes wander because holy cow, he’s absolutely massive. You’d noticed when you were standing inside as well, but you’d been too busy making your awkward apology to really have taken him in.
No wonder your female heart was cowering in your chest last night, it must have sensed the size of the guy from the sound of his footsteps. You're completely flabbergasted how you’ve never seen him before. Two meters easily, big broad shoulders with a back you could build a house on and two gigantic arms that could easily lift it straight above his head and toss it across a football field if he wanted to.
He's a cop, you learn over breakfast. He hits the gym early and comes home during the day or works the late shift and comes home in the morning, which explains why you’ve never run into him except last night. He’s a bit of a routine junkie, he admits.
And, well, though he doesn’t come clean about it, it’s not hard to tell how he’s also a bit of a flirt.
“I gotta be honest, I thought you’d lost your pants or something,” he chuckles, smirking at you playfully from atop his coffee cup, forcing a permanent heat in your cheeks as well as a cramp from the bashful smile you’re unable to make settle through all his teasing.
“Quit bullying my dress!” you nearly whine. “It’s cute. You can’t deny it’s cute.”
He gives a can’t-argue-with-that type of shrug. “I mean, yeah, I've just never seen such a thing besides on film,” he says, then inquires, “What were you up to anyway?”
“Oh, you know…” You pluck the last blueberry off your plate, wondering if you should order more pancakes. “Just’ at the club with some friends. Dancin’.”
Popping the berry in your mouth, you decide against another round as you suck the cream off your digits—thinking you should show some restraint in front of the gym-freak across from you. You wouldn't want to come across as a complete glutton either.
Besides, just looking at him is a meal enough on its own, and you can tell he’s enjoying you the same way. And so, you lay it on extra thick for him. “It gets hot in there, so the less you wear the better.”
He scoffs, “Oh, really?” brows raised, grinning at your display. “You sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with makin’ people look?”
You make a show out of getting offended with a fake gasp, before bringing forth your wrists. Your voice thick with sardonic theatrics, speaking your words through a pout, “Well, arrest me, officer. I didn’t know that was a crime.”
Shaking his head, he chuckles some more at you. “Nah, you’re good. But maybe I should come along to chaperone you next time—you know, make sure you get home all safe and sound.”
He takes another sip of coffee while watching his words and how they affect you. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing, the scoundrel—you know he knows, shamelessly making you gush like this.
You bite your lip—it’s all you can do to keep yourself from kicking your feet. A man hasn’t flirted with you in broad daylight like this in some time, you don’t even know how long, and you’re not going to lie, it’s making you weak.
“You don’t have work?” you ask—perhaps a little too eager.
But he doesn’t seem to think so, answering with charm, “I get time off just like everyone else.”
You bite your lip, trying to force yourself into acting casual even though you’re squealing on the inside, “Okay, sure, why not? But you gotta promise you won’t be all police-like and stuff though.”
He chuckles again. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my gun at home.”
Yeah… You end up dating.
In fact, you make pasta together and fuck that very same night. Multiple times, multiple positions, multiple rooms, and, most important of all, multiple orgasms.
You’ve never been with a guy like him, outside of your fantasies. A monster truck of a man, he’s practically herculean—he could literally carry you on his back up a mountain if he wanted to. So of course the sex is amazing. He puts you in all kinds of crazy states you’ve never been in before—full-nelson, pile-driver, standing missionary—he fucking rails you like a jack hammer until your positively destroyed.
Honestly you weren’t too sure you liked muscle freaks who could manhandle you any way they want, but now you can say you’ve been fully baptised into the church of size difference and you’re afraid there will be no going back.
Not only is he built for it, but he’s good at it too. He knows how to foreplay, how to get you going, how to tease and make you all hot and bothered and desperate for it. Not just sexy, but playful. Always joking when knocking on your door—saying FBI open up while posted there in his uniform—roleplaying with it, frisking you after putting you under arrest with real handcuffs, even using his gun sometimes—unloaded, of course.
Outside of sex, he’s a real gentleman too. Takes you out for dates—dinners, parks, movies. Tells you that you look good and wraps you in his jacket when you’re looking chilly—or when he spots other guys leering.
He’s just a really good guy overall. You actually really like him. And that’s saying a lot, given how many shitty dating situationships you’ve had over the past years. This might be something real.
Is what you thought until, well…
After a few weeks, it's revealed he doesn't like it when you go out by yourself.
It’s nothing, at first—not something you pay much mind to. He’s just a bit protective, is all—any decent man who cares for his girlfriend will show some instinct regarding her safety when he’s not around. It’s normal.
Still though, you can’t help that it rubs you the wrong way just a bit.
It’s dangerous, he’ll argue, and you can’t really disagree when you've already admitted to being scared going home alone. But even though you know it comes from a good place—that he’s just looking out for you—it’s still a little… you don’t know. Patronizing?
At least, that’s what it feels like…
Then again, he doesn’t strike you as very traditional. He’s supportive of your studies, comfortable watching chick flicks with you, doesn’t care when you dress like a slob, joins you shopping, cooks for you, he even goes down on you. Like you said, he’s a good guy. And you really like him.
But shit… this increasing need of his to chaperone your every move? You’re not going to lie, it’s getting a little annoying.
“Going somewhere?” he stops you on your way out.
You’d given one another the keys to each other’s apartment some time ago now, and he’d taken it as an invitation to come by anytime he wanted. You thought it was sweet at first, and you still do—your schedules don’t always line up, so it’s nice to keep it easy-access. It’s just, you already told him you’d be busy today.
“Yeah, just out with some girlfriends,” you repeat, sitting down to put on the pair of strappy black heels you’d just bought, excited to hear what the girls will say—already hearing them go silly with cat-calls, howling compliments at you.
“Like that?” he questions, standing with his shoulder leaning against the wall and arms crossed over his chest.
You get up and do a spin, wearing a tight but classy black cocktail dress. “What’s wrong with this?”
He throws his brows up, scratching the back of his neck while stepping closer. “Nothin’.” He releases a sigh, dwarfing your waist in his hands, pulling you flush against him. “You don’t think it's a little dressy for a girl’s night?”
You pout, placing your chin on his chest, batting your lashes with puppy-dog eyes looking up at him. “I like looking nice, is that so bad?”
His hands travel, over the small of your back, down the dome of your ass, swaying with you in his arms. “No. Of course not.” He sighs again, squeezing you tight. “I'm just jealous of whoever’s gonna get to look at you all night.”
You smile, thinking, despite how it gets on your nerves just a bit, it’s still kind of cute how needy he is.
“Where’ you going?” he asks, chin atop your crown, still keeping you close, as though charging himself up, knowing he’s going to be without you for the evening.
“Just the lounge down by the pier.”
He groans then, hauling you off by your forearms to give you a stern look. “You know I don't like when you drink when I'm not around.”
You tilt your head and return his look with a softly patronizing one of your own, silently trying to tell him he’s being childish again like the two of you’d spoken about. Because you had told him—how unreasonable it was. And as mentioned, you were beginning to get a little sick of having to tell him off about it.
When he doesn’t say anything, you roll your eyes and show him enough sympathy to reassure him of how “It’s just gonna be a glass of wine.”
“Mh…” he hums, looking at you, not fully convinced. “Give me five minutes and I'll join you.”
“No.” It slips before you give it much thought. And yet, even after having said it, despite it having been a bit rude, you still don’t regret it or make any proceedings to take it back.
“No?” he echoes. A little affronted—to be expected.
Still, you don’t let it deter you. “Well, it’s a girl’s night. You know…” you explain, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. “It would be rude if I brought you when the rest of the girls have left their man at home.”
It doesn't seem to persuade him. His face just scrunches, as though the entire idea of a girl’s night is absurd in and of itself, arguing, “Tell ‘em to invite them then. Problem solved. None of you should be out on your own anyway.”
And it’s comments like that that really upset you. You bite your lip, trying to think of the most disarming response—not wanting to fight it out right now, thinking you could bring it up later at a better time.
“I'll be home before ten. I'll only have one glass of wine. I'll take a taxi home. And…” You give him a playful smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and give the locks on his nape a light tug. “I'll make it up to you all night long.”
You feel his frame tense up at the offer, enticed by your words until he, at long last, finally grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.”
He releases you then, but doesn’t leave you alone for too long before grabbing your chin.
“No need for a Taxi, I'll come pick you up,” he says firmly, laying it forth like a condition to his allowing you to go. “Stand ready outside at ten o’clock sharp.”
Giving you a small kiss, he continues before you can voice any complaint.
“Or else I really will have to spend all night long punishing you.”
It gives you goosebumps. And yet, because you don’t entirely hate the sound of it, you decide to treat it like a joke, and against reading all that deep into it—even though you’re aware there might be some small truth behind the warning.
You know if your friends were to have heard it, they’d probably disapprove, but come on… Being threatened with sex is harmless enough.
And so, you brush it off and play along, answering him with a bright and bushy-tailed, “Yes’sir.”
To which he proudly smiles, “Atta’ girl.”
Despite promises made, that first glass of wine disappears quickly.
You never were much of a slow drinker. Not that you’re an alcoholic either, of course, it’s just… it’s hard pacing yourself when you’re in good company. And your girls? Well… let’s just say they know how to bring the party.
“Another round of wine?” Franny declares more than asks.
You shrink back a little in your chair. Not only not wanting to be a bummer, but also fearing how they’d most likely see right through it not being your decision, then actively begin to judge you for letting yourself be governed by your boyfriend.
Still, you shake your head and hope they might not catch on. “I shouldn't—”
“What? Why?” Franny immediately boos, all but gawking at you from across the table like you’d just declared you were becoming a nun or something else equally baffling.
Carrie, on the other hand, doesn't seem surprised at all, throwing the rest of her wine back before mumbling, “Or else Mr. Officer will put her under arrest.”
Franny’s head snaps to her at that, again, gasping, “What? Really?”
Carrie throws up a brow, cool like a mean-girl about it, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” before cocking her head back at you, putting you on the spot, “Tell her then. Go on.”
You pout at her judgementalness, knowing you won’t be able to hide it either if she decides to push—which she most certainly will. “Come on, he’s not that bad...”
That’s when her cool demeanor takes a twist, all but banging her glass on the table with her outburst, “Girl, be so real! Man’s a total chauvinist, you gotta break up with him.”
You weren’t in the dark about her attitude regarding your relationship, so it doesn’t exactly come as a big shock to hear her criticize it to your face. It wouldn't kill her to learn some tact though. Even so, you’re willing to forgive her, given you know her tolerance to be rather low and her need to be candid evidently very high.
“I like him,” you defend under her disapproving glare and Franny’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them awaiting something more persuasive.
“Besides…” you drift, feeling the wine in your system forcing you to be a little more honest with both them and yourself. “He’s my neighbour, you know… If I break up with him I'll still have to run into him.”
Carrie deadpans at that. Looking at your square in the eye with dull ones of her own, her mouth catching flies, back to being as suave as always while stating in a more-than-obvious manner, “Start looking for places to move.”
You sigh, pouting even more while you whine, “But I like my apartment.”
There’s a moment of silence, as though in solidarity of your situation, letting you come to terms with what you have to do.
Franny lifts her glass after a moment. A sympathetic quirk on her lips, repeating, now suggestively in comfort, “Another round of wine?”
You look at her, then at Carrie, who just shrugs, also with her glass in hand—tone equally suggestive, “We won’t snitch.”
You bite your lip, letting their mischief rub off on you like you do so well. Smiling. “Oh, fine. You win.”
The three of you chat more about each other’s hopeless love pursuits, how no men are perfect, how friendship is so much more reliable, and how being alone might just be the only reasonable thing for any one of you.
You like him, but you can see Carrie’s point. You’ve had the same concerns yourself, despite not wording them as harshly as her. Of course you don’t enjoy having to argue about going out with your friends or dressing the way you want.
Having to ask permission for such things doesn’t make sense to you, and it never will. You’re a grown woman who pays her own bills. You don’t have to run your decisions by anyone. And even if you did feel the need, it would be out of pure consideration—simply to keep the other person in the loop, and not something to be discussed—at the very least not something to be prohibited. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re certainly no child either.
Shit, you don’t know… maybe dating the guy in your building wasn’t the brightest decision after all.
“I said ten,” he admonishes as you step towards the parking lot.
It’s just gotten dark. You’d hadn’t seen him yet and so the sudden sound of his voice spooks you, making you slap a hand over your pulse with a gasp.
If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not offering you an apology. Rather the opposite. Standing there, posted against his squad car with his arms folded upon his chest—staring at you like some criminal, awaiting your confession.
“Sorry, it took some time figuring out the bill–”
“You're drunk,” he cuts you off, shaking his head in disapproval as he goes to grab your purse in one hand and your upper arm in the other.
“No,” you argue sharply, saying “I'm not drunk.” because you most certainly are not. In fact, between two glasses of wine and a whole meal, you wouldn't even describe it as being tipsy.
He ignores you while opening the door to the passenger seat, ushering you inside with a strict, “Get in the car.”
You have to roll your eyes. Sarcastically thanking him for not going so far as to place you in the back like an actual arrestee, muttering, “Yes, sir.” under your breath.
He then even leans across you to put on your seatbelt, prompting you to almost push him off. Saying, “Dude, chill. I had two glasses of wine. Like, how—”
“We agreed on one,” he cuts you off again, making it very clear how little interest he had in hearing any of it.
Again, like his previous comments, it upsets you. In fact, it’s the last straw. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the boss of me. If I want another glass of wine, it’s in my rights to fucking have one.”
You don’t scream it, and yet, he acts like you do. Scolding you like you’re some child throwing a tantrum, nearly growling at you in return, “Lower your voice. I'm not having this discussion with you if you’re going to be yelling.”
You can only scoff, completely flabbergasted by him and his behaviour. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating sometimes,” you nearly shriek, though he shuts the door in your face before hearing it.
He gets in the driver’s seat, snaps his belt in place, and veers out of the lot in one swift movement. In any other circumstance, you’d find his capabilities assuring—maybe even a little arousing. But, right now it only serves to piss you off.
The rest of the drive is silent. You keep your gaze fixed out of the window, not even acknowledging the way his wrist go white wringing the wheel—probably sitting there waiting for you to beg his forgiveness or something stupid.
You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re going home by yourself.
“Give me my purse,” you demand once you’re outside his apartment. Your hand stretched out, waiting for him to hand it to you. You’d abandon it if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that your keys and your phone were both confiscated within it.
“You’ll get it once we’re inside,” he sighs, his entire back bulking with the action, standing with it facing you as he unlocks the door. Again, flat-out ignoring you as if you had no say in the matter.
“No,” you protest, insisting, “I'm going to my own apartment, so give me my purse.”
With his hand once again around your upper arm, he tugs on you despite you planting your feet and pulling back. “Don’t be difficult.”
You grab his wrist, trying to twist it off, but failing. “I don’t need you to baby me—I’m not a fucking child.”
“Oh yeah? You could have fooled me, standing here throwing a fit for everyone to hear.” He only tightens his grip, tugging you harder—so hard you’re forced off balance and nearly fall straight into him. “Now get your butt inside before I throw you over my shoulder.”
He doesn’t give you any time or room to refuse, all but dragging you inside and placing you on the couch with a mean and very nearly brutal shove. “Sit down.”
He then gets down on one knee in front of you. Hands lifting your foot onto his thigh as he begins undoing the straps to your heels.
“I can do that myself—” you try to pry it away from him, but he only pulls it back into place.
“Just sit.”
You don’t know what to do at that point. Eyeing him and the way he was positively radiating annoyance. You’re equally frustrated, and still, you can’t help but be struck with this sensation that it doesn’t matter much when he’s more equipped in enacting his will.
In the end, you just sit there like he’d commanded, at a loss for what you could do or say—and only getting more frustrated by it.
“Now this,” he declares once done, gesturing to your dress as he gets up, fingers clawing under the hem, beginning to pull it up.
“Stop it already. I said I can do it myself!” Your hands are on his chest then, having had enough—this time officially. “Ugh, just get off, I’m going home!”
You don’t know what happened, but something instinctual must have kicked in once it was clear he wouldn’t listen, because suddenly, without warning, you kicked him in the shin in order to get him off.
But little good it does you...
In fact, it only makes the following events that much worse.
“What's gotten into you, huh? Acting so fuckin’ bratty—”
His hand is atop your mouth like a piece of duct tape, trapping all unwanted noise beneath it. He’s got you lying on your back now, himself on top of you. Your dress balled up in his other fist, this time opting to rip it off rather than tug you out of it.
“I swear, nothing good ever comes from letting you women yap amongst yourselves—you always come back with so much attitude and dumb ideas I gott’a straighten out.”
Your struggles seem to mean nothing to him—all efforts to thwart him, easily ignored.
“You can bet your ass this is the last time I let you go anywhere with those sluts. I mean, just look at you—dressed like a fucking whore. A shitty fucking influence the lot of ‘em.”
He succeeds in tearing the dress, throwing it across the floor like trash—passing little consideration to the way it has you squirming beneath him with fat tears now streaming down your cheeks, soaking his fingers in a way that should have been enough to reconsider.
And yet, his eyes seem more concerned with your other articles.
“You even wear pretty underwear for ‘em—fuck’s that about, huh?” Clicking his tongue, the frown on his face is enough to make your stomach churn—fully terrified of what he meant to do next.
“What’s left for me?” His eyes meet yours, demanding an answer from you even though your lips were sealed under his grip. “If you go parading around for the entire fucking world to see, what’s left?”
His other hand balls up into a fist, then bangs against the back cushion to the side of your face, hard enough to make the entire couch skirt just a bit, making you let out a muffled scream, followed by a whimper as you shut your eyes hard and start praying.
“I’m the only one who’s supposed to see you like this. It’s supposed to be my fucking privilege. Something special for me to cherish.”
You feel his touch return to you, and you tremble receiving it, despite it only softly stroking your skin in ticklish touches, down your chest and belly until stopping at the lace of your panties.
There’s a heavy sigh, loud enough for the pursuing silence to feel deafening.
“But I guess… if you’re gonna act like a cheap whore, I might as well treat you like one.”
The quickening beat of your heart makes it hard to breathe while your eyes blow open wide at the feel of him tearing at the lace. Your sobbing turns more violent, while your hands fly to keep the flimsy garment in place.
“No? You don’t want that?” he mocks without humor, and you try your best to shake your head under his hold, every thought begging him to stop.
Teeth grit, he continues, “Then quit being difficult and start doing what I say. Can you do that?”
You peel your eyes open, now nearly choking on the tears clogging your nose. Sniveling as you give him pitiful nods, hoping it will suffice.
“Good,” he affirms.
His hold relents after that, just enough for you to be able to suck in a breath. Sill though, calming down takes you a moment, and even then you never fully manage completely—just enough to turn your sobbing into softer bleating.
He allows you the time to recover, before getting up and demanding the same of you.
“Come on. Bathroom.”
His hand’s on your nape, guiding you like a leash and collar. You keep your head bowed, feeling exposed as you shuffle along just in front of him. Regarding him like a beast on your heels.
You enter the bathroom, where he positions you in front of the sink.
“Let’s get all this clown shit off.”
His actions are gentler now, but they still feel anything but. Still making you sniffle as you stand there, knees wobbly, stuck in shock as he proceeds to find your makeup remover.
Your breaths are wintry as you stand there, both hands shaking, holding onto the white marble, staring into the drain, terrified to meet his reflection in the mirror above as he starts to drag a wet wipe over your cheeks and lips, rubbing your no-doubt ruined make-up off.
You watch as each cotton-cloth is discarded one after the other in the basin below, flecked with black mascara streaks and pink rouge, the latest one cleaner than the first few.
“There she is—that’s better,” he coos once done. Caressing your face in his hand as he lifts it up to look straight ahead.
You don’t want to, but the way his fingers all rub against your jugular, is enough for you to take as a warning. Seeing yourself—your eyes puffy, lashes gathered in wet wisps, bottom lip trembling.
“My pretty girl.”
He sags forward, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there in slow but heavy mouthfuls. His other hand, the one not holding you by the throat, is snaked around your midriff with his arm across your body, pushing you against him and the way he angles his hips against your ass and grinds into you from the back.
“I’m sorry for getting upset,” he murmurs with a groan then, but it’s not an effective apology. “It’s just so frustrating, you know? To be here, worrying about you out there—epsecially when you don’t take any safety precautions. You just…” His mouth reaches your ear, nuzzling the shell, his breath making it burn. “You drive me fucking nuts.”
You don’t dare reply. You don’t dare do anything. You just keep clutching onto the sink, as though letting go would result in him pulling you away somewhere more dangerous.
“You’re so cruel—always leaving me with my dick in my hand.” His hands fall to your hips, his grip bruising as he kneads you against him and the hard thing jabbing itself against your ass.
“I’m sorry–” comes out of your mouth before you can think.
To which he releases a pent-up chuckle. “That’s okay…”
He rests his chin on his shoulder, mouth perfectly level with your ear with words holding onto something utterly horrid, saying, “It’s like you said—you can make it up to me.”
Coming to Tumblr because Reddit is a hellscape. I need book recommendations. PLEASE GOD HELP ME.
Book Recommendation Request - Nonsexual Rule Giving MMC
Specific requests below the cut so I don't blow up someone's feed.
I am in search of recommendations for a book that fits some or all of the following niches, in what I believe is order of importance:
- A MMC who provides domestic rules for the FMC to follow. The sort of character who is going to make her eat and drink water, give her a bedtime, select her clothing, etc. Someone overprotective, who views the FMC as made of glass or someone who needs protection. (This can absolutely manifest as a daddy kink, thats usually where these rule following dynamics exist, but it doesn't have to).
- a FMC who is soft and gentle. Traumatized, sheltered, alone, and/or vulnerable. I'm not looking for a badass or a feminist icon (matter of fact, I would prefer to avoid any cringe feminist icon moments. Not that i'm not a feminist they just often read as... cringe. To me.)
-significant power imbalance between the two. Be it he's a mafia boss and her family owes him money, or he's some sort of king or warrior or god. There is no preference for specific romance subgenre. Modern fantasy, high fantasy, biblical, or mafia are all fine. If it fits the above requests i'm not gonna be picky.
I have Kindle Unlimited so if a book is on there that'd be great but not required. I have a library card and a bunch of bookstores near me.
Thank you so much for any recommendations!
For reference, I enjoyed Little Dove by Layla Frost. I actually read that whole series and enjoyed all but the last book. I feel like its hard to find a book that balances the overprotectiveness with softness.
- preferably published prior to 2020, but again i'm not too picky on this.
"jack’s so serious abt your safety that some hard!dom vibes come out… if he catches you pulling into the driveway with a clip still in your hair he’s in the doorway giving you a disappointed frown and a “I can’t let this one slide, honey. Go to the bedroom.”"
this did something to me!!!! hard dom!jack never really making an appearance when you're bratty (because he secretly finds that real cute) but only coming out when you're genuinely at risk of harming yourself? and deliberately not listening to him? oooooooh he's so pissed none of your actual tricks work on him too!!!! where he's usually pretty easily persuaded with a pout or a sweet apology from you he's not now!!! he won't budge unless you're thoroughly punished and promising you won't do it again. bonus if robby watches and actively eggs him on!
18+ mdni
YES YES YES THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS IMAGINING!! you get it! like you can brat to him all day long and he’ll just chuckle and tease you, maybe fuck you till you’re all sweet for him again… but if you blatantly break a rule that’s in place for your safety or well being? you’re done for. in a way its almost worse than when robby punishes you, because jack’s angry but he’s also disappointed.
and yes, you try your usual tricks— peering at him with big sad eyes, pouting, saying “‘m sorry daddy, i just forgot”
but he shakes his head as he tugs at the top of his jeans so he can sit down on the couch. “Thank you for apologizing, honey. That’s a nice start, but I gotta make sure the lesson sticks.” he pats his lap “Now c’mere.“ and he raises his brow when you just toe at the floor, unmoving. his voice is so stern, “you gonna get over my knee or do I have to help you?”
And he makes such a thing out of it. “Gonna do 15, babygirl, that seem fair?” and you know he’s not looking for your opinion, just your compliance, so you murmur “yes daddy.” .
Jack ignores robby’s muttered “15 seems a bit light.” from across the room, and he ignores the fierce scowl you shoot him in response. He just tugs down your shorts, kneads your ass and continues “You’re gonna count for me, alright?
Every spank is firm and solid, a resounding smack ringing out when his palm makes contact with your ass. At 10 he stops to give you a little break, asks “Why do I have to do this, babygirl? Tell me.”
“Cause I didn’t take out my clip in the car,” You warble, voice wet and shaking with the little sobs that catch in your throat. Jack hums and nods.
“Mhm. And what’s the problem with that?”
“I-“ You stammer slightly, struggling to think through the subby haze that’s settled in your brain and the hot, distracting pain of your throbbing skin. “It’s against the rules?”
And Robby laughs at you from across the room, a mean sound that makes your lower lip wobble. He sounds patronizing as he says “Oh, sweetheart. I certainly like that answer, but I don’t think that’s what Jack’s looking for.”
And instead of defending you Jack just hums in agreement :(( he squeezes your ass, making you flinch at the rough touch. “We have rules for a reason. Why’s it a rule that you take out your hairclips?”
“C-cause it’s not safe.” You finally say. “It’s dangerous if I get in an accident.”
“There we go.” Jack gives your thigh an approving pat. “Knew you’d get there. Five more, sweetie.”
At the end he pulls you into his lap and rubs your back as you ramble through tears “‘m sorry daddy, I learned my lesson. Promise.”
Look... we all know and love thirsting after Aizawa, but i think writing erasermic fics has lead me to simp for present mic way fucking more. Mean Dom!Hizashi actually fucking eats bro.
Erm, if I had an absolutely wild yandere smut fic that's been spinning around in my head for weeks about Shouta Aizawa and Hizashi Yamada... would anyone be interested? 🥺🧐
Y'all I just started this... its gonna be a beast, i can feel it. The sheer amount of plot im gonna need to get to the porn... 🤣. I'm gonna need yall to suspend your disbelief and disregard Canon entirely for this bitch.
"She should run though. She should run. Far and fast. She should change her name and dye her hair and flee the country.
She knew she should.
Any vigilante worth their salt knew not to get close to heros.
Any vigilante with half a fucking braincells knew even more so to stay the fuck away from UA affiliated heros.
Because despite UA's glowing reputation, despite the school being one of the most well respected, well established heroics institutions in the world, vigilantes here in Japan knew the truth.
UA was a cult. UA was a fucking psychotic, idol worshipping, brainwashing, kidnapping cult."
Here's a little excerpt that I think kinda gives you an idea of the direction im going with this. I need this idea OUT of my head. It's consumed my every waking moment.
I PROMISE IM STILL WORKING ON THIS. I've been cursed with being so fucking busy, and I've got like 15 WIPS rn (lemme know if y'all wanna know my WIPS).
Have another baby excerpt (below the cut). Forgive the lack of editing for now, I Promise™️ this will get a proper edit before posting the whole thing
Shouta Aizawa was aware that UA's Asset Acquisition Program was… morally gray at best. As someone who'd been through the program himself, he knew exactly how rough it was on the kids who are taken in. However, as someone who had been through the program himself, Shouta was firmly of the opinion that it was necessary. That the Acquisitions needed a firm hand, that they needed to be taken away from the circumstances that had landed them on UAs radar, that they needed to be shown exactly how vulnerable and stupid they were. He knew that in the end, they'd be better off for it.
Look at him, for example. The program gave him Hizashi. The program gave him a job he excelled at, gave him a home he loved, gave him financial security, made sure he never had to know that gnawing feeling of starvation. The program had given him every good thing he'd even had. Clean clothes, shoes without holes in them, a shower with hot water. Luxuries that were hard to come by for most.
Okay y'all the fics been posted. Lots of love, I hyped this up too much and kinda freaked myself out, so hopefully its decent. Not as long as some of my other fics. Lemme know ur thoughts!
Trigger warnings - noncon (dubcon? She's into it by the end but like... probably by most standards is unable to consent). Implied brainwashing of some kind. Ummm mediocre porn
I'm not super happy with how this turned out, but I've been sitting on it for a bit, and my og idea post keeps getting attention so...
I might rewrite it later. Happy to do a little drabble for specific scenarios or answer world building questions. Please ask me questions I love friends.
The rooftop was quiet, the only noise being the quiet thump of her converse against the brick and the shifting of leaves in the alleyway below. He'd be here soon, his feet would hit the rooftop loud enough to alert her to his presence - loud enough she knew it was intentional, that he was being nice enough to give her time to run away. But she wouldn't, she never did, because he came bearing food and water. Because every time he settled onto the edge of the roof beside her, he'd pass her a warm bento, a steaming home cooked meal inside. He'd complain that he was hot, and toss his hoodie over her shoulders, even when it was far too cold outside to be in only a t-shirt (she knew that from experience). Sometimes, his husband would come with, his bright eyes and brighter laugh seeming to make the whole world lighter, like his joy was so strong it could physically lift the weight of everything off her shoulders.
She should run though. She should run. Far and fast. She should change her name and dye her hair and flee the country.
She knew she should.
Any vigilante worth their salt knew not to get close to heroes.
Any vigilante with half a fucking braincell knew even more so to stay the fuck away from UA affiliated heros.
Because despite UA's glowing reputation, despite the school being one of the most well respected, well established heroics institutions in the world, vigilantes here in Japan knew the truth.
UA was a cult. UA was a fucking psychotic, idol worshipping, brainwashing, kidnapping cult.
She'd laughed her ass off at the thought when Syren had whispered to her about it, in a smokey booth in the back of a shitty bar in a worse part of town. She'd shaken her head, and dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Glitch had bumped her shoulder, snorting at his sister's words and shaking his head.
“Syren, don't be fucking paranoid. Those hero's can barely do their fucking jobs as is, with their licenses tying their hands from making any real change or actually helping people - there's a reason we are vigilantes.” He'd grinned, wide and cutting. “You can't convince me they are secretly kidnapping vigilantes and what… brainwashing them?”
Syren had huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting. “It's true! Don't believe me? Fine,” she'd tossed her thick black curls over her shoulder. “Go make friends with one of those UA assholes. See how well it goes for you!”
“Maybe I will!” He'd snapped back, always so easy to set off, shoving away from the table and stalking away.
“See if we come rescue you when you get fucking ET snatched!” Syren had snapped back at her brother, arms still crossed firmly over her chest.
Glitch - ever easy to goad - had started making friends with Snipe, exchanging information about villains in the area and letting the man formally arrest the villains Glitch had been taking down.
Then, Glitch had vanished off the face of the earth, only to turn up as a licensed fucking hero, sponsored by UA, working as a sidekick for the same agency Snipe worked at.
She'd held Syren against her chest as the girl had sobbed after trying to speak to her brother. Syren had called his name - his given name, not his pseudonym or his new hero name. He'd looked down at her, and asked - eyes devoid of recognition - “who the fuck are you?”
So, safe to say, she knew UA was a cult. She knew that these so-called heroes were probably scoping her out as a potential candidate for whatever psycho brainwashing program the school kept buried in its basement. But she also knew the reason she'd become a vigilante, and it wasn't because her home life was stable. There was good money in some of the fringe work she did. Good money in having morals that weren't necessarily guided by what was legal per say. And when one was struggling to afford school and an apartment and clothes and food after both of her parents had died, well… money was money.
And free food? Yeah, she was not in a position to turn down free food.
So when she heard Eraserheads boots make contact with the gravel rooftop… she kept her ass right where it was.
~
Shouta Aizawa was aware that UA's Asset Acquisition Program was… morally gray at best. As someone who'd been through the program himself, he knew exactly how rough it was on the kids who are taken in. However, as someone who had been through the program himself, Shouta was firmly of the opinion that it was necessary. That the Acquisitions needed a firm hand, that they needed to be taken away from the circumstances that had landed them on UAs radar, that they needed to be shown exactly how vulnerable and stupid they were. He knew that in the end, they'd be better off for it.
Look at him, for example. The program gave him Hizashi. The program gave him a job he excelled at, gave him a home he loved, gave him financial security, made sure he never had to know that gnawing feeling of starvation. The program had given him every good thing he'd even had. Clean clothes, shoes without holes in them, a shower with hot water. Luxuries that were hard to come by for most.
That's one of the tenants: UA provides.
Anything a UA Affiliate needs, the school provides, and Shouta wants for nothing.
Except her.
He wants her, he can admit that to himself. He has admitted it to Hizashi who shared his desire. They each confessed to Nedzu and Inui for the sin of wanting more than they had been given.
Acquisition of Assets is supposed to be an impartial endeavor. One is meant to earn their trust, and deliver them to the Dormitories, and then to leave. Attachment is forbidden.
But Nedzu is giving and kind, and all he wants is for those within the family to be happy. And she will still be useful, even if she's acquired for Hizashi and Shouta rather than for the program. So, approval for a special Acquisition had been given, mere weeks ago, and Shouta was growing antsy. He wanted her safe. He wanted her securely kept on UA's sprawling campus, in their highly monitored apartment, where he never had to question if she'd eaten or slept. If she was safe or injured, healthy or sick and dying. He never wanted that to be a question again.
But she was a flighty thing, and after the unfortunate interaction between her and the boy who Snipe had recently assisted in acquiring, she'd been even more cautious. She wouldn't come willingly, that had become clear quickly. Asa Koji - formerly the vigilante Glitch - had come willingly, under the guise of a job. She would not be tricked in this manner. It was only the promise of warm food and some modicum of real training that let Shouta get as close to his girl as he did.
Which meant, regrettably, she'd have to be taken in via less gentle methods. She'd likely assume (if asked) that those so-called less gentle methods were code for kidnapping. She'd be assuming wrong.
“You still haven't gotten your hands on a coat?” Shouta asked, dropping down beside her and setting a still steaming bento box between them. She wasn't wearing enough clothing for his tastes, certainly not with temperatures dipping nearly low enough to freeze most nights now. She shrugged, dragging the food towards herself. Her converse made a half hearted rhythm on the brick wall.
“What did Present Mic make this time?” She murmured, in lieu of an answer.
Shouta shrugged off his own coat, privately scowling at the question as he tossed the jacket onto her back. She asked too many questions, if you asked Shouta. Her only job was to do what she was told, and soon she'd know that. The hood caught on her hair as he stood and began to stretch. Same game, once a week. Same script, same ending. Him watching her walk away. But not for much longer.
She slipped her arms into the hoodie, zipping it up, and Shouta admired the way it seemed to hang off of her too-thin frame. She cracked open the bento, her question hanging in the air - unanswered.
She took a bite anyway.
~
She'd stopped getting jobs.
Not all at once, but slowly, like a river whose source was methodically being dried out. 5 jobs became 3 became 2 until there was nothing left. She sat in her apartment - the tiny studio with just enough room for a bed, a bathroom and a hot plate to cook on - and looked at her ancient laptop, the underground web page flashing blank at her.
Nothing. No jobs - which was bullshit. She was one of the best. She'd never failed a gig. She had an impeccable reputation. She-
She wasn't going to make rent.
She realized this with the slow, hazy sort of understanding one realizes that there's a gas leak in their home. Too late. She's already choking on it.
She's already close to being evicted. She'd missed rent one too many times. Had one too many late payments, one too many partial payments. Told - begged - her landlord one too many times for just a bit longer.
This was it. She was gonna be on the streets again.
She shuddered, gaze flicking up to the peeling paint on the ceiling, and the mold creeping across the tile in the bathroom.
Anything was better than being on the streets.
~
Today is the day. Hizashi knows it - has known it since they watched her sob in her apartment last week through grainy camera footage. Has known it since they watched her landlord tape an eviction notice to her door.
She was subdued today, one knee drawn up to her chest when they arrived to their typical rooftop meet up. Hizashi didn't let his smile drop, but under the mask of bright joy, his gaze was sharp and analytical.
People assumed that Hizashi was the nice one. People assumed he was soft and sweet because he played good cop and grinned and called people hun and babe and Listener, if he was in costume.
But Shouta was the soft hearted one. Shouta wanted to gather her against his chest and pet her hair and let her cling to him and sob. Given free reign of the situation, Shouta would spoil their girl rotten.
And Hizashi did not put up with spoiled brats.
He knew that molding her into something acceptable would take time. A disciplined hand, and rules she'd be expected to follow. He knew to expect disobedience and anger. Hizashi knew she'd lash out, that he'd need to take her over his knee and watch her whine and sob until she apologized.
Shouta didn't have what was needed to keep going until she meant that apology. He'd take her over his knee and end the punishment at the first stubborn, disrespectful apology she muttered, when she was still petulant and rude. Hizashi could, and would, keep going until she understood the error of her ways.
Discipline and obedience. Both were fundamental tenants. UA expects obedience. UA teaches discipline.
She'd learn.
She'd seen past his mask pretty early - its part of why he liked her. And she'd already begun to adapt to the extraordinary expectations Shouta and Hizashi held her to. She'd seen how Hizashi's eyes would go cold and distant when she'd pout after failing out of a move. She'd heard how his voice goes hard and unyielding when she makes an avoidable mistake in the projects they offered her. Hizashi is the one to be afraid of. If you were only going to pick one, at least.
There was a backpack by her side, leaning against the ledge. Her cheek is squished against the knee she's hugging to her chest. Shoutas hoodie is swamping her too thin frame. (Hizashi will make the girl put on some fucking weight the moment she is in their grasp-).
She's teary eyed. Hizashi watches Shouta's expression. It doesn't move at the sight, but his eyes - something crumbles into dust in those dark eyes at the sight of her. Hizashi feels no such softening - he can admit that perhaps he has a perverse interest in watching her cry. She'd always been a bit of a crybaby, soft despite the work she does.
She flinches when Hizashi steps forward, his footsteps deliberately loud on the gravel. She'd got Shoutas coat wrapped around her, her hair spilling down her back. He sits down next to her, his back to the six story void between this building and the next. She glances up at him, fear and apprehension in her gaze. Hizashi is a little disgusted with himself for how much he likes to see it.
He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, and smiles, soft and sweet and gentle.
“You ready to come home, sweetheart?”
He watches her lower lip tremble. Watches her suck in a wet breath. “Yes, sir.”
He really should be more disgusted with himself. For the pleasure he takes in how she says those words. For how endlessly satisfying it is to know that all their meticulous planning worked.
~
They orchestrated her failure.
She knows it. They know it. They know she knows it.
Even as they are walking her through the admittance process, even as they are handing her document after document to sign. Even as she puts pen to paper, distantly grasping what she's giving away, she knows they ruined her.
There's a short older woman giving her a physical, and a tall wolf-like man asking her questions about her mental status and prescribing medicine which he doesn't deign to explain to her. The dog guy - Dr. Inui - is speaking in hushed tones to Hizashi while the woman is running a blood test and prescribing supplements and outlining a meal plan and sleep schedule and an exercise schedule. And she's gonna be fucking sick.
They stuck a tracking device in her chest - buried it under a rib where its nearly impossible to safely remove herself - and she signed away her medical decision making authority, and she's gonna be living with Shouta and Hizashi in their spare bedroom.
And everything is blurring together into a haze she isn't processing. No one is talking to her. No one even really looks at her and she's going to be fucking sick, really.
She's pretty sure she's said that a few times now. Out loud, but no one's listening to her and Shouta has a hand on her shoulder and the lady - Dr. Chiyo… or did she prefer her hero name, Recover girl? (She looks too old to be a girl and not a woman but whatever-) - has a hand on her arm, testing the joints in her wrist. And she's really really gonna be sick. She tugs her arm out of Dr. Chiyos grasp and just makes it to the trashcan before what little bit of food she'd had today comes right back up.
She loses time again, lost in nothing but the ache in her heart and the feeling of a hand in her hair, and rubbing up and down her spine. And when everything blinks back into focus, she's leaned against Hizashi's chest on a couch. Her mouth tastes like toothpaste, and she's not wearing the threadbare clothes she'd been wearing before. She's in one of their t-shirts, she's not sure whose.
Shouta is standing at the kitchen counter - the counter tops are marble, and the appliances are a bright glistening stainless steel. The floors are shining hardwood, and absolutely everything in here looks like it costs more than her whole body would be worth if she sold it for parts.
Hizashi had been talking, but the room went silent when she came to. Shouta's gaze was locked onto her, too aggressive. Hizashi was just as bad, but he hid it better, the obsession.
“How you feelin’, honey,” he murmured running a hand through her hair, as Shouta walked over with a glass of water.
She frowned softly as a small pile of pills were handed to her. She didn't want- Hizashi's hands tightened in her hair and she stilled. Prey caught in the jaws of a predator. “I'm fine,” she mumbled, taking the pills with visible reluctance. She swallows, and Hizashi grabs her jaw, squeezing tightly, forcing her mouth to open.
“I'm fine, sir,” he corrects, voice tight as he checks to make sure she actually swallowed the medicine. She flinches back from the aggressive touch but doesn't get far. She already fucking hates this. Hates them for doing this to her.
But anything is better than the streets.
~
She would have been better off on the streets, she thinks, as Hizashi grabs her by the wrist and drags her out of her weekly session with Inui. She's in trouble.
She would have been better off dead than here. She's basically dying, because slowly but surely, Inui is chipping away at her psyche. At her very personhood.
She thinks of leaving and swallows the wave of nausea that rolls over her with the concept. She imagines slipping out the front gates alone, late at night, and has to fight the violent panic that threatens to swallow her whole.
She thinks of her friends from before, of her apartment and her work and she feels real, genuine fear.
They are doing something to her in those sessions. Something she doesn't remember between the smell of lavender and the sound of Inui's deep rumbling voice.
But she can't worry about that right now.
She'd in trouble. Hizashi is angry, because Inui is angry. Because she had an attitude about the program during their session. About Nedzu and his psycho fucking cult. Because she insulted the program, and all of their hard work. Inui is angry, and Hizashi is angry and Nedzu is probably angry which is fucking terrifying. And Shouta isn't gonna save her, because he's a coward. And she hates them and she hates this place but she can't leave.
And she's almost certain that she'll never leave again. Not as she is now. No, she's certain that in a few months the girl she is will be dead.
~
“Such a fucking brat,” he growls into her ear. He's got her pressed into the sheets, ass up, face buried into the pillows. She's crying.
He tugs her shorts down - skimpy little things he bought for her, brand name, latest style. Her panties go with it, soft blue lace snapping ominously, just this side of tearing. She's not really wet, not anymore than is natural, but he drags a finger between her folds anyway, gathering the moisture there before pushing in with two fingers.
She lets out a broken cry. Shouta is sitting with her head in his lap, dragging a hand through her hair, soft and methodical. Grounding her in the moment. She won't learn her lesson if they let her drift off into her head.
“We give you everything you could possibly need,” his voice is deep and measured. She clings desperately to him. Hizashi doesn't relent even as she tries to squirm away. “All you have to do is be polite and obedient. We don't ask for much from you doll.”
She gasps, sobbing as Hizashi lines himself up with her and pushes in. He's huge - she'd know, she's felt him before, knows intimately how well he fills her up. He's huge and it hurts without enough prep or lube. And she wants to tell him no, to tell him to stop but she can't. The words won't leave her lips.
“P-please-” she whines, and then Shouta's fingers are forcing their way between her lips. Hizashi groans at the sight, his cock pulsing inside her tight walls.
She feels fucking incredible, and she looks even better. Her eyes are wet, and bloodshot, her lips are kissed raw, plump and pink, and spit slick. Her cheeks are ruddy with exertion and she's panting, drool dripping down her chin as Shouta forces her lips apart, slipping another finger in. It's obscene.
Hizashi pulls out until just the tip remains inside. He holds it there, until he can see the muscles in her back begin to loosen. Until the anticipation fades and then he slams home. The tip of his cock grinds down against her cervix, and she fucking keens around Shoutas fingers and Hizashi has to fight down the urge to cum right then. Her pussy is tight and slick (now, because she's a fucking slut who gets turned on when they manhandle her.) "Fuckin easy," Hizashi hisses under his breath, mean and condescending.
Hizashi sets a brutal pace, leaning down so he can whisper filth in her ear. At some point, Shouta pulls his own cock out, slipping it between her lips. She's gagging on it. It's too big for her to manage on top of Hizashi railing her into oblivion. “Yeah, baby, we're putting that mouth to good use huh. You had so much to say earlier to Dr. Inui, clearly, baby, we needed to give you something else to fill your mouth with besides vitriol and lies.”
She manages to pull off Shouta's dick, sobbing and gasping desperately for air, but Hizashi knots his hands in her hair. He doesn't want her talking. He's already angry, she's only gonna piss him off more if she opens that mouth of hers. He guides her back onto Shouta's dick, holding her head down. She fights it for all of two seconds before giving up and letting Hizashi guide her head. “Thats it, good fucking girl. This is what you were made for, sweetheart. Just do what your fuckin’ told and shut up.”
He adjusts his angle, and she shudders, her cunt gushing and fluttering around him as an orgasm sneaks up on her. He grins, and Shouta bucks up into her mouth. Her moans must feel fucking incredible, reverberating against Shouta.
Shouta's own body tenses as he pumps his load down her throat before pulling out of her mouth. She gasps, arching into Hizashi as he groans, filling her full of his cum. It stains her thighs as he pulls out, holding her pussy open with two fingers to admire the mess he's made of her.
“What do you say, baby?”
She blinks, glancing at him, her gaze devoid of much understanding. “Thank you, sir.”
~
There's a girl Shouta mentions once. Asa Himari, a vigilante with long, dark curls who goes by the name Syren.
He's not talking to her of course, Shouta is talking to Hizashi. But she's on the couch, restructuring the firewalls for UA's campus on one of the monitored laptops. That's why she was taken blackmailed hired. Because she offers a rare insight into the minds of hackers and can build their firewalls to defend against cyber attacks. Anyway, she's on the couch, when Shouta mentions it.
The name sounds familiar for some reason, and she can't place why. Shouta’s discussing in that flat tone how she's a potential Acquisition to the Program. How the girl doesn't have any support systems, how she's talented but lost.
She smiles softly. The Program helped her. Maybe it'll help this girl too, whoever she is.
Baby Katsuki's hoarding instincts have kicked in, and he's actually really good at this! The BEST even! He has the coolest, softest, shiniest, greenest hoard ever!
Collab with Monomaniacal for @bkdkbkdaydream
Get ready for the most sugary soft candy sweetness fluff you've ever read 🥰
🔗 https://archiveofourown.org/works/83228896/chapters/219207326
the problem with zuko being the poor fandom meow meow is that so many a:tla fics are basically “look at how much our boy suffered. everyone should feel bad for him and give him hugs and love him” and like i’m sorry i really can’t roll with that lmao.
like i like zukka but i feel like so many zukka fics are about zuko’s emotional damage and how sokka (+ the rest of the gaang) need to help him heal.
anyways if anyone has sokka-centric zukka fics hmu
Erm, if I had an absolutely wild yandere smut fic that's been spinning around in my head for weeks about Shouta Aizawa and Hizashi Yamada... would anyone be interested? 🥺🧐
Y'all I just started this... its gonna be a beast, i can feel it. The sheer amount of plot im gonna need to get to the porn... 🤣. I'm gonna need yall to suspend your disbelief and disregard Canon entirely for this bitch.
"She should run though. She should run. Far and fast. She should change her name and dye her hair and flee the country.
She knew she should.
Any vigilante worth their salt knew not to get close to heros.
Any vigilante with half a fucking braincells knew even more so to stay the fuck away from UA affiliated heros.
Because despite UA's glowing reputation, despite the school being one of the most well respected, well established heroics institutions in the world, vigilantes here in Japan knew the truth.
UA was a cult. UA was a fucking psychotic, idol worshipping, brainwashing, kidnapping cult."
Here's a little excerpt that I think kinda gives you an idea of the direction im going with this. I need this idea OUT of my head. It's consumed my every waking moment.
I PROMISE IM STILL WORKING ON THIS. I've been cursed with being so fucking busy, and I've got like 15 WIPS rn (lemme know if y'all wanna know my WIPS).
Have another baby excerpt (below the cut). Forgive the lack of editing for now, I Promise™️ this will get a proper edit before posting the whole thing
Shouta Aizawa was aware that UA's Asset Acquisition Program was… morally gray at best. As someone who'd been through the program himself, he knew exactly how rough it was on the kids who are taken in. However, as someone who had been through the program himself, Shouta was firmly of the opinion that it was necessary. That the Acquisitions needed a firm hand, that they needed to be taken away from the circumstances that had landed them on UAs radar, that they needed to be shown exactly how vulnerable and stupid they were. He knew that in the end, they'd be better off for it.
Look at him, for example. The program gave him Hizashi. The program gave him a job he excelled at, gave him a home he loved, gave him financial security, made sure he never had to know that gnawing feeling of starvation. The program had given him every good thing he'd even had. Clean clothes, shoes without holes in them, a shower with hot water. Luxuries that were hard to come by for most.
