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#TW: abuse
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Thing is, it's way more interesting if Ed has zero sexual feelings for Izzy, while Izzy thinks that he's a sort of romantic or sexual rival to Stede. Ed is operating on the "he's my dad" level, and Izzy is operating on the "he's my lover" level (I don't think either of them are doing this consciously, though). That's incredibly fucked up, but it does not require Ed to have sexual feelings for Izzy.
Ed feeding Izzy his own toes as a display of power and mental breakdown, while he's being forced back into a persona he hates by a father figure who just threatened him with death if he didn't stop being gay ? INTERESTING. Izzy getting a sexual thrill out of being fed his own toes and thinking that Ed feels the same? VERY INTERESTING.
Ed canonically does not have romantic/sexual feelings for Izzy. When Izzy tries to tell him he loves him (barely), Ed can only respond with disbelief and disgust. Which makes sense, if the guy you're looking at as DAD is telling you that.
And let us not even start with Ed, the man who thinks the murder of his father made him uniquely monstrous and unlovable, asking Father Figure 3.0 to kill him.
Ed thinks Izzy is his abusive father and Izzy thinks Ed is his faithless lover, and neither of them think it consciously.
That's fucking interesting.
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apolladay · 12 hours
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Is Bullying Peer Abuse?
Yes
Maybe
No
Yes, but only if it’s physical
Yes, but only if it’s mental and/or verbal
No, it’s not, but it can become so bad and/or intense for a someone to the point that it’s considered and/or is abuse
Other
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alina-lantsova · 20 hours
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you know what always makes me go insane? the last scene of poison. angel dust breaking down, panicked. the final of the song, blurry camera, him struggling to get out of there, reaches the balcony only to see vox lovingly hold valentinos hand as he seems to bring it up to maybe kiss it: a loving gesture and valentinos reaction is to let it happen. than them looking up at him annoyed as if interrupted from something important. angel dust, seeing there is someone feeling love for valentino, someone equally as bad as him, someone who sees the abuse and doesnt give a shit and that angel is stuck with them..
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julesonrecord · 10 hours
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Cherry Wine | DDDNE | Jack "Whiskey" Daniels/Wife!Reader
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𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | Follow @jules-onpaper for updates.
Summary: Your marriage to your high school sweetheart has been hell for a long time, but when Jack discovers your awful secret, it all comes pouring out like a wine stain on the carpet. What do you find in the dregs?
Mind the tags below.
Warnings/content: MDNI; DDDNE; hurt people hurting people, domestic violence (verbal, physical, off stage neglect), there's a mention of human urine omg I'm truly horrified that survived the editing process, off stage drug use as a coping mechanism, alcoholism, infidelity, grief due to miscarriage/child loss, oblique suicidal ideations ("you should have killed me"); explicit smut; dirty talk; piv; fingering; possessive!Jack; emotional resolution?
Word count: 2.6k I defy the drabble that could contain me
Author Notes: Part of @wannab-urs' awesome Hozier challenge! My prompt was "Cherry Wine" with Whiskey. Did I expect to trauma-dump all over it? Nope I sure didn't! But art is catharsis. And so is cowboy smut. 🩵 Banners by @cafekitsune
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The front door slams shut with a bang.
Your heart rate increases immediately, but you stay planted where you are, your face set, washing the dishes he was meant to do yesterday but hadn’t, from the dinner that you’d cooked after working your shift at The Ghost Rider, the restaurant where you work split shifts for the breakfast and dinner rushes. You’re still wearing your apron and Hokas. You still smell like beer and french fry grease. You feel the tiredness in your joints, under the weak bones of your cheeks and deep into your eye sockets.
You glance up at the window above your kitchen sink, the green reflection of the digital clock: 54:11 blinks at you behind the clover plant that’s half green and half crunch, which means it’s 11:44. It’s late. You’re so fucking tired. And yet it’s early for him to be home. Much too early. And the bang probably means he’s drunk.
You’re lucky, in a sense, that it is a Saturday that you’re alone.
Oh, he’ll bitch at you for a bit for “guilting” him for doing the dishes, radiating drink and disappointment, but then he’ll pass out in bed, for all the world a corpse. Or butt naked on the floor. Or maybe he’ll black out and piss on the couch again before trudging off to work before dawn without saying a damn word about it. 
You’d spread receipts on the coffee table with your travel mug, dressed for work, trying to calculate with a Bic pen which bill you’d be missing this month, and fucking sat in it. You’d been late that day since you had to throw your only apron and the couch slip into the washing machine.
You’re thinking about this when his boots click down the hall and into the kitchen.
You look like an angel, he thinks, leaning against the doorframe and watching you doing the washing up, even though you’re not. Still, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful, your hair illuminated by the lonely kitchen light over the sink, your apron emphasizing your waist, the curves of your hips and ass.
He gets lost there for a while, on your ass. No, no fuckin’ angel, but you do have a heavenly ass.
The bottle in his hand clinks on the counter, half empty from the drive home, and he can practically see your back tense, practically hear the fuckin’ lecture about to spill from your lips that used to smile so pretty for him and now only spits venom and lies.
Before you can, though, he crowds up behind you at the sink, ghosting his breath over your neck, pressing you up hard against the counter. He’s going to relish this. This last moment before it all goes to shit. His hands rest on your shoulders and glide down your arms.
The moment breaks when you try to shrug him off.
Jaw tightening, breath pushed from his nose, he grips you harder. You jerk, trying to fight him off, but even though you can carry a tray full of dinner plates on each arm, your strength is no match for his. His fingers press into the soft flesh of your arms as you fuss and fume, harder and harder until you’re writhing, hissing through your teeth, trying to elbow him in the ribs, kick him in the groin.
He shakes you, rough.
It makes your teeth rattle. “Jack,” you try to say through the reverberations.
“Yeah, sugar?” His breath is a hot puff against your ear, his voice low, menacingly quiet. “That’s how you’re gonna treat your husband when he gets home, huh? Gonna act all fuckin’ high and mighty with me, not give ol’ Jack the time of day? Well I happen to know you got somethin’ to tell me. Don’t you, sugar? And you better tell me right fuckin’ now.” The grit in his low voice makes your stomach drop out, an icy trap door that stiffens your entire body.
It gives you away. Jack snorts in derision. “Yeah?” he demands, shaking you again. “That’s the way it’s gonna be? A man’s gotta find out his wife is whorin’ herself out to his best fuckin’ friend from the gossipin’ hussies at the fucking pool hall? Huh? That’s how it’s gonna fuckin’ be?!” He’s shouting now, his voice ringing in your ears as you cringe and wrestle yourself out of his arms, your breath caught somewhere between your trachea and your spine.
You back away from him, towards the front hall, wondering if you should grab the phone and call the police, if he’s mad or drunk enough to actually hurt you.
He strides towards you with a swagger, removing his hat and placing it carefully on its peg, as though the two of you are about to have nothing but a pleasant discussion, but there’s a hollow to his eyes. They don’t even shine like they usually do.
“How long you been fuckin’ him?” he asks, his tone flat. When you don’t answer, just press your sweating back against the cold wall, he lifts his eyebrows. He sucks his teeth, nodding slowly at the ground, as though he understands, as though he gets it, but it’s a mockery and you both know it.
“A while, I guess.” Jack takes a step even closer, and you make a sudden grab for the landline, the rotary phone on the side table. His big hand snatches it from you and smashes it back onto the receiver so hard you hear it break. “No, sugar,” he coos, setting a palm on the drywall on either side of your head, “Pretty boy’s not comin’ for ya. Or were you gonna ring up all the other lil boys whose dicks you’ve sucked behind the bar?”
“Fuck off,” you snarl. “That’s not true.”
“The rest is, though, ain’t it.”
Your breaths mingle for a few seconds; grease and spit, beer and rage.
“Yeah,” you breathe, defiant. “It is.”
His hangdog eyes close as though you’ve wrenched out his guts with your fingers. His head drops, hanging low between the bars of his arms for a few seconds before he takes a ragged breath and meets your eyes again.
All the spaces between your ribs and the scar on your belly lights on fire as you see him, just for a second, your Jack, your husband, your cowboy, your darling. You see him for the first time in ages, the boy who’d taken you to prom and kissed you on your front porch for so long your daddy’d playfully threatened him off with his shotgun, the boy who’d proposed on one knee with nothing but hope and love in his eyes when you’d gotten pregnant at just nineteen. The man you followed across the country with nothing but a swell in your belly and a sparkle on your finger, his promising future as an airman in the wings. The man who’d never had a chance to hold his son in his hands.
That loss was so long ago, now, but time doesn’t matter. Time heals all wounds? What a joke. It was as new a wound in your heart as ever, bleeding fresh while the scar on your abdomen puckered and wrinkled with time. That man you loved was buried as deep inside as the bullet that had killed your baby. And he’s gone in a blink. The angry alcoholic is back.
“Why.” You’d moved so far from Kentucky, but his drawl has never wavered.
“Guess I wanted to feel something.”
“Son of a fuckin’ bitch,” he breathes, not really to you. He says it to the broken phone, to the past, to all the hurts that lay between you.
Jack sucks in another breath. His eyes are full.
“Fuck, baby. I wish you’d killed me instead. I wish you’d–” he grabs you by the wrist. You struggle for a moment, but he forces your fingers into an ugly shape and presses it between his eyes. “Right here. You couldn’t do that? Couldn’t kill me clean dead?”
“You don’t deserve it, Jack.”
He barks a laugh with a wicked slice of self-hatred in it, his daily bread. “I know. I know, baby. I don’t deserve shit. But you don’t either.”
You don’t. It’s true. You’d started sleeping with his ‘best friend,’ really the only friend he’d held on to since he was booted from the Air Force for dishonorable conduct, six months ago. And before that, it had been the mountain of secret credit card debt. And before that, the sleeping all day and smoking cigarettes all night, swallowing pill after pill, whatever you could get your hands on, whatever made you numb.
Eventually, when you woke up enough, you’d gone back to work. Or maybe it was because if you didn’t, the both of you would fucking starve. He was laid up every other day with a hangover and becoming meaner and meaner, unable to hold down a job for longer than it took to make rent.
But he’d never struck you. Not once. 
But maybe he would now.
That might feel like something.
“Hit me,” you snarl. “Hit me, why don’t you? Give me what I do deserve.”
Jack only looks at you, shakes his head. 
“Fucking hit-” You’re the one to grab his wrist now, but his hand is loose and floppy.
“J’ya let him lick your cunt?” he asks, face empty of expression. “Mm? Did he figure out how to make you cum with nothin’ but his dick in your ass? Scream his name? Bet he didn’t. Bet you just let him fuck your face and paint his cum all over your-”
The smack is hard enough that his head swivels on his neck, and it’s loud enough to shake the world.
You’re sobbing. “Fuck you,” you say, and hit him again. “Fuck you, fuck you, Jack fucking Daniels. You’re a liar and you’re a piece of shit and I hate you.”
“I know, babygirl,” he croaks, swallowing. “I’m a piece a’ shit and you’re a little whore, but you don’t hate me, do you? No, no more of that.” He catches your wrist in his hand when you wind back to punch him again and slams it against the wall, pinning you in place. It shocks you out of your crying.
“No,” you gulp, miserably. “I don’t. I wish I did but I can’t.”
“What a pair we are, huh?” he whispers, leaning his warm forehead on yours as you shiver and hiccup. “When you gonna stop testin’ me, baby? When you gonna learn I ain’t never leavin’? That I love you so much I’d let it fuckin’ kill me if it weren’t gon’ leave you here alone?”
“No, no, don’t. Don’t leave me alone, Jack, please-”
Your cries are pathetic. You can only whine and accept the broken kiss he gives you, smearing your tears across his own cheeks, his mouth soft and consuming and familiar and the scrape of his mustache a burn that glows. 
He is the only thing that hurts so much it feels good. 
“You ain’t gonna give it to anybody else, you fuckin’ hear me?” he growls against your lips, sucking a mark into your neck. He licks a stripe across the hollow of your throat and shoves your work skirt up above your hips, ripping your panties to the side to get at your slit. “Nobody,” he repeats over your moan. “Cause this pussy’s mine. You can hit me all you wanna, ain’t nobody gonna give you what you need but me.”
Jack mutters a curse. “That’s my girl, already fuckin’ drippin’. Which part got you off, sugar? Was it my yellin’ or your slappin’?” Before you can answer he curls two fingers inside you, seeking and immediately finding that sensitive place just behind your clit, pulling at it like the trigger he knows it is, swallowing the bullet of his name from your mouth.
The tears are still streaming down your face, but you no longer know exactly why, overwhelmed by the exquisite pleasure of his thick fingers stroking you deep and full, exactly as you like, his thumb swirling at your clit. He can rile you up as deftly as he used to be able to rope steers on his father’s ranch, showing off for you as you hung over the railing in your daisy dukes, watching with stars in your eyes.  
“M’sorry,” you whimper, and come with a cry of “Oh, fuck, Jack – I’m sorry, I’m sorry baby, fuck yes, ohmygod–”
He’s growling approval, nipping at your throat as he lets you grind down on his hand, riding through your orgasm. His warm palm strokes your leg as you quiver.
“I know, baby, I know,” he breathes, the weight of his chin hard on your shoulder as he bends to unzip his jeans and free his hard cock. “Look so fuckin’ pretty when you come just for me. Oh, there’s my girl,” he cuts off with a groan, beautiful brown eyes pinching shut as he pushes inside you, belt pressing into your hip, his hand cupping the back of your knee to keep you spread for him. 
He’s chanting, breathless, as though he’s amazed to see your eyes blown out for him after all this time.  “There’s my fuckin’ girl, yeah, love it when you squeeze me like this, fuck.” He drives home with a grunt, panting out a sound that might almost be a laugh when your eyes roll back and your skull knocks against the wall, rattling the frame of your wedding photo. 
“Yeah? Full up, babygirl?” He grinds his hips, sharp and just shy of painful against yours, but you wouldn’t dream of telling him to stop; you’re almost about to come again, rolling from one straight into another. “He fuck you like this? He can’t, can he? Nah, his dick ain’t big enough, is it?” He swats your thigh. “Answer me.”
“No,” you moan. He doesn’t just slip inside you, he stretches you, he makes you come undone to take him, as he’s always done. “N-nobody fucks me like you.” No one could. Of course not.
“S’right. S’fuckin right,” he groans, “And why?”
“‘Cause – hng –” you mumble, cut off as he begins a low, powerful pace, moving inside you like the steady, heart-stopping beat of a bass drum. “‘Cause my pussy’s yours.”
“Yeah, yeah it is,” he says, losing himself, fucking into you harder, the slap of skin and the jingle of his belt echoing in your tiny kitchen. “Perfect girl,” he moans, and the pleasure-pain rings through you exactly right, and for one single second you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, exactly the right broken puzzle shape for his broken piece to fit.
“And,” you rasp, and hold him by the throat, making him look at you as your head swims and you approach the crest of your peak, “You’re mine. You’re all mine, right?”
His face screws up and you think he might be going to cry, but he groans into your shoulder and cums instead, soft tip knocking against your cervix as he fills you, fills you, fills you. The feeling of his warm spend tips you over the jagged edge and your pussy clenches around him, seizing a whimper from his throat.
For a moment or two, you’re one breathing animal, afraid and fucked out. Then Jack hums, tastes your skin as he pulls out. 
“Right?” you ask, your voice trembling. The word could shatter into a million pieces, it’s so fragile. Shocked with a pang of regret, you look away. That can’t be true. Not after this. Not really.
A gentle thumb at your cheek, brushing away another tear, one of thousands. 
“Ain’t never been nothin’ else but yours, darlin’.”
Jack kisses your lips as they tremble, soft, slow, and sinks to his knees, scrunching up your shirt. Ignoring the heaves of your gasping breaths as you watch, he kisses from one end of your scar to the other. “Never gonna be anythin’ but sorry, stupid, and all yours.”
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Domestic Violence Resources: USA Canada UK EU
How to help a loved one with Alcohol Use Disorder
Hey. You didn't have to read this. If you did and you got to the end, I'd really appreciate you letting me know what you think. This fic's contents have me feeling all kinds of vulnerable, but I think it's important to share DV and its complex truths in fiction. They are a reality many people face. If you want to share your thoughts or story, my arms are open for you. My ask box, DMs, and comments are open, too. You're safe with me.
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dragomerepyrrhart · 2 days
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“Do you dare defy the king of the gods again, mortal?”
I got inspired by one of the Zeus loading screens. Just Zeus towering over a beaten and broken Montague.
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bonefarm · 1 month
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While we are on the subject - financial abuse is not always just physically taking money away or not having a savings account or escape stash. For a lot of people it is the other spouse sabotaging your credit score, constantly overspending, and you being unable to trust that joint household bills and loans are paid. Did you know that once you add an authorized user to your bank account it’s nearly impossible to remove them without their permission? Did you know that your spouse, who likely knows your birthday and SSN, can often gain access and reset passwords for any online accounts and create new ones?
Financial abuse will ruin your life and there’s really nothing except significant time that fixes it. If you are in a situation where you think this might happen to you you should freeze your credit with all three major agencies. You can find info on how to do this at USA.gov/credit-freeze
This is not something that only happens to tradwives. You are not exempt because you are independent or competent.
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I’m a fierce believer and defender of Smooth Brain Astarion (affectionate).
I love that, if left to his own devices, he ends up dead in a ditch. I love that this pasty menace of an elf is a walking disaster. I love that his brain produces one coherent thought per day, only to have it backfire on him later on. I love that his first choice in freedom is to unapologetically be the worst version of himself. Because it makes sense. 
That’s what abuse and trauma do to your brain—they fuck with it. 
And in Astarion’s defence, the man didn’t have to use his brain for nearly 200 years—it’s probably the very thing that kept him as alive as he can be; to survive 200 years of pure shit. 
And what use is his brain when his days and nights are dictated by someone else for as long as he can remember? When he has no say in what clothes he wears. When he doesn’t get to choose what or when to eat. When his body and mind aren’t his own, distorted by torture and hunger and self-loathing, forced to obey his vampiric master. Why use his brain when his survival depends exclusively on his abuser’s whims? 
Astarion could’ve come up with the most brilliant plan possible to escape Cazador or save a mark from their doom, but he never stood a chance of succeeding—which doesn’t mean that he didn’t get punished for trying (or even thinking about it) anyway.
Existing under Cazador was a game he couldn’t win, so why bother playing? 
And it’s only by chance that Astarion’s autonomy is returned to him literally overnight. It’s only natural that he’s overwhelmed by his newfound freedom. How is he expected to make sound decisions when he can’t even recall a time when he could do and say as he pleased? 
Of course Astarion is a walking disaster when he finds himself on that beach after the Nautiloid crash—and he’s fully aware of that! That’s why it’s so crucial for him to get on the player’s/other companion’s good side.
He’s self-aware enough to be so insecure about himself that he would rather trust a stranger’s capabilities than his own. 
Being a catastrophe of a person is part of Astarion’s character journey. Not only does he have to reclaim his personhood, he has to learn how to depend on his own brain again and I think that's such a painfully beautiful, important message Baldur’s Gate 3 sends. 
Because healing isn’t pretty. Nor is it easy.
You’re not alright the moment you’re free of whatever horrors you had to live through—and that’s ok! There’s time and room for you to adjust. 
And the moment Astarion feels more or less safe within his new environment, when he’s fed and treated like a person worthy of respect and consideration, his insights, skills and perception are crucial assets to the group.
Astarion knows his art and literature, and although his little remarks are unhinged at times, he's genuinely witty. Even his objections are, considering the circumstances, absolutely legitimate.
Personally, I love seeing Smooth Brain Astarion become more and more secure in his judgement the more Tav/other companions trust and support him.
Astarion is smart, his brain’s just been stewed for nearly 200 years.
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liminish · 1 year
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I will say one more thing before moving the fuck on and waiting for more. Cause I have a feeling there will be more eventually.
I am completely believing and supporting Shubble. Shubble’s the victim and she did not name her abuser for a reason. We should not jeopardize her plans.
Now, on a unrelated note, I will still be supporting Wilbur as well until if he’s found to be 100% clearly the guy who Shubble is talking about.
I believe in innocent until proven guilty and similarities and coincidences (like Wilbur also being a biter and someone with a messy place (and an ant infestation), and Zoe leaving Lovejoy for some reason) don’t equal evidence.
It’s hearsay and conjecture and I want to see more shit then that to believe that Wilbur’s the abuser.
So, I believe Shubble and that she needs all the support she can get. And I believe that Wilbur is innocent. Until there’s a legitimate update, I will be moving on from this.
Speculating on who the abuser is will only put Shubble in more danger. There’s no good result coming from jumping conclusions right now.
Hug Shubble and keep Wilbur out of this until there’s a legitimate connection. And even if there is a connection, focus on helping Shubble. We aren’t the law, y’all!
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If you really want a treat, scroll through the Wilbur Soot tag on AO3 and go to the most recent chapter updates. The authors have some insanely well articulated thoughts and points about this all, and it's crazy to watch them bring their work to a screeching stop to firmly leave Wilbur to burn and support Shubble. This has been some of the most unanimous support I've seen for any victim online, ever, and it's insane.
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arradraws · 3 months
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More things about backs... 🗡️
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mysteriouswolf · 1 month
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I'm going to start this off with saying it hurts. It fucking hurts. It hurts so, so much, and there's parts of me that still desperately want to look for a way out, to make him not the bad guy, but there isn't one.
Wilbur Soot is a fucking asshole. A piece of absolute trash, and it hurts. Because I've looked up to him for so many years now. He's been such an inspiration and comfort in my life, from dealing with issues I have myself, and giving me all the more reason to stay here. And now he's turned out to be like this. To anyone who's been following what I reblog about him, it's conflicting, because my thoughts seem to change by the minute. But I'm hoping in saying this I can clear my head and make a definite decision.
I will never be supporting Wilbur ever again. No matter how much better he gets, I don't care. What he did was unexcusable, and if you think otherwise, you can fuck off of my blog. His "apology" wasn't an apology, and for the most part all he did was defend himself. The responses from other content creators have pushed me to agree that yes, fuck Wilbur. He's an ass. I think I've stated this a couple times.
What he did to them, especially Niki and Tommy was inexcusable as well from what we know, and since Tommy is going on tour in about a week (if he's still going/up to it) PLEASE no one harass him with questions, or how he feels. Please, just leave him alone. I'm sure it's a lot to process for him too- even more than us.
I've seen some posts saying how we should be angry at other content creators for not speaking out sooner, but some of them have hinted at it/tried. And others haven't known enough, or didn't want to start causing something against him. The same reason Shelby didn't want to say his name. Maybe they couldn't. Please leave them alone.
The last thing I would like to say, is maybe controversial. If you disagree with me, I don't care, this is purely my opinion.
You can still enjoy his character. Your stories, your artwork, all that you've done with it. Don't feel bad about keeping it up, because that's yours now. You've worked so hard on it, and cared for that character so much that it's become far more yours than his. In regards to his music, I know his songs have provided a lot of us with comfort, including me. It's going to be really hard for me to stop listening to something I loved, but I'm going to make the effort- especially with his solo albums. Also, please don't harass the other members of Lovejoy. From what we know, they're lovely people, and if you're going to stop listening to them, great, do that, but don't harass them. Please. And if you do choose to listen to them, there's ways you can listen to music without supporting him- in my opinion covers are the best way to do that, but that one is up to you.
To wrap this up, I'd just like to say...please don't send death threats, or threats in general to anyone involved in this situation- including Wilbur. Leave them alone. Please.
This is subject to change if we get more information, but for now and the foreseeable future, this is my stance. I wish everyone hugs and comfort. This sucks. I'm sorry.
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eutopiastar · 1 month
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SHUBBLE SUPPORT DAY 2024!
FOLLOWING PICTURES EXPLAIN THE IDEA AND FURTHER STUFF!
PLEASE SHARE THE NEWS!!
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#ShubbleSupportDay2024
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mostlyheinous · 2 months
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ᑭᕼEᖇOᗰOᗩᑎ
「 ✦ Dabi x F!Reader ✦ 」
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cw: NONCON/DUBCON, SCENT KINK, hate-fucking, cockdrunkeness, sluttification/bimbofication, primal kink play, smoking/drinking mentions, degradation, mind fuckery, forced oral (giving), forced sex, cumcumcummy inside
Supremely late as usual... and it took a lot of finesse given how things have been. But this is dedicated to the lewd Secret Santa (new years nao?) Event by the depraved @ectologia who gathered up a handful of Tumblr's fantastic dark-fic writers ♡ i didn't forget y'all. I came late w the sauce—
To my dearest Secret Santa @tang3r1n who picked my brain with their absolutely PUSSYCLENCHINGDIABOLICAL descriptors of Dabi's musty dick after a long day and I just— fhdjsjsjsjsj.
I can't thank you enough for your patience and understanding... Let's start this year off with a bang.~
— League Hideout, 2am.
Believe it or not, villains can feel at peace too.
In the dim, underground bar, the warm hue of light against mahogany and cherry wood has become home to you. The varnish is a tasteful, nutty gasoline scent, comforting in it's own right. That colorful jukebox flickers and quietly stirs as it scratches vinyl.
Usually, the joint was bustling with recruits and League members, giving each other hell or toasting over another small victory. Plus Chaos.
Tonight it's dead quiet; perfect time for you to work.
But when that mellow 80s j-pop track plays on, you can't help the way you hum and bounce your knee to the rhythm.
Plastic Love: You know this one.
Kurogiri clinks around fine crystal behind the counter. As he gingerly places them back on the rack behind, he doesn't seem to mind your loopy musical trance. When those yellow hues of his ghastly eyes look to you again, he stares down at the paper workload in front of you and catches you attempting to sip away at an icy glass that runneth dry.
"... Another, y/n?" The eerie voice beckons. You swore you heard a flicker of humor there somewhere... "Or perhaps you require assistance."
"No no, Kurogiri, I won't put you to that, please. I insist."
"... As you wish. You can help yourself to whatever, though it is imperative that you aid Tomura Shigaraki."
"Th... Thank you."
"Naturally."
Were you working hard or hardly working at this point?
... In front of you sat hundreds of pages of unheroic filth— cheating scandals, money bardering, unsavory dealings between agencies.
It's likely something you'll all gather around and read for a good laugh later when you're shooting the shit. Right now, all Tomura cared for were locations, time-frames, and configuring the best day for the League to make it's next appearance when the heroes least expected it.
He really wasn't privvy to "filler," and he'd shown a streak of being impatient when it came to these things. So you take initiative.
When the last glasses are cleaned away besides your own, the haunting bartender leaves you with a piping mug of matcha anyway before stepping out of the light and descending into the shadows of the hallway.
"Should you need me, i'll be attending to Tomura."
As dutiful as the nomu was, only truly served one master. You thank him again and pay him a half-attentive nod as you flip through another ink-dense page, highlighting sections.
You're onto something here, eyes flickering across the pages until you have your eyes set on an address. But only a moment passes before the room's door opens and slams shut again.
"Back so soon Kurogiri?"
You smile as you turn to greet who you thought was the chivalrous barkeeper, but immediately grow deadpan when you look up to a familiar face.
"... Wrong."
Dabi.
The male's gravely voice greets you, as well as his carcinogenic clouds when he exhales cigarette smoke through flared nostrils. You do a piss poor job of acting indifferent, turning back around with a huff. It was already hot in here, did it just turn a million degrees worse? Maybe it was the alcohol...
He starts eyeing the documents and the few empty glasses nearby, quickly connecting the dots
"Well you sure look busy." He tisks.
Of course, the cunning bastard found one frayed end on you, tugging just to see what'll happen. For all the time you'd ever worked alongside Dabi, you knew his truest nature was kept under wraps beneath that rugged, cool exterior. Always calculating... always cunning and looking for an entrypoint they would benefit him and him alone.
You weren't in the mood for his antics.
"I was busy." You jab while turning your face further away from his secondhand smoke. You could tell he'd been on a spree of arson when he smelled like hell. "Should've known it'd be you."
Sulfur, ash, and bloodshed... it was intense as it was revolting when he was so close to you now.
Thankfully he goes to meander towards the lounge corner not too far from you. You track the steps it takes for him to reach it before shakily exhaling the breath you didn't realize you were holding.
You'd like to think you had a soft spot for your confidants, but not when you knew Dabi's sarcastic, lax nature could rear it's ugly head. You knew by now that if you turn around to grace him with your face or chat him up, he'll look wartorn and smug like some delinquent child who patiently waits for you to notice the grimy evidence on they're tattered clothes from the evil deeds they just commited.
He even makes sure to create as much noise as possible when he plops down on that creaky leather couch and props his tactical boots up on the glass-paned coffee table in front.
Cerulean eyes lazily drift over to you... He knew he had a certain effect on people, notes the way your shoulders tensed, the shifting of your body away from him, the furrowing of your brows, the way you shifted in the bar-stool. The way the corner of his mouth twitches exposes the sense of satisfaction he has in your discomfort.
"Oh, Ice Queen," He cracks the silence again with a condescending nickname, leaning back in fake disbelief. "I never took you for much of a drinker."
You ignore him, but the red in your face worsens when you can feel his gaze dragging up and down your spine, unaware of the way he analyzes the cascade of your tousled hair, the pursing of your chewed lips, the subtle pink stain across your cheeks. the arch of your back... the round of your ass.
"... Y'know, you've usually got a stick so far up that ass, it's almost adorable to see you loosen up and still try to act high n' mighty around me... Kinda nice to see you let your guard down."
You didn't like the rasp or tone of that one bit.
"Don't you have some abandoned warehouse to sleep in? A hero to stalk down like some fucking creep?" You finally mutter.
"There she is." The languid man only builds the tension with his low purr and the confrontation drawl in his question: "My teasing strike a nerve, your highness?"
All you can do is scoff, and as soon as you meet his eyes, you smirk to yourself and say the first thing on your mind.
"No, but your stench certainly does. You reek like a corpse."
That gets his brow to quirk up, but the rest of him remains lax. He almost beams at your quip, revved up for more tongue lashings.
Arms strewn across the back of the couch with little care for the way he spread his legs so freely now, he flicks ash off his cigarette before placing it in the ash tray near his propped feet.
"Oh really?" Dabi retorts, that dry, hoarse voice still finding a way to drip with sarcasm. A hand poised in front of him, he ignites hellish blue flames in the palm of it — and you distressingly remember that varnish is actually very flamable.
"... How observant of you. Looks like you're more than just a cute face afterall with that noggin of yours. Guess i've always been a fan of burning bodies, so that stench suits me just fine."
Swallowing, you watch him finally extinguishing the dancing flame before he picks up where he left off of his cancer stick, bringing it back to his marred lips and letting his head slump back as he exhales more carcinogens.
You know, maybe you were in the mood to fight tonight, because you decide not to just drop it there. Cuz you knew you wouldn't be able to function if you had to tolerate his prescence any longer, let alone his fucking scent. It wasn't that he even smelled bad per say, it was... unique, carried a bad omen.
The scent of dead men who likely clung to the arsonist's smoldered jacket before turning to ash. It unnerved you greatly, and you can't focus like this.
You frankly just didn't want the snarky bastard around, Not when you knew he was never up to any good. His teasing, the sarcasm, that self-righteousness...
"You're stinking up the lounge, go to your room or something."
"I will, maybe when you show me some respect 'n smile for me the way you do for Dusty's lapdog."
That's it.
You smack your gums and spring into action, sliding off the bar stool and attempting to pack your things aggressively so you could move elsewhere on base. Anywhere away from the distasteful fuck.
"God you're an ass."
Dabi cracks the sudden kink in his neck and lets out a haggard sigh. He kicks his feet off the table and rises again, after he'd already gotten comfy. Before you can make another snide comment to him, he's walking over with those boots trudging across the floorboards until he's right up in your face.
"Yeah? Am I?"
He works his jaw, eyeing you down with an amused glint in his evil eyes. Suddenly you're gasping in horror as his warm hands shoot out and grip terribly hard onto your squirmy hips.
"Pretty sure I asked you to smile for me, didn't it?" He pulls you flush against his, that touch radiating both the coldness of his demeanor and the heat of his power.
"Ahh... I think I know why you're such a stone-cold bitch. You're scared of me, aren't you babe?" Dabi puffs smoke against your face and neck, the full intensity of his scent enveloping you. "Good... lets keep it that way."
Too close...
You turn your face away, but the subtle hint of cologne mingling with the hazy aroma of his power and the underlying musk of his body starts to trigger something odd inside you. Not to mention the way his blue hues bore into yours, a challenge behind them.
"Anyone ever tell you you're way more darling up close?" He whispers it against you, a lulling mantra wielded like a dragger to your delicate throat. "So bashful now... bet I can make that bitchy mouth of yours plenty useful."
There's zero humor in the cruel laugh you sputter in his face. You had enough of this blatant arrogance, turning up your nose at him. Dabi could go low, but like this?
"Fuck you." You finally spat venomously. "You think i'm intimidated by you?" With those words, you rip his hands away like he were the plague and shove past him.
"... you're disgusting and delusional. You hold no power over me."
Sparks fly across his vision and his body moves faster than his rational thoughts. Before you can get even 2 feet ahead, you feel a burning grip on your forearm.
"Ugh! Dabi, enough! Let go—!" the room spins as your body is yanked forward.
Challenge accepted.
Dabi's judo tossing you like nothing until you're landing on your back hard, slammed onto the glass table with a hard crack and head hanging off of it. The ashtray goes flying off after you, the butts he'd collected scattering across the floor.
"U-urgh..."
Dabi's surprised it doesn't shatter beneath the force, because he wasn't gentle. He soon storms back around, stepping towards you with initimidating swagger until he's standing right over you, looking at your splayed figure. Your head hurts, and this perspective makes him look upside down... or is it right-side up?
"Man, i'm gettin' real tired of that attitude."
The shadow he cascades in the dim bar light is menacing. The sulfur-scented demon is about to rip you to pieces, burn you up like a garbage heap and send you straight to hell for a petty trangression. Before you can sit up to defend yourself, he's gripping your tits first and holding you down.
"H-hngf! Stop—!"
He grins as you struggle against his grip, intrigued by your squirming and shocked expression. The squeezing from his warm hands making your nipples perk reflexively. And he opts to tug them the moment he can see them peaking through your top, hard.
"Dabi! I said s-stop, what the fu~ck—!" You shriek, voice cracking as octive higher at the violation.
"So you think I'm disgusting, huh?" he hisses, carrying a dark, sadistic undertone. "Well you're far from some clean, pure angel yourself, y'know." His free hand slips beneath your shirt, trailing his fingers between the valley of your cleavage like a scapel with surgical precision.
"I guess i've been too lenient with you, y/n," he growled, his voice laced with a dangerous edge while laughing cruely on top of you. "How stupid can you be... mouthing off insults about somethin' a guy can't control! Anyone ever teach you to keep your mean comments to yourself? No wonder; no-one's ever fucked any sense into you—"
The raising of his voice and sudden mania genuinely does scare you. With a bruising grasp, he's kneading your already sore tits. You hiccup and sob, contemplating hollaring for Kurogiri. He'd surely come and put a stop to this, wouldn't he?
"—maybe you just need some fuckin' dick in you."
You try to find your voice to scream until you realize, as Dabi's leaning over you, that you're leveled perfectly beneath his crotch...
!
... Instead you just gawk, horrified when you finally feast eyes on the sick fuck's massive, throbbing dick and balls pulled out above the band of his pants. He's curved just slightly, and veiny, pumping excitedly along his thick shaft up to the swollen-pink tip. Stinky, fresh pre-cum oozes at the very top.
The dropping of his white, studded belt tells you this is all very real as it hits the wood with a loud clunk.
"What are you doing?!" You'd learned your lesson, but that wouldn't be enough for Dabi. "N-no! P-Put that away, Dabi!" From this angle, you can't see his smug face, likely amused by your pleading.
"Put what away, babe?"
"Dabi!"
God you can smell him. His... parts carry more of that intense smell... Something only belonging to him.
"Use your words 'n tell me, then."
It's salty, sweet arousal, and those pheromone secretions coat his clammy, heated body as he worked on haphazardly yanking his jacket and shirt off above you, revealing more piercings and scarred skin.
"F-fuck, keep your clothes on, please! Just cut it out already, this isn't funny!" You don't realize it but you're tearing up.
He isn't stopping.
"Ah... Who said I was joking?"
You refuse to accept him by shallowing your breathing — and of course, he notices. You try to turn your face away, but he's triumphant as he locks your head between his thighs till you get a faceful of him.
"M-MRPHHH!" Muffled pleas go ignored.
"Y'claim to know me so well by my 'stench'. So go on — Breathe me in, bitch."
You bring your fists up, hitting at his thighs in desperation helplessly as he practically suffocates you with his hefty balls. You can feel the reverb in his chest as he laughs cruely down at you.
"Come on, you're a big girl, aren't you? Take it—"
His balls were heavy and hardly plopped neatly into your mouth when they were so big. Squeezing your watering eyes, you come to accept them.
You want to deny to yourself how erotic this is... but nature runs it's course, unlocking your deepest, carnal desires, mean't only for primal encounters, growing intoxicated with the need for—
"Cock. They said you can get drunk off the smell of it... if you're aroused enough." His groan disrupts you, then a ragged exhale escapes him as he settles himself above your face.
Those scarred hands give your tits another firm squeeze.
"... Can you feel it seeping into your feral mind?"
You're horrified at the way your mouth waters and eyes roll as drool spills out the sides of your mouth while you gently suckle at his sack. Seemingly not getting enough, Dabi snarls like an insatiable beast, lip caught between his teeth as he finds this all to be very stimulating.
"Harder, damn it..."
The man shivers at the way your tongue moves on it's own against his aching ball's perineum... So sensitive, despite having such a damaged, wracked body.
And why was it so facinating to hear him...? To make his knees buckle, make him weak at your flicking alone. Until he's pushing the boundaries again—
"... Fuck... open wide."
"Mngh, m... n-no..."
"Y'don't wanna drag this hazing on any longer, do you?"
You murmur curses, but your actions speak clearly to the depraved fucker. You behaved like a starved alley cat, lapping at milk and mewling for more at the prospect of being free from this humiliation.
He rolls his eyes, pulling his balls out of your mouth with a wet pop before dragging his heavy length across your face.
"Mm... but I can't lie. Being cockdrunk is such an interesting look on you, y/n..."
The tip prods at your wet mouth.
"... Why don't y'go on and have a proper taste?!"
Not caring for your weak protesting, he pushes himself past your plush lips, the force of his initial thrust positively bruising the cushy part in the back of your mouth.
You screech as you gag around him. But the moment his dick comes in contact with your taste-buds, it's over.
His flavor is divine, and as much as you hated submitting, your body craved the taste of his skin. Savory, soft... pumping in and out of your slobbering mouth, and you desperately try to suck up as much of his greasy dick as you can back into your wanton mouth. With bleary eyes, your lips create a perfect seal, cheeks hallowing with each back and forth motion of his hips. To his delight.
You seem like a pro to him, timing your exhales perfectly and making him lose himself to pleasure. Of course, you just don't want to asphyxiate on his dick.
Musty, sweaty, savory—
"Mphm... Shit." At this angle, Dabi's sliding with ease right into your poor throat over and over again, his hips flush against your face. Thick thumbs press firmly on the sides of your neck, glee riddling his face as he feels himself wriggling inside your esophagus.
"Oh yeah. Feels good having those pretty, pink lips on me... God, you're doing so well, little cocksucker."
It's nudging past your tonsils, but his tip is abnormally hot. If you'd had any experience giving head, you're positive he's running hotter than the average man. Must be his quirk.
And as he's stuffing your mouth with a rougher pace, you begins to fear that his cum must be blistering—
"—Ugh!"
You cry, unable to complete your thoughts when he's suddenly pulling out to the head and slapping your face with a heated hand.
"Quit that shit." A harsh yank of your tender-head snaps you back to reality, but you cry again when he spits a hot wad into your wailing mouth. "You're thinkin' too much, focus 'n keep sucking me off."
One last thrust in, and the devil's deep past your esophagus. He keeps himself there, feeling your heartbeat stammer in your throat, the tightening around him...
"Urgh... yes-yes-yes." he keens, throwing his head back.
He popped your erotic bubble dreams with his cruelty, so you finally graze your teeth against him when he doesn't let you breathe. You make sure to snag his skin between your teeth, and it only gets him growling. Seemingly fed up, he pulls out of your mouth entirely till there are only strings of spit connecting you together.
"Bitch."
You cough and are thankful for the brevity, until you look up to the rest of him now. From the trail of white pubes running from his dick up to his navel... to the heaving of his scarred chest... to his piercings on his face... he was looking real good to you right now.
Handsome and alluring... It was unusual; his inky black hair, compared to the patches of white you can catch. The staples beneath those deadset eyes and piercings across that chiseled chest... the tugging of purple-hued skin, likely not even his own, keeping him in tact. Alive.
He was a marvel, truly. And it was turning you on.
The villain stares down at you too, admiring the tears in your eyes and the flush across your gorgeous face while jerking himself off.
"Think you're ready to take me?"
"B-but you said—"
"You poor thing. Y'get some dick finally, and you're already a dumb bimbo. I didn't make any promises, did I?"
No. Of course not. He steps away from you while grinning, reveling in the scene before him like you were a meal splayed out on a silver platter. He's tailing callosed fingers along your jawline as he maneuvers around the table.
His touch was igniting sparks of desire through your body again.
"Y'think i'm just gonna let you off without making me cum? You're gravely mistaken, y/n."
It should've sickened you, but you don't resist when he climbs on top of you, this glass bearing the weight of you both too well. You don't fight when he's tugging down your bottoms and yanking down your sopping underwear...
The more you huffed him and his smoke, the lighter your head became. Up close, he was a euphoric amalgamation of pheromones, an incubus through and through... carrying a dark, delicious aura and aroma of sex and the sweet release of death..
You suddenly think about him in ways you never had, how only now you realize how much of an actual man such a monsteosity like him could be.
So hot-blooded. So human, carrying the rich and full-bodied scent of a real man with delectably fertile musk... you must be drunk on his elixir, because your thoughts begin wavering too...
Yes. Fuck yes, he was a man, packing a pair of balls full of potent semen and a twitching rock hard cock ready to spurt and pump it deep inside a wanton, awaiting womb...
And to your dismay, you knew you were absolutely fertile.
The moistness seeping down to your heavenly ass and the glistening of your ripe, puffy cIit was proof of it.
You don't even know how your own scent draws him in, his pupils dilating until they're swallowing the gorgeous, desolate blue of his ocean eyes.
"God, I knew you'd be such a perfect fuck..."
The lust clouds his own usually judgement, even his vision wavers as he becomes freakishly aware of how breedable you were, those obnoxious birthing hips and plush sides difficult for him to ignore.
Were you ovulating...? Was the full moon out? Why did you smell so good to him too? ... On any other day, you were just some annoying brat who got on his nerves. Tonight, you're highly prized meat, squishy, gushy cunny too good to pass up.
Primal instricts flood the forefront of both your feral minds — he was more than capable to breed you. Impregnate you. Ravish and claim you.
But first, he'd stake his claim — mark you with his filth so even the other members could whiff it.
You feel him slip his hands beneath the fat of your ass squished against the cold glass, the persperation from your weepy cunt dirtying it. He scoots you up and pries those thighs apart before putting you in a mating press.
On any other casual one night stand, he'd prefer his woman knelt over like dogs in heat, keeping their annoying wails and begging out of his ears while plowing their insides.
Tonight, something tells him he needed to bear it all with you... in the least romantic way ever as he presses you into the cold table more. Thank god he's so warm...
The burn from the stretch of your muscles get's you crying out, until he's kneeling down to lick away the sweat droplet from your precious face. His scent... his body, it's all over you now, tacky skin keeping you together.
There was no escaping now.
"You're filthy too now, y'know... no point in crying about the way I smell now."
"D-Dabi... what are you..."
"I can't wait to abuse your fucking pussy... it's what you deserve for always being so cold with someone like me."
Excited sparks of blue catch in his hands, and the prospects of him killing you on his dick were looking more plausable when the fat tip smacks against your clit and drags itself up and down your entrance.
"You think this is just some game for me? Always actin' like some hardened bitch around me... i'm going to shatter that arrogant little facade."
You mewl, forever hating yourself for your submission. But the heat between your throbbing cunny doesn't lie.
Squirming and writhing beneath him, he gives you zero warning for when he's slamming himself deep inside you.
"Shit—!"
"A~ahmm!"
Pain wrack through you
"Dabi! D-Dabi, too much, hurts too much!"
Those heated hands latch onto your jiggly breasts, bearing the weight of him on top of you as he fucks up into you.
"F-Fuck, quit squirmin', oh my fucking god—"
His tip was bulbous, rubbing just right against those sweet spots inside you, dragging your milky essence in and out with him. You can't see it, but the nectar oozing from your cunt coats the base of his dick and pubes, all on display for him as he watches himself enter you each time.
You throw your head back till it's back over the edge, moans gutteral as he churns your insides up. All the while, he grins and laughs at you, huffing small curses and yeahs?
"Damn, you're tightenin' up nicely. Gettin' excited aren't you?! Tell me baby—" Dabi presses himself flush against you now, chest to chest as your legs remain held back. That stiched tongue darts out, drooling against your face like a panting dog.
But this would be a hard lesson for you.
"— tell me how much of a sorry slut you are for being so mean to me."
"I'm—ugnh! Dabi~ah! I'm r-really—"
—Over and over again, he thrusts inside, pace never faltering and interrupting your every word.
"—aaa~hh, 'mm-sor-ree-ee-y!~"
"Are you?! Then take it, dumb fuckin' whore, come on—" he's not satisfied, railing you harder into the table. His bony pelvis grinds right against yours until it hurts, which makes you babble more apologies.
The shoddy pegs squeak as they scape up the wood flooring from the erratic fucking on top of them. Now you fear Kurogiri's presence — really any of your cohorts catching you like this. The humiliation... The mix of smells and bodily fluids you're both coated in will likely never leave this corner of the bar. The scratches scattered across his back and the oak... the slippery glass as it floods with fluids.
"Mmpf, lucky girl, somethin's gotta be in the air tonight... because you're starting to look like the woman who'll do good raising my brats!~"
How would you ever be able to show your face in here after all of this? After getting violated by the man you once held so much disgust towards, you were now acting like a submissive, brain-dead toy excited by the prospects of being filled and used.
This is what you deserved, wasn't it?
"Y-yes yes yes— wait n-no! No more, p-please, you're gonna make me—h-haaa~"
The plapping of Dabi's balls and pelvis against your juicy cunt with each full thrust in makes sinful music — slicking, popping, squirting. The dim bar fills with the noise, at some point louder than even the humming jukebox in the back.
"... D-Dabi, i'm gonna cum! I— ah —oh god! Please, i'm sorry!"
The knot in your gut wounds tighter at his voice alone.
"Then don't deny it, tell me how it feels getting fucked by such a disgusting bastard!"
"I-it feels s-so good—! F-feels so~oo— kyaaaah!—"
The squeezing around his cock sucks him deeper inside you, and even he is taken aback by how lewd you've become now as you crack and shatter on the precipice of a delicious orgasm.
You were broken down, kicked off your high horse, knocked from your shiny pedestal... and Dabi reveled in every waking moment of it.
But he really is only a man, a sudden urge forcing him to capture your sweet moans with his lips in a demanding and possessive kiss. Gnashing teeth, saliva and coppery flavoring from the animalistic sucking and biting... it was rough and aggressive, his tongue slipping into your mouth with crazed hunger.
He wanted to leave no doubt in your mind that you were put in your fucking place — so with a couple of aftershocks from your beautiful cumming, he's following suit, spraying your insides with thick, potent cum. Every inch of your womb... molded by his monstrosity of a cock... coated with his seed, a signature from him that details your ruining.
You melt beneath him, opting to finally kiss him back... like one last weak plead to let you free. To fight with whatever you had left of that determination.
Instead, you succumb to exhaustion, eyes fluttering while you take in the last of his hellish eyes and lop-sided, lustful grin.
Stupid, gorgeous girls deserved to be treated this way by monsters like him.
"I fucking busted inside you..." he admits proudly, huffing... as though you didn't already know by the spasming of his dick.
"... Y'can hate me all you want tomorrow."
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catharusustulatus · 5 months
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Steddie Drabble, TW: child abuse.
Initially, Wayne doesn’t care for Steve. Calls him “the Harrington boy” or “Richard’s son” with contempt, asks if “Richard’s son” is coming over for dinner again and Eddie just rolls his eyes and says “yes, Wayne, STEVE is coming over at 7.” Wayne doesn’t like him because…well, he’s not stupid to judge a book by its cover, he thinks.
But the fifth time Harrington comes over, he brings a bouquet of flowers, and Eddie, well, his cheeks are redder than the spaghetti sauce Wayne’s been stirring, so that’s something.
And then the sixth time Steve comes over, he brings Wayne a Garfield magnet. It’s small, “found it at the thrifty mart with Robin, I’m sorry it’s not brand new…” Steve mumbles, and Eddie is wide eyed and smiling, and Wayne LOVES Garfield. He puts it on the fridge, pats Steve on the back, says “um, thank you son.”
They fall into a pattern, the three of them. Steve comes over for dinner every Friday night after work. He dresses clean and is polite to Wayne, helps with the dishes, sometimes brings bread rolls or licorice or beer or jokes. Eddie starts setting the table. Wayne starts laughing at the jokes. After Steve leaves, Wayne knows Eddie smiles himself to sleep. It’s different, now.
And then the next time Steve is supposed to come over for dinner, he doesn’t show. Eddie had been making macaroni and cheese all evening, grating the cheese carefully as he bopped his head to some metal song, cheerful, and then it was 7 and then it was 8 and then Wayne thought “maybe call him, Ed.”
Nobody answers. When they call again, nobody answers. And Wayne has a bad feeling about it.
It isn’t until almost 11, dinner cold and Eddie pacing, about to radio someone named Robin when Steve’s car pulls up, they know the lights so well. They run outside to greet him and Eddie freezes when Steve starts falling out of the drivers seat, face dark and pained. Wayne jumps into action. Wayne catches Steve and hauls him into the trailer, his living room, and oh god, he’s covered in bruises like he was put through Eddie’s cheese grater, and oh god, Eddie’s broken out into tears behind him.
Steve’s left eye is swollen shut, and his face is purple and bloody. His lip is split and his hair is wild, his shirt is torn, and Wayne wonders what’s underneath the shirt as he gets the first aid kit, wonders how the hell he thought Steven was anything other than an angel.
Eddie gets a dish towel wet in the kitchen and cleans Steve’s face, quiet and crying, and Wayne sets the first aid kit down next to Eddie and makes some coffee. He thinks about talking, doesn’t. Touches the Garfield magnet for good luck. He feels like maybe Steve needs it.
Steve who is holding Eddie’s wrist as he cleans him up, wincing and crying from his good eye. Finally, after a silence that gives Wayne heartburn, Eddie sits back on his heels and says whisper quiet, “your dad?”
Steve gulps, blinks. “My uh, my dad. I was writing you uh, uh a love note.” Eddie looks over at Wayne. Wayne wipes his brow. “But uh, he found it, and your name’s not uh, Edith” Steve lets out a chuff, winces again. “So he asked what was going on, and I told him. I told him. And then he said I had one minute to take it back or he’d make me take it back.” Eddie lets out a small gasp, more like a howl, and sits completely on the floor. Wayne sits down at the table, cold mac and cheese looking like a sick joke. And he’s so mad. Wayne is so, so mad, seeing this young man who so obviously loves his pride and joy, shares in his pride and joy, who brings him apples to make apple pie, he growls out
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Steven, not one thing. You stay here long as you like, hell, don’t leave. We got you, boy.”
And that’s that. Steve crumples in on himself, and Eddie pulls him into a big hug, just holds him, rocks him, coos “a love note, huh, sweetheart? For me?” And Steve nods until he nods off.
The next morning, while Robin takes care of Steve, Wayne and Eddie break into Steve’s room, clear out everything he owns, and slash his dad’s tires. That was Wayne’s idea - the least he could do for a loved one.
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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 9 months
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Pairing: Dark Rafe Cameron x (female) Reader
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
SUMMARY: If Rafe doesn’t want you to go somewhere, that’s what you should do. Except you don’t. 
WARNINGS: Toxic Relation; Domestic Violence/Abuse
Please, reblog and give me feedback.
--
“She’s not going.” 
You and Sarah groan at the same time, eyes flicking to the door where Rafe stands. 
“Stop snooping, Rafe! And get out of my room.” Sarah throws a pillow at her brother but he barely pays attention to her, his stare directed at you. 
You cross your arms, annoyed. 
“What?” 
His eyebrows raise at your snappy reaction and he puts his hands on the pockets, his hair messy. 
“I said that you are not going.” he repeats, voice layed with determination.
Giving Sarah a small apologetic smile, you leave her room, not bothering to look at Rafe as you head for his room. Plopping onto his bed, you reach for your phone but as soon as you touch it, Rafe snatches it. 
“Can you stop being so annoying?” you glare at your boyfriend, but he only smirks. 
You curse as Rafe takes the phone away from your reach. 
“Say you’re not going.” he insists. “Say it and I’ll give it back.” 
You throw your hands in the air.
“Why are you being so pushy about it? What’s wrong with going to a party?” 
He squints his eyes at you and you can already guess what’s coming.
“It’s not just some party, is it? It’s a fucking Pogue party, filled with them.” you can almost taste the disgust in Rafe’s words, his lips curling downwards. 
“...and I don’t want you near Sarah’s friends. They’re bad news. Especially that John B guy … and JJ.” 
“Well, that’s not your decision to make, babe.” You push yourself off the bed, but he grabs your arm, swirling you towards the bed. You squeal, falling down and you’re about to yell at him when his hand wraps around your neck. 
Your hand instantly claws at it, the increasing pressure making you feel uncomfortable. Rafe’s lips only curl into a half-smile, dodging your attempts to knee him. 
“Don’t make me repeat myself, yeah, baby?” his tone darkens as he looms over you “You’re not going to that stupid party. Understood?” 
You feel the tears burning in your eyes as you frantically nod, a shaken breath escaping your lips when Rafe releases your throat. 
Touching the sensitive skin, you look up at Rafe, an unbothered expression glued to his face as he looks at you. He throws your phone to the bed, winking at you.
“See? It wasn’t that hard, was it?”
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"Oh shit.” 
You follow Pope’s eyes and turn around. Your body freezes on the spot, eyes rounding up as you catch the sight of Rafe exiting his truck, his head moving as he looks around, a pissed off look plastered on his face. 
You’re screwed. 
“Isn’t that your boy, Rafe? What the hell is he doing here?” Pope asks and you dive, hiding behind his figure. Rafe was starting to create a ruckus shouting your name, Topper and Kelce with him.
Their presence makes you nervous and you decide it’s time to skip the party before anything more dramatic happens. 
“You know what, I think I’m just gonna head home and-” you yelp as your arm is roughly pulled.
You barely have time to say anything before you’re being dragged away and you wouldn’t even have to look to know that it’s Rafe. 
“Rafe, stop! You’re hurting me!” your pleas don’t stop Rafe, all the bystanders shocked yet no one daring to intervene, moving away from you. 
You trip on your own feet and end up colliding against Rafe’s body. You whine, pleading with him to slow down but your boyfriend seems to have gone mad. 
He pushes you inside his truck without a word and as he walks to the drivers side, you look through the window, catching Sarah and JJ heading your way. You shake your head at them, they’re too far and you doubt that Rafe would enjoy them interfering. 
The truck starts and soon you’re on the road, small sniffles from you filling the space. 
“You didn’t have to do that.” 
Rafe’s fingers tighten around the wheel, turning white. 
“I told you not to go to the party, didn’t I?” he starts “If you fucking listened to me, then this wouldn’t have happened. You only have yourself to blame.” 
You bury your nails in your bare thigh, despair starting to hit you. Without a second thought, you grab the handle, forgetting about the moving car. 
It doesn’t work, Rafe quickly grabbing your hair, aggressively tugging you back inside. Both of you fight and you scratch his hand, crying out. 
“Fucking hell, Y/N.” 
The car stops, and you barely have time to process what was going on before your cheek implodes with pain, your face turned to the side with the impact. The bruising grip hurting your scalp as he uses it to recline your face. 
He closes in, his features molding a scowl. 
“I don’t think you fucking understand. I say, you obey. As simple as that.” he tugs on your hair, a reminder of his power over you and a tear slips from your eye. 
“And I swear to god that if you push it one more time, baby, I’m gonna fucking destroy this pretty face of yours.”
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