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I’m Mistress Nightmare, the Queen of Whoreslop, but also known as Marie Krueger.
I’m an author of the erotic, dark-themed, and yandere-natured genre, meaning that my fics will often include graphic depictions of non-consensual sex or sex with dubious consent.
Typically, I’ll write oneshots for either FEM or GN readers. Otherwise I write mostly character inserts. But! You can also find the occasional fanon material among my posts. Fandoms I’ve written the most for include BNHA and JJK, but others are to be expected.
Anyway, welcome to Whoreslop Nation! Hope you have a good time!
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Divorced pro-hero Bakugou x nanny reader:
♡ THE NANNY
You might have made the wrong call hitting it off with your neighbour:
♡ BOY NEXT DOOR
Go Fish:
♡ RANDOM POST
Marie's Collection of Erotic Thrillers
Read before bedtime! College Years is a collection of twenty short erotic thrillers, each with a loose theme revolving around college—and co
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♡ TW: divorce, adultry-ish, morally injust side character with accounts of baby-trapping and gold-digging
♡ GN reader
You've been working for the Bakugou’s for about a year now.
The madam, Mrs. Bakugou, has always been a strict employer, never quite satisfied with even your best effort.
You feel a little ashamed admitting you’re grateful you don’t see her a lot with how often she’s away on vacation—even though it makes you feel bad for Junior.
Surprisingly, it’s Mr. Bakugou who’s the more reasonable out of the two. He may work a lot, but he tries his best making it home before dinnertime. And though he isn’t much of a talker, he’s at least cordial with you. Overall, he’s a good employer. Never outright saying thank you, but always tacking on a bonus to your salary as a silent acknowledgment of your hard work.
Or perhaps it’s a silent apology…
They argue a lot. Insults. Threats. Accusations. You name it. With their differences in lifestyle, it isn’t so surprising, even though it isn’t publicly known. You’d been made to sign a confidentiality agreement your first day. Back then, you’d thought of it as simple standard procedure, but you’d soon find out how necessary it really was.
Through unwilling eavesdropping you’ve pieced together the story about how the two of them ended up married, and it’s not a particularly nice one.
Apparently, Mrs. Bakugou had been a fangirl of DynaMight back when his career had first started garnering attention. It’s not so different from the story they sell in the media—she was a lucky girl who made the young up-and-coming pro hero fall in love at first sight. Only, what they fail to say is that she was only supposed to be a fling. A one night stand that had ended in an unplanned pregnancy.
You wouldn't feel comfortable judging her without giving her the benefit of the doubt. However, if you are to believe Mr. Bakugou’s accusations, she’d done the entire thing on purpose.
During your year of working for them, you’ve come to understand their relationship isn’t one made of love at all. That’s all just a front for the cameras. Nothing more. Behind closed doors, he just supplies her with enough money for her to leave him alone.
Though, for all the animosity he seems to hold for her, he doesn’t have any such feelings for Junior. No, quite the opposite. Despite being the product of a supposed baby-trap, you can see how much he loves the boy. In fact, you think the only reason he’s even bothered staying married to Mrs. Bakugou at all is for the sake of the child.
You feel sorry for them—all three of them. You just hope they figure things out before Junior becomes old enough to start remembering things. Though, it wouldn't be your place to say such things.
Even so, you can tell Mr. Bakugou shares that sentiment. Despite being busy and for all his lack of tact, you can’t say he hasn’t tried making it work with the wife. But after so long, you can see it plain as day how drained he’s become.
You can’t make out what they’re arguing about this time. You just hear the shrill screeching of Mrs. Bakugou as per usual before the tell-tale sound of the outer-door being slammed shut and the screeching of tires getting pulled out of the lot before driving off in a blazing fury.
You’re happy none of it seems to wake Junior, lying in his crib all tuckered out.
It’s about time for you to leave, but it’s always a little awkward having to say your goodbye after one of their spats. Still, you can’t hide in the baby-room forever. And so, after giving it a while, you start making your way down the stairs.
You can hear Mr. Bakugou in the kitchen. It’s quiet aside from the gentle sounds of kitchen ware.
“You can come out now,” he breaks the silence, calling you out before you even realize how you’d been all but hiding behind the wall.
Immediately, you spring out and apologize, “I'm sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, I just—”
“It’s fine,” he says. No sign of anger in his countenance—at least none for you. If anything, he just looks tired.
Even so, you apologize again, “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, sir.”
“You’re right. It won't,” he sighs, muttering, “‘Cause the bitch won't be here…”
You swallow thickly, feeling awkwardly jammed between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to speak out of turn, though not wanting to stay silent either out of fear of upsetting him. “I’m—”
“Is Junior asleep?” he asks then, still with his voice low in a way you haven’t really heard from him before.
“Yes, I just finished reading him Beacon of Hope so he’s sure to be dreaming until morning,” you answer, happy to be able to reply with anything at all and not just stand there twiddling your fingers while waiting to be dismissed from the unpleasant tension still lingering in the air left by the un-present party.
Though, nervous as you are, you’re sure he must find it even more embarrassing. After all, it’s his dirty laundry being aired, not yours. You’re just there to witness it.
And yet, “So, you’re leaving?” is the question he asks next.
It’s unexpected. Typically, he keeps it short with a simple good night or by divulging something about your next payment. You’ve always figured he didn’t want anyone around to see the ugly reality, what with all the effort he spends hiding it from the media. But, you don’t know… something about how lonely he sounds tells you he might not dislike your presence right now as much as you would have thought.
“Unless there was more you needed from me?” you say then, not wanting to be too presumptuous.
“I made dinner,” he states—not desperately, and yet, still a little hopeful as he lays out the offer, “Eat with me?”
It’s hard to describe him at that moment. Tired is still very much the key word, but there’s more to it. Exposed, vulnerable, even a little needy maybe—most likely knowing full well how in your right you would be to decline, given the circumstance.
“Thank you, Mr. Bakugou. That’s really kind of you,” is what you say instead. Where, despite feeling at odds, you couldn't have brought yourself to say no—not when he looks like that, in such want of some comfort.
You make your way to the cupboards, taking out a plate for you both—proceeding to further deck the table while he finishes up with the final touches and sets it out between your seats.
It’s dark outside now, and no one had made the effort of turning on a single lamp. And so, there the two of you were, caught in the moody atmosphere with the fireplace as the main source of light.
It was very nearly a little romantic.
The shameful thought immediately made you think about the madam, prompting you to speak, “I’m sure Mrs. Bakugou will come to her senses.”
Mr. Bakugou keeps eating, seemingly too busy with it to have heard you. For a moment, you think he might not offer up a reply, but then he says, still with no more exertion above a mutter, as though determined to quit spending any more of his energy on the subject, “It doesn't really matter what senses she comes to, I've made up my mind,” and yet, as he continues, his brows deepen into a furl and a pinch of that characteristic anger seeps back into his voice, “I don’t have the fucking time, and even if I did, I don't have the patience nor energy to cater to a spoiled—”
He stops himself before raising his voice too much.
And then he’s back to muttering again, “Excuse me, I shouldn't be—”
“No, that’s alright,” you interject. It’s uncomfortable seeing him so reduced, you decide. You much prefer him when he’s himself. “If I may say so, sir, I think… Well, I think it’s good to be honest.”
He meets your eyes. No doubt, a little surprised by your sudden comment. Still, you don’t let that deter you.
“Besides,” Call it a nanny’s intuition, but you can tell when someone’s in need of cheering up and, if you were to pat yourself on the back just a bit, you’d say you’re not so bad at making it happen either. “You’ll have more time to spend with Junior when you’re not busy entertaining other things.”
He blinks at that—his eyes a little bigger than what you’re used to, looking at you like you’d just said the last thing he had expected to hear.
“Right,” he whispers before reclaiming his voice and stating, now louder, “Exactly. So you agree?”
His gaze is demanding, giving you his full attention now as though expecting you to elaborate even more.
Suddenly, you’re reminded of how out of place you were being—indirectly talking ill about the madam with her husband over dinner. That’s not something a decent person does.
You shake your head then, admonishing yourself. “Well, my opinion hardly matters.”
To which he insists, “Your opinion is all that matters.” He returns to eating, now with a little more vigour than he had earlier. “As part of the public, it’s good to know not everyone will witchhunt me for wrecking my own home with a divorce.”
Divorce?
Is that what they’d been arguing about?
“Oh—right…” You’d thought it had been another fight regarding money or Junior. You didn’t know he’d been thinking about ending it.
“Scandals are a pain to deal with,” he says then. “But I think you’re right.”
Your brows cinch, looking at him in askance. Right about what?
“In the end, being honest is better.”
The amount of lines you feel being crossed is enough to make your head spin. The conversation… you don’t know… wasn’t it a little flirtatious just then?
You spend the rest of dinner without saying anything more incriminating, finishing your plate in silence, trying your best to deny yourself the thrill and to convince yourself you were just imagining things.
And yet, despite your unease, he, for what it’s worth, seemed to have recovered just a bit from before. Though, still less intense than usual, now no longer so somber. Just calm.
The two of you maintain the silence as you gather the dishes. Only, where it was supposed to give you peace of mind with putting an end to the suggestive nature blossoming in your conversation, the deafening quiet had now adopted the same air—feeling thick with something unspoken while the both you brush against one another in ways you can’t say are entirely accidental, neither on your side or his.
You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know it’s not right. But it isn’t before the heat of his hand envelops yours when you both reach for the last remaining bowl, that you’re struck with the feeling that things have officially gotten out of control.
“I’m sorry, sir,” you excuse with a squeak. “I should probably be on—”
But before you can pull your hand to yourself, he commits to the touch and pulls you between himself and the counter.
“Remember what I said about scandals?” he ignores your sense of morality, having none left to spare within himself whatsoever because, just an hour ago, you’d helped set him free from all of it. Free from the burden of guilt and shame.
And now, he only has one thought on his mind regarding how much he wants to thank you for it.
“Mr. Bakugou—” you whisper, feeling taken by the grip he has on your waist, and scared about how easily you seem to melt in it. But with the way your breaths mingle, making your head fog up, you can’t help but forget feeling ashamed in favor of wanting to indulge in it even more.
“I guess…” he continues when you don’t reject it. “We ought’a do our best and make this worth the headline.”
♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist
♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist
♡ 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.”
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♡ TW: implied arranged marriage, anxiety, pregnancy, reader with questionable taste, misogyny, chauvinism, mentions of passed bullying
♡ FEM reader
He’s back happy from another mission. Blood on his clothes from how much he dominated his opponent. And you’re scared to be the one to spoil his mood.
He’s already on you the second he spots you, without washing his hands clean of the death he’s wrought, zealously grabbing into your softer areas with entitled greed, like a dog wanting a treat after doing a dog’s work, mouth on your neck with teeth and hot and heavy huffs as his fingers move hurriedly to undress you.
It’s not that you’re scared he’ll lay hands on you if you speak up. Despite what people think and say, he doesn’t really do that. Not anymore, at least. No, not since you both grew up and you became his wife instead of the dumb little girl he’d once treat you as. No, though he may be a chauvinist through and through, he doesn’t see the merit in hurting you—not since he discovered that pulling your pigtails wasn’t what he really wanted.
He might still treat you worse, though… if you were anything like certain other women in the clan who’ll remain unnamed as you're not allowed to speak or even think about them, in the fear their bad behaviour will rub off on you and inspire you to do similar stupid things.
But you’re nothing like that. You’re a good girl, and you’ll remain a good girl, because only a truly good girl deserves to be the wife of the man who’ll inherit the clan. And even though it doesn’t always make any sense, you really want to be that good girl.
Of course, you know there could be other things for you out there, other freedoms you don’t have access to in here, under this man who’s such a monster to everyone but you. You’re not stupid.
Then again, perhaps you’re crazy, because, despite everything, you quite like being the one. The one person he can stand. The one person he can be bothered with. The one person with the ability to make him happy. It makes you feel special.
But… these news you have to share with him… you’re afraid it’ll put everything at stake.
It’s not as if you’ve really done anything wrong. In all fair common sense, it’s kind of his fault if anything. And yet, you’re not so sure he’ll see it that way. After all, the man’s not exactly known for his common sense. Especially when it comes to matters of female nature.
Still, though, despite not wanting to say it, you know better than to keep things secret from him, and so you squeeze your eyes shut and force the word out,
“I have to tell you something.”
It feels no less than confessing to a crime, and yet, “It can wait. I have something I need to do to you first,” is all the interest he shows.
Too busy removing the clothes from your body, cursing under his breath about how many times he’s told you to dress more simply—in his eyes, you really don’t need to bother with garments at all. “‘Swear, m’gonna burn that closet down.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s important,” you try again, though not with trying to thwart his efforts.
But, with the impatience radiating off him in waves, you were stupid to think he wouldn't take your little demands as an offense. But, of course he does, making him all but growl at you, “So important you have to interrupt?”
His eyes are hard and so is his grip now, already annoyed with you just like you feared, squeezing your waist in a bruising hold.
“No,” you squeak. “No, of course not, I'm sorry.”
He spots the tears welling up and how your soft little lips wobble and hates how it wrecks him. You’re such a handful sometimes.
His head drops, letting out a groan between your boobs, airing his frustrations before looking back up with a sigh, “What is it? Spit it out.”
He’s being graceful letting you dictate his actions like this, right as he got home and all. You really know how to pick your timing.
“Mh, I’m…”
He’s being so merciful, and still you have the audacity to waste his time with your mumbling.
“What?” he barks. He swears, if it’s about your wishes of remodeling the kitchen again, he’s going to lose his mind.
“I’m pregnant.”
Behind your closed eyes you see black. It goes hand in hand with the silence that pursues your confession.
Dead silence, until, “What?”
His voice is thin—just a whisper. Nothing you’ve ever heard from him before.
You hate it. You don’t know what it means. Is he angry or something else—something worse. You don’t know and so you spiral, “Well, I—I took a pregnancy test. It's positive. I’m—”
You open your eyes again, letting the tears through the floodgate.
His face gives you no more clues as to his state. His eyes looking off somewhere, through you, into nothing.
He’s so quiet, it gives you goosebumps.
“Are you mad?” you whimper.
He blinks then, brought out of it, saying “No,” with a tiny shake of his head. But he doesn’t sound sure. Almost saying it as a question.
He gets off you next, a tiny curl between his brows that’s never been there before as he sits himself in the sofa next to you instead, running his hands over his face then through his hair—his previous pursuit completely forgotten.
You’re afraid to ask, but something inside you demands to know. “Are you happy?”
His eyes snap back to you. They’re big—shocked, speechless, and that forbidden word—all things he’s not supposed to be, things he’s never been before.
He gets up abruptly, then very nearly storms out of the room, back out the way he’d come from.
Your breath leaves you with the sound of the door and doesn’t come back. Your eyes stare at it until they sting. And then you break, completely. The tears come and won’t stop, escaping you with cries loud enough to make the walls shiver.
You’re silent by the time he comes back. But your eyes are still wet, now swollen and red, cheeks streaked raw. And despite knowing how disrespectful it is, you don’t even acknowledge him with a look as he enters.
You hear him swallow thick before he silently makes his way over to you where you lie in the same spot he’d left you in.
He sits down softly, putting a hand on your leg.
“I’m not mad.”
You look at him then, peeking up from where you’d been drowning out your sobs in the pillow. He still doesn’t sound convinced, you think, and that look on his face isn’t giving you any confidence either.
“But you’re not happy,” you state with a croak. “You left.”
It’s an accusation. In any other circumstance, he’d tell you to watch your tongue, but right now, he allows it—even giving it credit by defending himself from it. Saying, “I needed to think.”
He doesn’t say he’s sorry, but that was about as close to an apology you’d ever come. It’s not his place to do such things. Nonetheless, it is your place to forgive him.
Being angry with him won’t solve anything. Especially when you can tell he regrets it.
And so, you pull yourself up slowly, climbing into his embrace. Sitting in the gap on his lap, with your head against his chest, listening to the fast drums of his heart as he drapes his arms around you and sets his chin down atop your crown—both of you silently acknowledging each other.
“I’m scared,” you murmur after a while.
He won’t say it out loud, but you can tell… he’s sacred too. Even though he denies it with unconvincing encouragement, “What's there to be scared about?”
Despite it being an obvious show of bravery, you still somewhat appreciate it—at least one of you should pretend to know what you’re doing. You’re happy he takes on the role.
Meanwhile, you’ll take on the role of voicing all those fears you know he can’t. Because that’s what he needs. For you to act just a little more hopeless than he feels, so that he can feel empowered by being the one who saves the day.
Fists curled in his shirt while hiding your face in his chest, your words come out all pitiful and muffled, stating the terrifying obvious, “I’ve never been pregnant before...”
He stiffens again, like earlier, hesitant. It’s not often he’s had to comfort you. Usually it’s the other way around. He thinks about what you usually tell him, hoping to find the right words.
“You were never a wife before this either, but… you're pretty good at that.”
You’re sure, if you snuck a peak of his face, he’d be blushing. “Really?”
“Yeah…” he says—voice nearly shaking, holding you tighter. “The best.”
Despite all his ways, he really is quite cute sometimes. Though, you’d never tell him that.
Instead, you reward him with a kiss to his neck—one that then travels up.
You reposition yourself for a better angle, straddling him, hands moving across his chest as you undo his buttons. Lips soft against his.
He’s usually over-eager—strong and rough, manhandling you and making you squeal the way he likes. But this time, he shows uncharacteristic restraint.
“Wait—” he whispers with a breath. Eyes searching yours, then your belly. “Won’t it hurt the…”
He’s even afraid to say the word.
“No.” You shake your head, smiling. Voice soft in his ear, “Though, it doesn’t hurt to be gentle.”
He lets out a breath of relief at that before letting his hands retake their place around your waist, squeezing you gently while pulling you flush against him.
TW: suggestive noncon/dubcon, elitism, racism between viltrumites and humans, mentions of pregnancy
FEM reader
AN: Invincible season 4 spoilers!
On Viltrum they practice practicality over all else.
Suguru’s always found that to be the best approach to life. Effective and efficient, without delay or distraction. Straight to the point, then onto the next. That’s how you build an empire.
On Earth, you do the opposite.
Every small thing is a ritualistic celebration to you—making one huge waste of time out of everything. Waking up, eating food, taking a shower, having sex. Things that by all means shouldn’t be more than means to an end. You treat it like something to be savored, something to be remembered, something holy.
Geto absolutely detests that. But, while he brews in the many frustrations of having to live amongst you, Gojo’s eyes light up brighter than they have in a while.
Quick to succumb to that human way of life, he embraces it like an utter glutton. And despite Geto’s many warnings, the man, once one of Viltrum's very best, doesn't even try to suppress his own fall from greatness. No… instead he dives in face first.
He’s always been like that though… and so, even though it’s worrying, it isn't so surprising. Never one to hold patriotic love or loyalty to the grand ideas of the Viltrum empire. To Gojo, it seems there’s only ever been one creed, and it's as simple as he’s the strongest and can do whatever he wants—even if that means succumbing to the lesser ways of human inadequacy.
And feeling as though they should hold the utmost regard for their homeland and its principles, Geto finds this nothing short of offensive.
Which is how they end up here.
“Our energy should be spent upholding Viltrum’s dignity. Not frolicking with lower species. Where’s your sense of pride?” he says, fighting in mid-air with the white-haired man he’s taken to calling friend for the past millennia despite the many disagreements they’ve had and the many times they’ve brought each other to the brink of death.
Depending on how things play out, this might be another.
“What’s the point of being the strongest if we can’t enjoy ourselves?” He only grins without a flinch or sign of meaning to fight back—the idea of pride utterly lost on him. Lounging there horizontally in the air—lazy—just like the planet they’ve had to take as their new home.
“Humans have the right idea…” he continues, fondness in his eyes as he looks out across the little blue planet in view. “In the end, nothing but pleasure matters.”
Geto’s brows curl, and so does his lip, disgusted by his counter’s words and how he seems to be praising the weaklings below them.
“If you ask me…” he adds. “Viltrum’s destruction was the best thing to ever happen.”
Geto’s eyes widen, twitching. “How can you say that?”
“Earth’s richer in every way!” Gojo declares without delay, utterly shameless while singing further praises, “The food, the beliefs, even the work they do. Everything here is designed to let you be as free as you want. Don’t tell me you don’t find it all intriguing.”
He’s always been a charismatic preacher when it comes to self-indulgence, but Geto isn’t so easily convinced nor will he be romanced into letting go of his principles.
Standing by his beliefs, his tone is sharp as he directly reiterates their mission in case his friend forgot, “We’re here for one reason and one reason only. Find suitable females and restore our race.”
But Gojo only scoffs, “Yeah, yeah…” disregarding the other man, convinced he’ll break those false morals of his soon enough. “That doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to have any fun while at it.”
A smile spreads across his face despite the somber circumstance. He’s not even acknowledging that they’re fighting, saying “Loosen up, Suguru. Think of it like a vacation.”
Meanwhile, Geto can barely believe what he’s hearing. A vacation?
“Our planet is gone.”
Gojo doesn’t seem to grasp the reality of it. Or rather, he can’t bring himself to care, only returning it with a, “Better yet, permanent vacation,” as if it all were some big joke.
Geto turns to leave. If this is how Gojo chooses to grieve their losses, he wants no part of it. What’s worse, he’s not sure if this can even count as grieving. It’s more like he’s celebrating.
“Come on…” Gojo follows, resting a hand on Geto’s shoulder. “I know you’re angry. Don’t think I’m not. I am. But…”
His change of voice makes Geto turn around again. Having shed its mockery, now a little more… he doesn’t know the word. Compassionate maybe, though not as fickle.
“Let’s make the most out of it, yeah?” His eyes burn brighter than a comet's tail, and Geto’s reminded of the reason they’re even close in the first place. “Let’s reap Earth for all that it’s worth.”
And well… if he puts it that way, suppose it doesn’t sound so bad. And so, Geto decides to stick around after all—if only to keep the blue-eyed freak in check any time he feels as though he’s forgetting the real reason behind their permanent vacation, as he calls it.
Meanwhile, Geto’s uptightness remains utterly lost on Gojo. He can’t help but look at the whole thing as a funny turn of events. To think, to be his seasoned age of roughly a thousand years, and still, only now discover this fetish for the very thing he’s been taught to despise.
It barely makes sense, and the very little sense it makes, makes him want to laugh. Viltrumites have an aversion to the weak, and yet, here he is, utterly obsessed with you and all your odd little ways of life.
But maybe it can’t be helped, he wonders. Humans look no different from Viltrumites, after all. Sure, most are rounder and softer and smaller than they are, but that’s just a cultural difference. Apart from that, you’re practically the exact same, visually speaking.
The real difference lies, of course, in ability. You’re weak, your bodies fragile and grounded, sickly, and if you don’t succumb to your own shitty constitutions, you’re so short-lived, it hardly even matters.
Oh, but you sure know how to live.
Good food, good entertainment, but most of all it’s the variety that intrigues him. Utterly unlike Viltrum, on earth you practice this thing called individuality above solidarity. An idea that everyone's different and how that’s something to be embraced not weeded out. It excites him. Even if he did his very best to sample everything Earth has to offer, it would be impossible—after all, you can’t run out of a supply that renews itself.
Different from Viltrumites, humans are all about breaking the rules. And that has always been his true calling. And so, if you ask him, earth’s a dream come true.
Meanwhile, Geto’s come to accept that humans do have some good things about them after all. You’re smart, for starters. Smart enough to understand your own good—which is not always a given. And because you’re smart enough to understand who’s in charge, you’re also well-mannered.
While Gojo finds amusement with all your funny little ways of life, Geto’s more fascinated by that. Many planets and many species they’ve dominated, many of them much weaker and simpler than humans, fighting tooth and nail for their freedom, never giving in, even when it meant annihilation. Meanwhile, some humans act like they’re made to be ruled.
Gods. That’s how you treat them. Which is only right, of course. They are Gods. But still. It’s funny that humans are the very first to understand that and treat them accordingly with the devotion and reverence they’re entitled to.
You’re one. Soft-fleshed, unlike Viltrumite women. Surprisingly, Geto must admit he enjoys that more—all covered in cakey fat his rough hands sink into so well. And you make sounds, also utterly unlike Viltrumite women. Little noises like an animal.
Cute, he’s begrudgingly decided, is the best word to describe you.
You’re also terrified, of course. And you should be. They could and most likely will kill you if you ever decided you didn’t want to be cute for them anymore. Though, he doubts that’s possible. Anything you do is positively adorable, even when you pout and act bratty, it gives him this indescribable urge to just squish you until you’re unable to do anything but sound like a broken little squeaky toy.
Yeah… so maybe he’s been bitten by the same earth bug that Gojo has…
Because soon he’s indulging the same interests, the both of them finding more and more ways to appreciate humans and their funny customs by the day.
Marriage is one.
Geto, of course, wasn’t completely on board at first, but like always, was swayed by Gojo in the end. He’d made a solid argument, that, when on Earth, you might as well do as the humans do, given it can only last for a small fraction of their own lifetime anyway.
And Geto can admit, it’s kind of nice, having you, as their little wife, doing wifely things like cooking and pampering them—nothing like something they would have ever experienced on Viltrum.
Geto agrees with the compromise he and Gojo made. That, as long as it doesn’t obstruct their goal, which is still, of course, to get you pregnant, they might as well enjoy some of the benefits that come with the process of making that happen.
Obviously, it would, of course, be more productive to have many wives instead of just sharing the one, but they also figure it’s more manageable to start small.
Besides, another difference from female Viltrumite, human women often have many kids. It’s another one of those odd human customs. Family values and such. It’s a foreign concept to them, but seeing you swaddle their offspring like it’s something so precious, Geto quickly forgets why Viltrumites practice such ruthlessness in the first place.
Love. That’s the biggest difference, they come to understand. You love, and you love with everything you have.
It’s not the same type of love they’ve been taught. Love for the empire, love for the Viltrum legacy—it doesn't even come close to the love you have in your heart.
It’s odd… but somehow… it very nearly frightens them.
ur writing lowkey pisses me off your women are either dumbass sluts or hysterical weaklings are you not bored out of your mind from this whoreslop over and over and over again
List of readers who're not dumbass sluts or hysterical weaklings:
Reader who stands on business:
♡ OPPOSITE WAYS
Another reader standing on business:
♡ P1: LISTEN
♡ P2: MISUNDERSTANDINGS
Bratty reader who goes for what she wants:
♡ LOOSE SCREWS
Freaky reader:
♡ BEAMER BOY
Another bratty reader who goes for what she wants:
♡ HOMESICK
Focused and unbothered reader:
♡ FOCUS
Carefree flirty reader:
♡ GLOW UP
Another focused and unbothered reader:
♡ PILL PUSHER
Adventurous reader:
♡ HIGH-PROTOCOL
Manipulative reader:
♡ VENISON
Popular flirty reader who loves making loser boys squirm:
♡ BLIND TRUST
Sweet girlfriend reader:
♡ SECOND VIRGINITY
Another reader standing on business:
♡ BAD BREAKUP
Another popular flirty reader who loves making loser boys squirm:
♡ VIRGIN BOY
Another popular flirty reader who loves making loser boys squirm:
i know you hate this question, but would you tell us what you're working on? always love a good poll from you
I don't hate this question, I just hate disappointing you all when I don't do the things I falsely promise you in these polls, but since you're asking, here we go!
upcoming fics if things go smoothely
JJK — modern cannibal chef Sukuna x livestock reader
BNHA — divorced prohero Bakugou x babysitter reader
brothel owner x kidnapped bunny reader
BNHA — IT boss shigaraki x deskmate reader
part 2 to GLOW UP — link down below
JJK — Naoya x pregnant wife
part 2 to FARM ANIMAL — link down below
INVINCIBLE — evil Mark variant x real Mark's girlfriend
mysterious older guy x reader with bad survival instincts
scorpio and others — link to done signs down below
JJK x INVINCIBLE — viltrumite Gojo & Geto x human reader
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♡ TW: noncon, yandere, arranged marriage, infertility, 7-year age gap
♡ FEM reader
♡ P1: DUD
It's been a month since your wedding night.
You're still holding onto the hope that this is all just some fleeting interest of his—something he’ll grow bored of come time. By this, meaning your marriage.
You try to speed it along by making yourself seem as dull as possible, avoiding him to the best of your efforts and otherwise ignoring him if you fail to do the first—anything to make him lose interest.
Even so, you’d obviously still have to be his wife. Until death do you part is a binding vow unfortunately, and so, even if you could make him regret ever making it, you’d still have to be Mrs Gojo on paper, and be bound by the duties that come with that title, but outside of that, hopefully, you wouldn't have to see his face any more than what was absolutely necessary.
If you could get your relationship to where that was the standard, you’d find ways to make it work. You’d be the wife of a very rich man, after all, it would be a shame not to reap the benefits for all they’re worth.
Odd as it may sound, having a kid wouldn’t be so bad either. If you aren’t allowed to leave the grounds, having something to do would be nice.
But the problem of your faulty constitution still remains…
But maybe… you could hit two birds with one stone… and revert his attention away from you while simultaneously earning something to occupy your attention in return.
“There she is—my little wife,” he comes in cheering, full of lazy smiles and devious eyes as per usual.
You’d been hiding yourself away in the reading room—a place you doubt he’s ever visited—and still he found you, just like he always does. Suppose those six eyes are to blame.
Even if you never really understood what they do, you know it’s something bad, judging by the sight of him.
“Ew,” you cringe. “You’re covered in blood, go wash.”
It wasn’t an overstatement. He literally was. White hair and pale skin all filthy with red. He doesn’t seem to think much of it. On top of you despite your comment, with no regard to the book you were reading, with a chuckle against your neck, drawling, “Don't say that, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
You sigh, disgusted with him more than usual, deciding it was time to put your plan into effect, “How ‘bout you go fuck one of your whores instead and leave me alone.” Cringing under his touch, and how he reeks of rust and salt.
“Aw—you’ jealous?” he grins in your ear.
This time you scoff, teeth grit. “Not particularly. I just fail to see the point in having you keening in my ear when there’s nothing to be made from it.” And with another sigh, you mumble the suggestion, “At least a whore can get you an heir.”
He doesn’t seem to pique his interest. Only snorting at the prospect while he continues in his pursuit of touching you beneath your shirt, “Tch, trust me, the last thing I want is a stinky brat running around spoiling all my fun.”
With a grimace, you veer your head away from his onslaught, feeling his bloody hands grip your waist rough, molding your body against his, into that hard bump kept in his slacks.
You swear, trying to talk to him is like trying to talk to a dog with a bone.
“It’s not as though you’d be bothered,” you continue nonetheless, insistent. “Raising the thing would be my responsibility anyway.”
That actually gets his attention. Stopping, he lifts his head from sucking marks into your chest and looks down at you, now with a furrow between his brows.
“You’d really do that? Raise my bastards?” He questions.
To which you just shrug, saying, “Of course. Seeing as I'm stuck here, I might as well do what I’ve trained to do all my life. It’s my only purpose now, after all.”
His brow quirks, repeating your words as a question, “Your purpose?”
He laughs again then, this time more heartily, saying, “Silly wife… Your purpose is much simpler than that...”
Shaking his head at you before leaning back in, now with his lips just a breath away from yours. “Being mine.”
The proximity invites goosebumps, and so do his words. Feeling a deep shudder run through you. Nearly whining as he continues from where he left off, back with his hands around your waist, tugging your skirt up until there’s nothing separating his fingers from your skin, groping into the fat of your haunches with entitlement and want.
Voice getting gruffer as he gorges himself in your warmth like it’s his personal sanctuary, saying “I'm your first in everything. Your first kiss, your first fuck, your first time making a mess.”
“Don't be gross–” you cringe, but he pays it no mind.
Only continuing, “And I'll be your only one until you die—”
For the first time in a moment, you’re the one who laughs, “Tch—I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Tone mocking as you roll your eyes—he’s so full of himself it’s ridiculous.
His head lifts again, looking at you in dumb askance.
To which you just tilt your head slyly, talking to him like the great big man-child he is, “Oh, come on, Satoru. Are you forgetting what line of work you’re in? You could drop dead any day.” With a sneer, you cup his face in your hands in sardonic affection. “You really think I'll stick around to weep at your grave when you go?”
A groan rises from low in his chest. At first you think it’s a growl, feeling victorious about having angered him. But then he all but moans, “It makes me so fucking horny when you speak like that.”
Kneading your hips, he rubs his clothed bulge against you, messaging you both with the friction between his pants and your panties. Too busy touching you to unbuckle his belt.
His rust is only a heated whisper, kissing your cheek with tongue and teeth as he keeps going, “Knock up a whore, get a brat? I don't think so.”
He pops his collar, and wrings his jacket off quickly. Tossing it aside before bearing back over you.
“Though, it’s funny you think you’d even have the time to spare when you already have your hands full with me.”
Looking down at you with those crazed blue orbs—you wish he’d just keep that infernal blindfold on, the way you feel them strip you bare even with your clothes still halfway on.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don't plan on dying anytime soon.”
Hands on his belt next, he makes quick work of it without taking his eyes off you and that annoyed little face of yours, thinking you’re stupid for ever believing he’d need, want or even be open to sharing it with anyone.
“Nah… it’ll just be you and me playing house all by ourselves. So you better get used to it.”
can you explain the usage of this —
i don't know what it's called hehe
On the Em Dash
Good question!
♡ What is it?
The em dash is a long dash, typically the width of three regular dashes, and is called the em dash because this width is generally the same as that of the capital letter M.
This guy — for reference sake.
When it comes to functionality, the em dash is similar to a comma, parenthesis, or a colon, and is often used to replace either of the three.
You can use it in multiple ways such as when you want to indicate strong emphasis, interruptions, sudden shifts in tone, or when you want to set off parenthetical information. Additionally, authors who enjoy a more talkative, conversational, or stream-of-thought rhythm to their writing are also big fans of this, and will use it, perhaps a little incoherently and sometimes arguably incorrectly.
Guilty as charged, your honor.
The examples I’m going to use in this text to explain the different methods of when and how you can use an em dash is taken from this fic:
♡ MISUNDERSTANDINGS
♡ Interrupting Dialogue
Classically, when the em dash is used in dialogue, it’s to signal a character being abruptly cut off. Like this:
“That’s not true–”
“Yes, it is,” he interrupts insistingly with another almost theatrical whine.
However, I like to use it further by having it not just signal interruptions but to mimic that broken way of speaking, turning monologues into dialogue. Like this:
“Or, well, it’s not like you don’t talk to me—what I mean is—I want you to include me in, uhm… like… decision-making and stuff–” (...) “I want you to confide in me with your thoughts and feelings and if, you know, you’re struggling with anything—even if it’s just work-related stuff, I just… want to help you like you help me.”
Typically the character is either crying, ranting, or rambling when I do this. Meaning, they're either tripping over their words, or their sentences are interjected with heavy breaths, sobbing, or just awkward cutoffs.
In any case, the em dash is used to signal an interruption or a sudden break.
♡ Parenthetical Info, Typically an Inner Thought
Here, the em dash is, in a sense, used as a stronger comma or like parenthesis to set of clauses of information that the author wishes to give special focus. Like this:
His lip warbles, brows cinched, looking pathetic—and almost, to your utter guilt for even thinking it, a little comical—asking you further sillier questions with his voice in shambles, “So you still love me?”
This type usually comes with a pair of em dashes framing a thought just like with parentheses. Also, just like parenthesis, this framed thought should technically be removable without damaging the grammar.
Try reading the above example without the words inside the em dashes. It’s kind of like the author’s grabbing your shoulder to whisper some gossip in your ear, before moving on with standard procedure.
It can also be done at the very end of a sentence. Like this:
His head lifts, breaths hitchy and heavy, looking at you with enlarged puppy-dog eyes—the type you’d never think to see on him.
Or like this:
You’d heard about getting high off of no sleep, but you’d never actually witnessed it—at least not to this degree.
♡ Introducing Information, or Just a Dramatic Break
Similar to the usage explained above, but here, the em dash is used in place of the colon.
“Yes, I still love you, I never stopped loving you,” you confirm, looking over his harrowed expression—sunken, swollen eyes looking at you in a weary and distant sort of way.
Or like this:
You sigh, feeling good about having cleared that up, but catching his gaze, you realize it hadn’t been all that clear at all—a halfway cocked eyebrow raised expectantly over his eye, silently hoping for a little more context.
The question you might be asking is why we don’t, if it’s all the same, just use a colon or parentheses instead? Well, I think it’s because both of those feel very formal, while the em dash seems more casual.
And though that’s just a theory, it’s still a relevant point, especially regarding the next usage, pertaining to wanting a narrative with a stream-of-thought rhythm.
♡ Sudden Shifts, or Stream-of-thought
Again, this one is similar to the usages above, where the em dash is used to mimic the occurrence of a sudden change of thought.
There’s not many excerpts of this in the example text I’ve used so far. So, I’ll be using this fic instead:
♡ GAMER-RAGE
He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.
Since this entire fic is written from withing someone's head, there’s a lot of examples of the stream-of-thought usage of the em dash. Like this:
And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.
♡ So then… What About the En Dash?
We also have something similar to the em dash, called the en dash, which, you guessed it, is called that because it’s roughly the same width as the capital letter N.
Now, in the UK, they use this just like an em dash, but with a space on each side:
US Style with the em dash: “If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”
UK Style with the en dash: “If anyone can get it – I might as well help myself.”
Aside from that, it’s typically used to represent the word to or through when connecting related items. Like this:
Read pages 1–10
Years 2020–2025
Final score 15–10
Flight London–Paris
♡ Anyway, Fuck Them Rules
Honestly, despite what your literature teacher might have said, when it comes to em and en dashes, commas, and colons, you can do what you want because of one thing.
DRAMA.
The dramatic rules of fictional writing state that you can use any punctuation marks to create rhythm in your text.
Now, of course, that doesn't mean you should be using them all willy-nilly, but if you like to use them semi-incorrectly to structure and emphasize your text—more power to you.
Taurus is a jock who got accepted through a scholarship.
But don't let him fool you. Though it might sounds as though he’s put in a lot of effort to be here, he hasn't. No, he’s just one of those guys who’s got it easy.
He’s a massive dude—barely fits through doorways. Two meters tall, even when slouching—ripped from neck down to his ankles, even when all he does is eat crap. He barely even goes to football practice, and still, the coach is always singing his praises. And while all his fellow teammates are driven insane by, he couldn’t act more aloof—eating a bag of chips with a spacey look on his face while they all do extra reps to get on his level.
And he’s just as lazy, if not even worse, as a student. And you’re always unfortunate enough to get stuck on assignments with him.
“Let’s just use chat and get this over with already,” he whines. Once again, in your dormroom, he’s splayed belly-up across your bed because apparently your chairs are too small and uncomfortable for him to sit on—head dangling over the edge, looking at you with a bored expression as if the two of you hadn’t just started a short ten minutes ago.
All you can do is roll your eyes from where you're stationed at your desk, grumbling back an unsympathetic, “Shut up and read your part.”
The textbook is perched like a tent on his chest—upside-down. He isn’t even trying to pass like he’s reading, and still he has the gall to lie right through his teeth, “I'm trying. But it's so boring, the words just melt off the page...”
Believe it or not, his lazy nature isn't what troubles you the most. Not really, even though you act that way. No... what really gets to you is how insanely, unreasonably, and shamefully horny he makes you without even trying.
But you're determined to stay strong.
“Quit whining. It'll only take longer.”
His little antiques might work on others. You’re sure they grant him many favors with girls, plenty of whom would happily do all the work for him—but pride has you deadset on not being one of them.
Yes. Your pride is more important than whatever guilty fantasies you might have of him on your off time. But give it time and pride can become a fickle thing. And so, you’re set on making it go by quick.
Before something bad can happen.
“I can't concentrate.” He continues to pout, paying your inner turmoil no regard as he rolls over onto his stomach. “I'm too restless.”
Head resting on his beefy arm with puppy dog eyes and tousled hair. You need to battle your inner demons not to stare long enough for him to catch on. Wanting—no, needing, to maintain your uninterested persona for the sake of your reputation as a perfectly respectable young woman who's not so weak as to fall for the seedy guiles of no-good jocks.
You sigh. He’s making this so hard. “I guess we could take a quick break if you promise to work afterwards.” Caving, you look at the time, wondering if you’ll have any left to bask in the cologne he’s most likely leaving on your bed.
“So, what do you usually do when you're feeling wired?” you ask, casually. Meanwhile, cursing your own thoughts, you mentally shake your head, trying to rid yourself of them for now and rather save them for later when he’s no longer around to see how you’d actually love to do anything but study.
You reach for your bottle in the hopes some water might cool you down.
“Fuck,” he answers shortly and you nearly spit.
Ending up in a coughing fit instead, you look up at him with tears in the corner of your eyes and a hoarse, “Excuse me?” leaving you in a shrill shout.
He only shrugs, running his finger along the floor, tracing the panels absentmindedly while he continues, “You know, empty my balls.”
Your eye nearly twitches while you stare at him wide eyed full of shock, needing to ignore the other twitch coming from between your thighs.
You lift your brow at him—trying your best to keep your cool, but not so sure you’re pulling it off anymore. “Okay? ‘Not sure how to help you with that?”
The look on his face is cheeky. Still with his head resting on his forearm, now with a devious little twinkle in his eye, joined by an equally devilish grin. “Oh? I’m certain you do.”
You feign a grimace, then swing your chair back around to your desk, trying to distract yourself with the boring words of your textbook. And then, like a military commander, you bite out a sharp, “Break over. Get back to work.”
You need to get him out of your room as soon as possible before you slip up and make an absolute fool of yourself.
“Come on,” he continues with a drawl, slipping out of your bed and making him way over to you. Hands on your shoulders as he leans down until his mouth nuzzles your ear. “Let me eat you out, and I'll be ready to do anything you say.”
Goosebumps immediately spring to the surface of your neck, going flush, voice weak, squeaking out a terribly unnerved, “What?” while springing out of your chair like a spooked hare. Whipping around, you stumble back against the desk to create some much needed space, spluttering your out more words, “Are you out of your mind?”
But he doesn’t seem fazed. “Aw, come on,” No, in fact, it’s more as if he’s enjoying the flustered sight of you. Finding it amusing as he leans back in, killing the space you were acting so desperate for. “Pretty please? I’m real’ good.”
Made stockstill by the sudden timbre of his voice, you let him get away with ghosting your lips with his, a torrid heat in your cheeks that feels as though might go on forever with no more hopes of cooling down.
“I'll make you cum in five, then we'll get back to work. I promise.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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