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dabisbratz · 1 year

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𝒮𝒰𝒞𝒦𝐸𝑅-𝒫𝒰𝒩𝒞𝐻 ! — toji fushiguro x male reader

w.c: 3.9k

warning: boxer!toji, size difference/kink, daddy kink, bottom!reader, manhandling, fingering, light feminization, light crossdressing ( ? ), unprotected sex, creampie, praise/degradation, oral sex, size queen ( king? )! reader, impact play ( slapping ), light choking, descriptions of violence (boxing) & blood, hair pulling, tummy bulge, spit, cliffhanger, breeding kink

sonny says..! a lot of ppl think tummy bulges in fics = skinny reader, but when i write them in s’not true for m’fics ! the reader has no body-type descriptions, it’s really jus that toji’s so big he makes one. your body is perfect the way it is, n fanfiction is !! not !! realistic!!

Fushiguro’s got a thing for adrenaline.

It gets his blood pumping— literally and figuratively. It gets him bouncing from one foot to another before his match even begins, his body shakes with uncontrollable tremors and he has to grit his pearly teeth to keep them from chattering. He feels it coursing through his veins, thick and steady as it pumps through with each passing beat of his heart, and he’s never felt more alive.

It gets his heart beating. Loud and rushed in his ears as the sound joins cheering fans in their symphony, muffled by the doors that separate backstage from the ring. Yet he can still hear it, the loud, constant cheer of ‘Toji! Toji! Toji!’ bouncing off his eardrums and straight to his racing heart. It’s almost incomparable.

He knows you’ll be watching tonight, back at home surrounded by memorabilia that reminds you solely of him and his success— his accomplishments and trophies. But you’re the best of them all, his boy, sitting pretty by the sofa as you flick on the tv to watch your man take home another. To say he’s excited would be childish.

He’s over the fucking moon.

“Fushiguro,” It’s his coach speaking, something incoherent in comparison to everything else— the inky black strands of hair already sticking to his forehead, the sight of his veins cascading up his forearm just to reappear thick in his biceps, his freshly bandaged hands being painted with chalk. But he hears it anyway. The man is quick to whip his head to the side, an intense shadow in his lime eyes that has his support team shivering. “Not too much this time.”

Right. Because last time he’d let himself get a little carried away. It was the atmosphere of it all, hanging heavy in the air as he sent punch after punch after punch into the guy, one headshot after another. And sure, maybe he went too far, but at least he never went for the back of the head.

See, Toji considers himself a capable man. He’s big, he’s strong, he’s got it figured out whatever they choose to believe in him or not. And, in the long haul, he’s got it. He’s who the fans turn to, who the reporters question; he’s the headlining artist. He’s the one who gets the title, the belts, the awards, the boy. If his opponent can’t handle a few punches to the face, that's their fault for signing up.

“I got it.” He says, teeth peeking from his plump, pink lips until they’re on display, predatory. And he means it.

The arena is big. A large stadium with an even larger venue meant to pack what looks like at least half of Japan’s population. Smack dab in the middle sits the ring, with black, padded turnbuckles and four crimson ropes. Getting thrown onto the ring ground feels like concrete, solid and rough on any skin that touches it. It’s unforgiving, it’s violent. It’s permanent, and every fight could well be Toji’s last.

But that might just be why he loves it.

His chest heaves violently, large intakes of air through his nose and out through his mouth as he pounds his gloved fist against his gloved palm. His lips part, salty and sheen with sweat as water squirts into his waiting mouth, dripping down his chin and cascading down his chest. He looks good despite it all— the bleeding lip and bruised cheek. It makes the scar on his lip look fresh, freshly split open, and he can’t help but prod at it with his tongue. In the crowd, you wonder if he feels as though it’s been reopened.

“Remember the formation,” It’s garbled through the shouting, the cheering, the pounding in his ears. He can’t quite remember anything, boxing just isn’t that type of thing for him. It’s not algorithmic, he doesn’t have to remember or practice a routine, it’s muscle memory. It’s natural. “You hear me, Scarface?”

“Loud n’ clear.” Though it’s gone through one ear and out the other.

It looks like he’s losing. He’s gotten a few good hits in, caused a few nosebleeds, but his attacks to the body just haven’t been cutting it. His opponent, the smug bastard of a man, with blond hair and woodsy brown eyes may not look as bad as Fushiguro does, but he looks just as tired. He can’t have that, no, not when you’re at home watching. Not when the jumbotrons are broadcasting in front of hundreds and thousands of fans.

There’s a pat on his back that has Toji jolting forward, more on his own volition, but if anyone asks he’ll blame it on that anyway. Because he feels it now, the pent up tenacity bubbling through his veins and straight to his fists as he bares his teeth and stares down his opponent. It’s not like he’s trying to look intimidating— Toji’s a big man. He towers over most, even if they’re in the same weight category. He’s just big, with broad shoulders and an equally broad chest. With a broad rib cage that dips at his waist and widens back at his hips, then travels down his thick, strong thighs and legs.

And, fuck, if his tired-looking opponent isn’t as strong. He throws strong punches that land square center, almost enough to have Toji stumbling. They’ve got matching, blooming bruises. Matching cuts, and Fushiguro swears if he has to watch the blond stretch between matches one more time he’ll knock himself out.

And then he hears it. He does, really— he knows it’s real because he’s fucking hard. His boy, his sweet boy, somewhere in the crowd chanting his name. The only name that ever leaves his lips, sweet as honey whether it’s being moaned or screamed— whether it’s serious or in a fit of boyish giggles. You’re watching. In person. . . In the stadium, you’re watching.

Toji’s cock twitches in his shorts and he’s never felt more grateful for protective cups in his life.

When he walks through the door the air changes.

There’s a small murmur of ‘I’m home, pretty.’ that’s deep and gravelly, accompanied by the sounds of duffel bags falling to the floor with a sharp thud. Toji’s hands look so big as he runs them through his hair, freshly bandaged and flexing effortlessly. How rough would they feel against your ass. . ? You can’t help but imagine his strong hands squeezing and groping your body, his palm cracking down on your ass as he holds you still by your waist alone.

He must catch onto your presence by the hitch of your breath, because the moment he opens his eyes they’re on you. You feel like prey, blinking rapidly as you watch him stalk over despite still wearing his shoes. He’s going to eat you alive, you’re sure of it, his green eyes narrowing as he tugs on the collar of his black compression shirt.

“Hi.” You start, unsure of what to say. It always comes naturally to you— talking to your boyfriend, his overwhelming presence, being able to talk to him despite how intimidating he seems. But now he’s got you stumbling over your words, staring at you in thick silence that makes you want to bury your face in his chest until he says something.

His eyes slowly roam your body, taking in your clothes with a sharp intake of breath through his teeth.Your legs feel like jelly, of course they do, wobbly and malleable and suddenly cold because of all the breeze they’re getting. Right, you’d rushed home to put on your prettiest outfit— a reward for the man. For the champion.

Though pretty might not be the word for it. Sure, it is, but skimpy is much more appropriate. With lace and ribbons and garters on each of your thighs, you’re a sight for sore eyes. The prettiest boy he’s ever seen, leaving little to his imagination (not that he needs it anyway, he’s seen you naked a thousand times over) and stumbling over your own legs with his gaze alone. It makes him want to pull out his phone and replace his lockscreen (already you, but much more innocent). Toji tilts his head to the side, a sharp grin growing on his handsome face.

“This all for me? You shouldn’t have.”

Whether it’s subconscious or not, watching his pink tongue dart out to wet his lips makes you swallow down a whine, squirming where you stand. Your boyfriend, big as ever, bends at his waist to fully tower over you, emerald irises darkening with something that has your stomach twisting and lurching. He’s seen it then, his very first gold medal adorning your neck.

“Toji!” You squeal, chirping in his ears as he whips you around and backs you into a corner. So cute, you look so cute wearing one of his medals. It adorns your pretty neck and glints under the light, his name encrusted into the gold. Like a collar, of sorts.

“Pretty baby,” He purrs in response, swapping the names with his fist curled around the medal, pulling you closer. The grin etched across his face shows nothing but pride, swelling in his chest and glinting over his sharp teeth. “What’d I say about comin’ to my matches?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, shaking your head before he stalks forward to close the gap between your lips. Fushiguro still tastes vaguely of metallic blood, but his busted lips are just as soft as they were this morning. They’re much more rushed, not as slow or smooth as before— but now he has a goal. His tongue is quick to slip into your mouth, wet and silky in your mouth, enough to have you moaning before he even starts. His hands creep up your body, large palms pressing against your throat until his hands find your hair and tug.

With a gasp you’re immediately brought back, blinking away unshed tears as your hand reaches for your boyfriend’s thick wrist, “Ow! You—”

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?”

Yeah. Well, yes, he did. And you have an answer, you always do. Always have something to say, something that keeps his eyes glued to your pretty lips. Something smart, sometimes, that has the man ready to shut you up with a mouthful of his cock.

“You said,” You huff, bratty as ever, wrapping your hands around his wrist. Your fingers don’t meet, he’s much too big, and you’re sure your grip feels like an ant crawling up his forearm. “Not to, because,” Another tug. “ ‘It distracts you.’ ”

“Right,” He sounds noncommittal, eyes focused on the contractions in your throat as you swallow down your whines. The fist in your hair turns as a gentle palm, flattening against the back of your head as he holds you still. Your man smells faintly of musk and disinfectant— it makes you want to swoon. To drop to your knees and mouth at the fabric of his sweatpants until his dick— it’s yours though, really— is lined up against your cheek and his pre is dribbling down your face. “You distract me.”

“Am I. . .”His hand is on your chin now, lifting your gaze until you’re standing on your tiptoes. Always been so big, so strong, pressing his thumb into the plush of your cheeks with a bit more force than necessary. Your breath is caught in your throat, and your voice comes out breathy and soft and small, “M’I distracting you now, Daddy?”

There’s a sound akin to a purr the second he hears it, the title sweet as saccharin on your lips. Jet black bundles of hair swish and sway as he shakes his head, somewhat ignoring the question as his hands travel past your waist to grope and squeeze at your ass. Soft, squishy. You’ve always been so soft, so little in Toji’s grip, his pretty boy.

But you’re even prettier when your holes are stuffed full and stretched open. You’re even prettier when the sets you’ve put together are ripped and tattered on your body— when you’re a mess of sweat, and spit, and cum. You’re easy to move around— most are easy to be moved by Toji, but you especially.

You’re obedient when it counts, and the second he’s pushing your knees down to the floor you’re opening your mouth.

“Whose mouth is this?” Your brain is foggy but you know the answer to that one. You do, you do, because it always ends in cum down your throat and an array of ‘good boy’s whispered into the air. There’s a rustle of fabric as he fishes his cock from his sweatpants, no longer a large, girthy dickprint twitching under the cotton. Now it’s in his hand, hot and curved and leaking.

Daddy squeezes at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around the thick, rose gold head, then sloooowly back down to the thick, pulsing, veiny shaft. You want his cock inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open while you cry and whine over how big he is, you want his cock sliding inside until he fills you up with his sticky, hot cum— so much so it feels like you’re dying, being held down on his cock while load after load is released into your hot hole. He spits down onto it, saliva thick and runny, collecting at the tip until it’s smeared down to the base and mixing with his pre.

“S’yours, Daddy,” You're gasping around the sticky head of his cock, catching the leaking precum on your tongue as he taps it against your lips. It’s bitter and salty, but thick and invasive in a way that makes you feel properly owned. “Yours to fuck, gonna cum down m’throat, Daddy? Want. . . Need you to, wanna feel you shoot on m’tongue.”

“That—fuck— that mouth. . . A’course it’s. . . mine..” He trails off above you, and if you can think, you think you can barely breathe. You’re trembling against his strong thighs, struggling to form words around the jumbled and garbled moans leaving your mouth as Toji’s fingers rub in smooth, slick circles against your entrance. You don’t remember him having lube, but you can’t complain when his fingers feel so creamy rubbing your hole.

If you can think, you think you can barely breathe. You’re trembling against his strong thighs, struggling to form words around the jumbled and garbled moans leaving your mouth as Toji’s fingers rub in smooth, slick circles.

He appreciates the easy access.

You’re sure if he lets go you’ll fall straight through the floor, knees trembling, a needy puddle. And maybe you’re crying, sliding off his cock with wet pops and sticky whines— you’re not entirely sure. All you can hear are Toji’s groans, his grunts of ‘goodboygoodboygoodboy’ as his other hand squeezes around your throat so it tightens around his thick cock. That and his big fingers playing with your hole, swirling and sinking and teasing your mushy walls until you’re fluttering around the digits and letting out pitiful, bitchy whines.

You’re burying your face against his dark pubes, swallowing hard around his dick with thick, sloppy gags that have you coughing against his balls. Whatever Toji’s saying, it’s earned you a tender pat to the back of your head, sweet and light in comparison to his rocking hips that make you jolt back and forth. Your knees dig into the wood, but you don’t necessarily mind it. It's grounding, and you can focus on the drool pooling between your knees as he bends at the waist to finger you.

“. . .want it in here?” There’s a snap of fingers that makes you blink away the edges of fogginess clouding your judgment, and you find yourself being pulled free from his musky cock. Your throat is empty, you’re empty, and you can’t help but press your face into his spit-slick thigh. But there’s a tap to your cheek, a big palm cracking down on the fat of your face, and now you’re much more alert.

“Uh. . .Huh?” You blink away the emotional whiplash, leaning into the now gentle, bandaged thumb rubbing circles against your cheekbone. Then his hand moves lower, past your jaw to collect the ribbon of his medal where it hangs from your throat, and pulls.

“In here, baby,” There’s emphasis on his question with his fingers pounding into you enough to make your toes curl, and your eyes roll back as the digits press against that sweet, jammy bundle of nerves. “Want Daddy’s dick in here?”

You’re not sure whether to pout or nod. You’ve missed an opportunity for his load down your throat, but it’s even better when it’s in your tummy. It’s Toji’s night, decidedly, and it seems you’ve made your choice when you hear yourself whine, “Yes, Daddy. Please!”

You’re not sure how you got here, how fast he’s maneuvered you— back against the wall and knees over his big, broad shoulders— but you’re not complaining. There’s a light buzz in your hips, so you assume he’s picked you up, weightless in his arms, and folded your legs over his arms.

“S’big, s’so so big, Daddy, fuck,” You’re crying into your forearm as Toji holds you still by the neck, his other hand running up and down your tummy. It’s soothing just as much as it is hot, it doesn’t take much for his large hand to roam over your body. But it can’t make you stop whimpering at the feeling of his dick splitting your tiny hole in half. “Not gonna fit— it can’t.”

“It’ll fit. it’s fit before, hasn’t it? Y’have a greedy hole on you, baby.” You’re gasping and trembling with his cock sliding in and out of your opening, sticky lube pooling along with it and connecting his tip to your boyhole. He feels so big, so thick and hot when he taps it against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your shy hole. “And if not we’ll just have to make it fit, won’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah. . .” You breathe, staring up into his eyes with a fucked-out smile. Toji— Daddy—looks so good, so handsome and strong as he offers a scarred smile back. “Can make it fit. Can take it.”

You hiccup, overwhelmed tears streaming down your face as you reach past your thighs to spread the globes of your ass open wide, your pretty hole slightly gaping and winking at his cock. There’s a breathy groan in return, deep and shaky as Toji takes the opportunity to slip past your rim,, past the burning stretch of your fluttering star that sucks him deeper and deeper into your slick, gummy walls. “Wanna feel you for days, wanna get so full, think it’ll take, Daddy? Your cum?”

“Fuck,” He moans, gruff and throaty at the implication. Breeding you, his cock-hungry boy, until you’re full of his cum and unable to move. Until you’re a daddy. “If it doesn’t we’ll just keep going until it does.”

Your hand clasps around the gold medal like a lifeline, eyebrows pinched as his long, thick cock stretches you open. The curve of his dick has you mewling, tears building in your eyes as your boyfriend fucks up into you, despite telling you to ride him. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it, the feeling of his cock splitting you open like he owns you, or the way his big hands press matching bruises into your hips.

“Open.” Your lips are already parted, hearty moans and whines leaving your mouth over and over. But you make the extra effort to stick out your tongue nonetheless, the wet muscle pretty and glossed over. And, much to your confusion, there’s a gentle kiss placed to the temple of your forehead before he’s hovering back over you.

“Good boy.”

A sloppy string of saliva falls from his lips, missing your tongue by a mile— instead landing on your cheek. It’s enough to make you flinch, a pitiful squeak of a sound escaping as your eyes clench and blink away confusion.

“Oh, I missed,” Fushiguro’s smile is fond and cruel. “Oops.”

You’re so whiny, lifting and rocking your hips as a pathetic attempt at fucking yourself full of cock. It seems you can go barely a few seconds without it, working your hips down the thickness of his cock even as you struggle to take it. His hand gathers the spit, a genuine smile splitting his lips when you move your head to suck them clean.

Such a good boy.

“Really workin’ for it, aren’t you?” Voice as sweet as it is mocking, lube gushes and trickles out with every tilt of your hips. The wet slurp of his dick goes makes you preen, body tightening as you tremble and shake. You’re speared on his cock over, and over, and over, again, and again, and again. It’s more like he’s using you as some sort of fuck-machine than actually fucking you, but it makes sense. Daddy’s much too big to bounce on, it’s easier if he uses you like a toy. It’s easier to keep yourself open, to welcome his cock inside your sloppy hole with the flutter of your lashes. “Good thing you got that medal on, really are the tightest cocksleeve I own. Deserve a trophy for it.”

You don’t have to imagine how deep he is, how far his slick cock reaches, because you can see it. Right there, in your tummy, his cock bulges big and pulsing. You thought feeling him twitch against your walls was enough to have you squirting along both your chests but. . . no. It’s his hand, big and veiny, pressing right into the bulge. Your eyes roll back until your back is arching off the wall— tummy pressed against his palm— and you’re cumming harder than you thought you ever could.

“Shit, did you—”

“C’mon, please. Inside me, Daddy. Please, please I want. . . I can’t, please.” It’s easier if you don’t think about it, it’s easier if you sit there, a tiny toy just barely able to take his cock. You don’t even process your voice as your own, letting your big boyfriend squeeze your hips and lift you on and off his cock until he’s twitching uncontrollably. Your hands ball into tight fists, eyes clenched shut as he uses your trembling hole.

“Barely even touched you,” His breaths are hitched and quick, eyebrows furrowed as he focuses on the slapping of his balls against your ass. So tight and warm, gooey and soft against his thick shaft— massaging his cock just right. You’re so good. “And you came. You’re so easy. So easy to get you dumb off cock, so easy to bounce you up n’ down. Best pussy I’ve ever had.”

“Wait, don’t—” The words are caught in your throat, lips pulled into a small ‘o’ was thick rope after thick rope of cum shoots into your tummy, flooding your senses and spurting from your tight hole. You feel soaked, slick and sticky as your boyfriend offers a few sharp, heavy thrusts. His eyes are glued down, watching his cum make slick bubbles and slide down his own cock, just to disappear back inside your perfect hole. You can’t swallow down the drool escaping from the seams of your lips, instead letting it fall down your chest until your head is falling forward.

“Aht-aht,” You’re pressed dead-center into his chest, burying your messy face between the warm skin. “I’m not done with you yet. Want Daddy t’make you a daddy too, don’t you?”

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suggiesug · 8 months

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"choke me?"

gn reader x jjk men: asking him to choke you characters: satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, toji fushiguro, choso content: EXPLICIT NSFW (MDNI), choking, dirty talk, roughness, possessiveness, aftercare, praise, body worship, overstimulation

SATORU GOJO

Satoru likes to treat it like some kind of challenge - for both of you. He likes to see how long you can hold your breath, or see how long you can go before the lack of blood to your brain almost makes you pass out. He likes seeing how red your face gets, and he's so snarky and mean with his little comments. He calls you his little cherry tomato once, and you threaten to call the whole thing off if he doesn't stop killing the vibe.

It's a challenge for him, too, because he's always struggled with self-restraint when it comes to you. When you get all red, and out of breath, and teary-eyed, and drooling, it's difficult for him to not just let go and fuck you into the mattress with his hands permanently cuffed around your neck. He doesn't always stop himself from giving into that desire, though, and it leaves you sore but satisfied on the bed's covers. For how much of an asshole he was during, Satoru's fairly sweet afterwards. Your neck is sore, maybe a little bruised, and while he enjoys the look, he doesn't like the idea that he struggles to hold his strength back so much. At the end of the day, he's the strongest: it'd be easy for him to kill you doing this. So he treats you gently afterwards, massages your neck and loosely wraps a warm, damp towel around it. He cheers you up with annoying quips and jokes, and you fall asleep with his long arms wrapped around you, chest-to-back.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

SUGURU GETO

It's a surprise to him: he's no prude (far from it), but he's still a little shocked when you ask it of him. Surprise aside, he doesn't hesitate to not only indulge, but enjoy.

Your pulse is his favourite thing about it. Maybe it's partly for sappy reasons, partly for power reasons, but he enjoys being able to feel your pulse beneath his fingers. Enjoys letting you breathe so that you can make pretty little noises for him, and his grip isn't all too tight. It won't bruise. Just a red mark. That's more than enough for him. He prefers his bruises to be in the shape of teeth, anyway.

Suguru's a tease, though. The redness of your face is just as much from his words as it is from the restriction of blood to your head, and he barely touches you besides the grip on your neck. His words are enough to rile you up, make you squirm beneath him, and that sly smirk on his face lets you know that your reactions make him more than happy. You're so dirty, asking me for this. Do you want me to fuck you while I do it? I bet you'd be so tight around me. I can see how much you're dripping. So desperate.

Suguru touches you more, eventually, but he doesn't fuck you. He's too much of a tease. But he gets you off, one hand on your neck, the other hard at work pleasuring you, and the yell you release sounds broken up when you finally tip over the each. Suguru thinks it's one of his most favourite sounds you've made.

Of course, he's sweet in the aftermath. Attentive and knowledgeable on the aftercare of such a thing. A warm, damp towel, a cup of tea, and plenty of kisses pressed to most parts of your body. He plays with your hair in bed, your head resting against his broad chest, and he enjoys watching you fall asleep with a peaceful and content expression.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

KENTO NANAMI

Kento is hesitant. Not due to a lack of interest, but because he's never done it before. The last thing he wants is to seriously hurt you, and he makes sure the two of you have a nice talk beforehand about letting each other know when it becomes too much. A visual safe "word" is established, and then Kento feels more than comfortable to proceed.

He has strong hands. It'd be easy to hurt you, if he tried, but Kento is as gentle as can be. Especially at first. It's intimate: his hands are everywhere but your neck at first, and it's like he's introducing you to them before he wraps his fingers around your throat and administers a light squeeze.

Even for a well-composed man, Kento's visibly affected by the state of you. The shaky, almost-wheezing breath you let out when he holds onto your neck for the first time, and his hand finds a comfortable, safe grip easily enough. He'd done his research beforehand. He wants you both to enjoy this, and he talks you through it with such kind, sweet words that it makes your head spin.

"You're doing so good, baby. I love the way you feel in my hands. I love making you feel good like this. Do you want to come with me?"

Through and through, Kento is attentive, and your mind spins as he gently fucks you toward a slow, satisfying climax. His hands rarely, if ever, leave your neck. He gives you plenty of breaks, but his hands still linger during them. The pads of his calloused fingers caress your skin, sometimes tracing the shape of your jaw, and his lips can never stay very far away from yours. When you come, it's with his dick buried deep inside you, and his lips against yours to swallow your moans.

He makes you tea, and asks you if you're alright. Gently, he massages your neck. There's barely even a red mark to be seen, but he knows you don't mind the lack of roughness. Maybe, in the future, he'll be more comfortable with it. Right now, he prefers to treat you like fragile porcelain until you build up to more. You fall asleep with your head in his lap, and he reads a few pages of the book he's currently working through as you drift away.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

TOJI FUSHIGURO

It's nothing Toji hasn't done before. If anything, it's tame, and he makes fun of you a little for asking him like that. As if you need to ask me.

Toji is rough, and he fucks you like he's claiming you while his hands grip your neck. It seems wild, but it isn't: he knows when to loosen his grip and let you breathe, and he's paying attention to when it looks like you might be getting close to passing out. There's bruising, clear as day, far before the end of your little session, and you have a feeling your neck won't be the only thing bruised by the end of this with how hard his hips drive against yours. The room fills with the sound of grunts, and choked moans, and skin harshly hitting skin. When Toji speaks, it's low against your ear: You like that, don't you? You wanna get treated rough? Like the slut you are? Want me to break you?

When the two of you come, Toji makes sure his grip on your neck is the tightest it's been. Not a single noise comes out of you, and if you weren't currently barrelling through one of the roughest orgasms of your life, you'd worry he might've fucking broken something. But everything winds down, the two of you panting and drenched in sweat, and while you certainly feel sore, nothing's broken. Thankfully.

The aftercare is a little lazy, if only because Toji gets tired after sex. He can go as many rounds as you want, but if you're done? He's passing out. So while he does give your neck a small rub and gives you a limp pat on the shoulder, he's just as quickly flopping down next to you on the bed and sleeping within the minute.

Oh well. At least it was fun. He'll make you a cup of tea come morning, when he wakes up before you and makes breakfast.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

CHOSO

He doesn't get it. In all honesty, sex is pretty simple for him. You feel good together, get off, and then cuddle for a while. For him, it doesn't need to be any more complicated than that. But you suggest it and, while he doesn't really get it, he's willing to try anything. Though, he does look it up a little first. So he doesn't do it wrong.

Choso is infatuated once he does it, though. He's so painfully aware of your pulse, of the way your blood struggles to travel to your brain, and it makes him hard as a fucking rock. More than that, he looks at your face, and you're loving it. He almost looks nervous as he stares down at you, but you know what that expression means: it just means he's struggling to hold back. That he's probably feeling just as good as you right now, and he's not even being touched.

Of course, he eventually fucks you while he chokes you. How couldn't he? The way you twitch and tighten around him is so unique from the way you do so when you usually have sex, and he's so clearly revelling in this new experience. He's losing himself to it, and you can feel the movements of his hips grow sloppy the further along you two get. Embarrassingly enough, he realises too late that he hasn't kissed you this whole time, and he makes sure to lock lips with you right before his hips stutter and press flush against yours when he comes. He swallows your moan just as you swallow his, and from where your hands have founds their place on his chest, you feel him tremble and fall apart on top of you.

Aftercare is late, tonight. Usually, you don't need much of it. This is the first time you've tried anything on the kinky side of things. Choso's always so overwhelmed when you fuck: he gets too into it, too worked up, and he ends up with his face hidden in the crook of your neck while you play with his hair. When he pulls himself together, though, he takes note of the redness on your neck. I'm sorry. You laugh, and tell him that's normal. Don't worry about it. He takes your word for it. Gets you some tea when you tell him your throat is sore, and he holds you gently to his chest that night, making fall to fall asleep after you.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

#SUGGIE✧; post #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk x gn reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo #suguru geto #toji fushiguro #kento nanami #choso #satoru gojo x reader #suguru geto x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #kento nanami x reader #choso x reader #gn reader

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blkgirl-writing · 8 months

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So. Technically... the Revivify spell only works for one minute after death.

Begging for a piece where Gale sees Tav go down in combat, everyone is fighting for their lives, meanwhile he's across the battlefield, fighting his hardest to get closer and feeling the minute they have to revive Tav slipping away...

Gale x Fem!reader

"Cold to the touch"

I have never finished a request so fast I'll be honest. This is so heartbreaking but absolutely amazing.

Tags and TWs: angst, a bit funny, some detailed graphic violence and blood, Gale in denial lowkey.

Sometimes the fights you picked should have been fights evaded

"Gale, go!" you screeched, seconds before the killing blow you your chest, blood rapidly pooling around your feet, too much blood, you whispered as you looked down with blurring vision, clutching at your skin, trying to stop the bleeding, even for a second. The last bit of your strength used to look back up at gale, and smile. your body thudded to the ground, completely and utterly lifeless.

Gale blinked. The wind knocked out of him like he was hit with a battering ram. He fractically looked around, who was close? no one. Astarion was high on the rooftop, Wyll and Karlach surrounded with no way out, everyone on the brink of death themselves. Lae'zel the furthest and least likely to help. That just left-

"Shadowheart? Shadowheart, HEAL HER!"

"I'm fresh out of spells-" Shadowheart yelled, looking back at your limp body. "I think...She's past anything I can do right now, anyway."

Gale's gaze went down to his own hands, the revive in his pocket, how many things were around him, and how much strength he really did have. Your body was getting cold, soul leaving body, time was of the essence.

"damn it" he whispered, squeezing his eyes tightly closed, concentrating on making sure he wouldn't lose you. He couldn't lose you. If the thoughts of your beautiful life absent from the rest of his miserable one crept up, he'd be paralyzed, he simply could not dwell on the bleak future. "ok"

Gale forced himself forward, nearly slipping immediately and cursing himself. Running. if he wasn't out of all the magic he could muster he could simply misty step. Instead he was forced to make his way little by little while watching the last of life slip from you as the reality set in. He couldn't get to you in time. He needed to save himself and the others if there was any hope of even bringing your corpse to have a proper burial. He had to topple goblins and just stare feet away from you as your magic slipped permanently away from this world. Helpless, and tearful.

He wanted to cover you up. Clothes ripped open from your wounds, he didn't want you to feel exposed. Though, he knew you weren't feeling anything at all. But he had nothing. Once again failing himself and you when he felt you most needed it.

"There....there has to be something we can do" he held your freezing and damp hand in his own warm ones. Enemies blood pooled with your own,. the fight was won, but it truly felt wrong to say those words. He had been brushing your hair out of your eyes while the others gathered around. They'd been the furthest, so Gale had gotten precious moments alone. Muttering sentances he didn't finish. About how he had failed you. About what could have been. Maybe an I love you had fallen from his lips, but it didn't matter anymore, not if he could never hear the words he so wanted to hear back from you, from your own sweet voice.

"I don't know, I....I'm so sorry, Gale." Shadowheart softly touched gales back for a moment of comfort and caring that was so rare for her. that's how he knew it was real. "I know you cared."

I know you cared. He didn't know why those words were his breaking point, but he suddenly felt water dripping down his face. Silent tears rushing down his race. "I truly did."

"We will find a way, Gale. Have hope." Wyll crouched beside Gale on the ground. "I don't think we can do this without her."

"I'll bring her back. Somehow." Gale nodded, finally tearing his gaze away from you. Everyone stood around your corpse. Everyone with the same, grim look. Though, Wyll just looked...sad, sadness for Gales pain, and for the senseless loss of another.

Gale had to get you back to get you comfortable in camp. You couldn't stay here. Not for animals to ravage.

"I'll get her to camp for you, Gale. Don't ware yourself out" Karlach effortlessly hoisted your body over her shoulder. Gale gathered the items that dropped from your pockets on the ground, covered in grime and blood. But he simply wiped it away. He didn't want you to have to clean it off later. He'd worry about the red stains on his fingers and blotches on his clothes later. He just had to worry about getting you back, and never losing you again.

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sdr2lovemail · 11 months

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Can you do a Sanemi x F reader where the reader gets hurt badly on a mission and passes out Infront of the butterfly estate and Sanemi encounters them on his way out from the butterfly mansion to a Mission. I think Sanemi would be angry and worried at first but slowly calm down once they get better. Happy ending? Anyways thank you if you do happen to do this!! <3

Emotional scars (GN Reader)

Synopsis: Finding you wounded and unconscious in front of the butterfly mansion, Sanemi blows up at you.

Note: Eeee, I gotta practice the comfort part of hurt/comfort. It's more of a bittersweet ending than a happy one. Pronouns or gendered terms don't come up in this.

Requests are open!

Using your sword as a makeshift crutch, you hobble through the forest. Not bothering to wait for the kakushi to arrive, you were sure you could make it to the butterfly mansion. The mission was grueling. It seemed that the demon had never-ending stamina. It even managed to get a good slash on your side. You tied your haori to try and staunch the wound. Though, there was still the feeling of the warm, sticky blood dripping down.

Breaking through the woods, the gates of the butterfly mansion are in view. With dizzy, uncoordinated steps, you get closer to getting some rest. Your head felt foggy. You weren’t sure which way you were walking anymore.

When did you collapse? Your cheek is against the cool stones of the courtyard. It felt strangely comfortable. You’ll rest your eyes, only for a moment. Your body goes limp as you drift off into unconsciousness.

Inside the butterfly mansion, a stubborn wind hashira stomps along. “For the last time, Kocho, I’m not spending the night here. I’m fine.”

“You have three broken ribs, Shinazugawa. I wouldn’t call that fine. You should stay here through the night and let us look after you.” Shinobu followed Sanemi, her usual smile gracing her lips. “We wouldn’t want your injury to get any worse.”

He stopped before the door and turned to face her; he could feel himself getting stressed. Tired after an extended mission, he wished to go home and sleep, not stick around Shinobu’s estate. “I’m not some low-ranking slayer. It’s not like I’ll curl up and die because of some broken ribs. I’m leaving.”

As Sanemi opened the door and walked into the courtyard, he realized he almost stepped on something. With his brain foggy with sleep, and the dark blanket of the night, it took him a moment to see what it was. His eyes widened. “What the hell?!”

Your head ached when you came to. The wooden ceiling of the butterfly mansion greets you. Slowly, sitting up and looking around the room; no one was occupying the other beds. Your body burned and ached at the slightest movement. For a moment, you thought you were completely alone. That was until you could hear a familiar snore.

Resting on a chair next to the bed was Sanemi. He had his head resting on his arms against the bed. Contrasting his permanent scowl when he was awake, he looked so peaceful. The crease in his brow was gone, and his shoulders were relaxed. It was nice to see him like this.

Gently, you set a hand atop his unruly hair. His eyes shot open the second your palm met his scalp. Wide, bloodshot eyes flicked up to meet yours. Sanemi practically leapt out of the chair. It was silent; the only noise was birds chirping outside. His expression was unreadable as his stare bore into you.

With a weak smile, you break the deafening silence. “Nemi, I’m so happy to see you.” Your voice was a strained whisper. Your throat itched and burned as you talked. “I was planning to visit you after my mission, and well…”.

A cup of water was thrust in your direction, a scarred hand connected to it. “Drink.” Came the simple word of Sanemi’s rough yet gentle voice.

Taking the cup, you give him a grateful nod before gulping it down. The cool liquid helps soothe your aching throat. “Thank you.” He takes the cup and sets it on the nightstand. Sanemi shifts so his body can fully face you.

“Quit the corps.”

It was such a cold, blunt sentence. Any hint of warmth in Sanemi’s voice was gone. His face held no expression now. There’s a faint twitch in his hand.

“Huh, why are you saying that so suddenly?” You asked, confused by his demand. Once you started dating, Sanemi would ask if you had any plans for your future, if you ever wanted to do something besides hunting. But never had he been this forward about leaving the corps.

Sanemi’s face goes through a few different emotions before settling on anger. He takes a couple steps closer to the bed, a scowl on his face. “Didn’t you hear me?! I said quit! Quit the corps; quit being a demon slayer!” He growled, his eyes intense. His heart was beating so fast it felt like it would burst.

You felt shaken. Sanemi’s temper was never toward you. To see it happen now felt like a punch to the gut. Especially with your head throbbing in pain. “I should quit just because I got hurt? We’re slayers. It's practically a part of the job.”

“Well, this job isn’t for you! You were lying half-dead on Kocho’s doorstep! Might as well quit while you still have your life!” Sanemi shouted. His voice filled with anger and something more pained.

Feeling annoyed and hurt, you yelled back. “I just woke up, and the first thing you wanna do is chastise me? You’ve come home hurt many times, Sanemi. I’ve never told you to quit!’

“This is different. I’m a hashira. I’ve faced demons ten times stronger than any pathetic thing you’ve managed to kill. You’re weak, and those who are weak die! It’s amazing you got passed final selection at all!”

The room suddenly fell silent. Sanemi’s heavy breathing was the only thing filling the air. His face was red with rage. He stares down at you, and you suddenly feel small. He wasn’t a hashira for no reason. Seeing him tower over you like this was intimidating.

After a long, tense moment of silence, Sanemi speaks once more. “Leave the fucking corps.” Those were the last words before he stomped out of the room, slamming the door on his way out.

You didn’t see him around for days. Not once had he come around to apologize or even visit. Sanemi had purposely been avoiding coming by the butterfly mansion. He would have one of the kakushi treat him or just walk back to his estate after a mission. He felt terrible about how he treated you, but it was necessary. To protect you, he had to be cruel.

Though, as time passed, he just kept feeling worse. He had to yell at you so you would quit the corps. He had to treat you like he did with Genya. But did that even work? His brother still became a demon slayer, even going as far as eating demons. This aching feeling was gnawing at him. You were just as stupidly stubborn. You wouldn’t leave the corps just because he treated you like crap.

It had been a while since that argument had taken place. Your wounds were healing nicely, and you would be back to going on missions soon. Shinobu had stopped by for a check-up. She began to chat as she changed your bandages.

“You know, Shinaguzawa was about to burst a vein when he found you outside my estate.” She chuckled.

You huffed and rolled your eyes, still upset with your partner. “I’m sure he was.”

“He was yelling so loud. I was sure he would wake my other patients.”

The night Sanemi found you, he felt many things. While mostly anger, it was also grief and fear. He kneeled over your crumpled form, taking you in his arms. It was like there was a loud ringing in his ears. He could only feel warm blood soaking through your uniform, staining his own.

Shinobu was only a few steps behind him and quickly took in the sight. She ushered him to bring you into the estate. It was hard to separate him from your body. He was holding on so tightly. At first, Shinobu let him stay in the room as she worked. But as he kept barking at her to hurry up, to make you stop hurting, she kicked him out of the room. He sat by that door for hours, not bothering to change out of his blood-soaked clothes. He rushed into the room as soon as Shinobu finished patching your wounds.

The insect hashira left, allowing Sanemi his privacy. He sat by your unconscious body, Holding your hand tight and feeling your weak pulse.

“Why, why are you trying to leave me too? Why does this always happen to me?!” Through his anger and grief, a few tears spilled from his wide eyes. He needed to protect you. One of the last people he had left. No matter what it took or what he had to do. Sanemi couldn’t keep losing the ones he loved.

You were out for days, having lost so much blood. Sanemi stayed by your side whenever he could, only ever leaving for missions or meetings.

“Hm, you're healing well. Your ribs only have slight bruising now, and your concussion is gone. Once you finish your rehabilitation training, I’ll discharge you.” Shinobu spoke with her usual light tone as she wrote a few notes down.

Buttoning your shirt back up, you give her a polite smile. “Thank you, Kocho. You’ll have to let me pay you back one day.”

“Oh, no need! Healing is just what I do.” As she spoke, her eyes gained a mischievous glint. Her dainty form takes a seat on your bed. She leans in close with a smirk. “But if you're offering, how about you pay me back with some gossip?”

You look at her with a bit of suspicion. “What kind of gossip?”

Shinobu chuckled a little, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, don’t play dumb. That argument wasn’t exactly quiet. I’m sure I can help. I’m a great listener.”

You let out a disgruntled sigh, looking at the hashira next to you. “I mean, why ask if you already heard everything?” Shaking your head, you decide to feed Shinobu’s curiosity. “It's just, Sanemi got so mad at me. I finally wake up after days, and the first thing he does is berate me.” You rant. It felt good to be able to talk about this.

“Well, Shinaguzawa does have the emotional intelligence of a brick. That doesn’t excuse his actions, but it does explain them. So, do you plan on forgiving him?” Shinobu asked, wondering how you’d answer.

That question was harder to answer the longer you thought about it. You wanted to forgive Sanemi, but what he said was hurtful. Even if he wanted to protect you, could you forgive him for saying those things?

“I don’t know. Part of me wants to, but I still feel so hurt.” A pang of sadness shot through your chest.

Shinobu looks at you with a look of sympathy. Setting a gentle hand on your shoulder, she stands up. “I’m sure he’ll come around eventually. Even if he won’t admit it, he’s pretty soft towards you.” She chuckled.

A few days passed, and you had fully recovered. Tonight would be your last night in the butterfly mansion. Packing your things, the door to your room slides open. Turning around, Sanemi stood in the doorframe. In his scarred hands was a parcel wrapped with twine. He looked as if he were nervous.

And truthfully, he was. He could fight waves of demons and not break a sweat. But emotions were a whole other ballpark for him. There’s a long, awkward silence as he stands there. He clears his throat a bit before speaking. “Can I come in?”

You reply with a silent nod. Sanemi moved to take a seat on the bed. You sit next to him, though a bit far away. For a moment, it’s like he hesitates before offering you the parcel. “This is for you.” He said quite bluntly. “I know it looks like shit. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

Taking the parcel and unwrapping it, it was filled with food. Fried meat and vegetables topped over a bed of rice. On the side, there was also a few ohagi. The knife cuts were sloppy, and the ohagi was misshapen. The food was clearly homemade.

Before you could say anything, not even a thank you, Sanemi began to speak again. ‘I want to…apologize. I know crappy lunch and words won’t fix anything I said. Seeing you hurt made me lose my shit, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“Sanemi, I-”

“Let me finish.” He almost snapped but looked apologetic afterward. “I need to work on my emotions rather than resorting to anger. It’s immature of me. But seeing you on the ground, looking like a corpse,” Sanemi stopped talking for a second, trying to bite back the rage bubbling up. “I want you to have a good life. No bleeding out, no fighting, no demons. But, being a slayer is your life. I can’t just tell you to drop everything you know because I don’t like it.”

His tone gets more tense, almost pained. “I want to work things out, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Standing up, you move to stand in front of Sanemi. You wordlessly wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. The hashira was expecting a slap, any kind of negative reaction. To feel your arms hold him felt like a breath of fresh air.

“I still feel upset with you. And we’ll need to talk about that.” You curl up further into his arms, into his warmth. “But for now, I just want you to hold me.” You had been so lonely during the weeks he avoided you. Even if you were upset, you still loved him.

Sanemi quickly obliges. Wrapping his strong, scarred arms around you. Feeling your soothing heartbeat, feeling that you were alive. Though he was still tense, a wave of relief washed over him. It was okay if you didn’t forgive him now, or maybe ever. At the moment, all that mattered to him was that you were alive.

The two of you would have a long talk. But for now, it was nice to sit in each other presence.

#sanemi shinazugawa x reader #sanemi x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer oneshots #kny x reader #kny sanemi #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #x reader

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yaekiss · 1 year

Note

on this sinful sunday, i’m having very holy thoughts of either branding or carving my name onto childe’s skin— maybe that tummy he’s so insistent on not covering up, maybe a nice little tramp stamp. i know he’s making sure it scars, picking at the scabs and whining for you to redo them if they dare to fade away— he belongs to you!

꩜ Room Content: Dom! GN! Top! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Yan! Tartaglia, reader's dick can also be read as strap, gore + eroguro, knifeplay + blood, masochist Tartaglia, spanking (just once, on Tartaglia), terrible wound care by Tartaglia please don't follow his actions, lmk if I missed out anything ! ꩜ A/N: Happy Whore Wednesday pulpie! Or uhhh, it was Wednesday when I started writing this. Got a lil carried away hehe :3 Happy Thotaglia Thursday! Slut on! (With you, Childe feels like every day is Thotaglia Thursday)

Anyways. Childe thinks of you as pure divinity, the holiest of beings, and he’s eager to worship all of you and bear everything that you’re willing to bless him with. Who is he to say no to the pain you inflict on him too?

This time, he’s cockwarming you, the heat and desire he feels is dizzying. You’re inside him and just the sensation of you filling him up perfectly has left him giddy with lust. His face is smushed into the mattress with his azure eyes already rolled into their sockets. Prior to this, he pressed a lavishly decorated dagger into your palm with a fervent sort of urgency, begging for you to mark him up however you like. You try to think back on what could’ve spurred this on. Was it that merchant trying to chat you up at the market the other day? Or perhaps it’s just a sick kind of longing that hangs around the ginger no matter how much time you spend together? One thing remains clear, at its core, Childe wants to be utterly and irrefutably yours.

Taking up the dagger, you admire the inlaid gemstones glinting in the lighting of the room, their colours matching the exact shade of your eyes and you’re sure that this must have cost an arm and a leg. Tracing the cold metal down the ridge of his spine, you feel him shudder, your ears picking up a soft keening whine. You start off slow, the tip of the blade breaking past skin and revealing glorious liquid crimson. Childe sucks in a breath at the delirious buzz of pain and pleasure that he’s subjected to at your hands.

“Nghh… please I wanttt-! to be yours!” Greedy as always.

You take your time carving out your name into his flesh, revelling in just how many moans and whines you can wring out from the harbinger. Despite how muddled his senses are, he’s acutely aware of each and every searing twist and pull of the knife. Some of the warm blood trickles and drips down to where the two of you are connected and the sensation has him losing the ability to speak, brain reeling at how disgustingly intimate this whole act is. However, over time, Childe gets squirmy and twitchy with how pent-up he’s getting, the arousal in him pooling and heightening. That simply won’t do. Good boys need to stay in line while their lover is being so so so nice to them after all. With a pointed “tsk”, you land a hard smack on his ass as a warning. He yelps loudly at the impact but he gets the message, obediently staying still as you finish carving the tramp stamp.

When you’re finally done, you pull out of him, the lack of your cock filling him up has Childe whining again but it snaps him out of his reverie. You reach over to grab a mirror and angle it so that he can see (read: marvel at) your handiwork. His eyes glint as he catches sight of the fresh cuts, the wound spelling out your name and the fact that you’ve claimed him as your devoted believer. However, he doesn’t let you go further than cleaning and disinfecting the wound site. (Secretly, he hopes that it leaves a permanent scar, an eternal pure white etched into his skin to show that he belongs to you without question.)

Throughout the whole healing process, he picks away at the scabs that try to cover the wound, opening it back up again so that your name is written in a carnal raw red. Whenever he stares at it in the bathroom mirror for too long and thinks that a certain part of it is fading away too fast without leaving a mark, he rushes to you, whining and begging for you to redo it with a frenzied tone in his voice.

He wishes you’ll dig even deeper, maybe even push your fingers into his flesh until he’s screaming and clenching down on your cock, use his blood as lube as you fuck up into him relentlessly. The thoughts keep coming and you can’t go a full week without Childe pleading for you to lay your claim on him.

Maybe next time he’ll convince you to leave your mark on his abdomen so that everyone can see who he belongs to.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

#📜.qi rambles #yandere #gore #eroguro #yandere genshin #genshin smut #sub genshin #tartaglia x reader #yandere tartaglia #tartaglia smut #sub tartaglia #childe x reader #yandere childe #childe smut #sub childe #dom reader #📜.qi writings

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celtic-crossbow · 5 months

Text

Whumpuary Day 1-2

Prompt: Snow

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; blood; head injury

gif by r66dus

“Why are we patrolling when we can’t see ten feet in front of our faces?” You were yelling into the wind, only satisfied that the archer may have heard you when he turned halfway.

“Wha’?” Daryl called from beneath the bandana that shielded the lower part of his face from the biting cold.

Taking a deep breath, you moved your scarf aside and shouted louder. “Why are we—” The slightest crinkle next to one eye gave away the smirk hidden beneath the black and white patterns. “I hate you!” You could barely hear him chuckle.

“No, ya don’!” At least he was kind enough to wait for you to trudge through the steadily deepening snow to reach his side. “Ya should head on back if it’s that hard on ya!”

“Please. Like I’d leave you out here alone!” You sputtered indignantly when he ruffled your toboggan hat. The man knew exactly how to rile you up, and he did it as often as possible. Though you acted perturbed, you actually enjoyed the times you could see a smirk or a small smile.

Daryl smiled a lot more these days. It was one of your favorite things in the chaotic, dystopian world. After Rick and with the Whisperers still lurking, you wouldn’t blame him for wearing a permanent scowl like the old days.

“We can cross over here n’ circle back.” He pulled down his bandana and motioned toward the frozen river. “Froze solid. Won’ fall through but be careful anyway.” He started across, sensing you weren’t following. “Wha’re ya doin’?”

“Keep going. I’ll catch right up.”

“Y/N, wha’re ya doin’?” He repeated more sternly.

“I need to pee, Daryl!” You frowned when he smiled and there was the slightest bounce to his shoulders. “It’s not funny.”

“Yer gon’ freeze yer ass off.” The ‘literally’ hung in the air, but you knew he was thinking it. “G’on then. Ain’t nothin’ I’ve not seen b’fore.”

You pouted. “You can’t watch me pee!”

“Ya do it ev’ry mornin’ while ‘m brushin’ my teeth.”

“Yeah, but this is more…open!” When he titled his head with a look that clearly stated you can’t be serious, you huffed. “Shut up, that’s different too!” Your cheeks were suddenly warm, even against the frigid gusts. Daryl had been up close and personal with your lady bits more than you could even begin to recollect.

With a grin, he held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll keep goin’. Slow. Wanna be close jus’ in case.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, daddy.” When a dark brow arched, you feigned displeasure and grabbed a gloveful of snow and tossed it at him. “Go away, pervert.” He was still grinning as he turned to put a little distance between the two of you. Pants and underwear were down to your knees quickly, the urge nearly unbearable by the time you’d convinced him to keep moving. You couldn’t stop the relieved groan even if you’d tried.

You had expected to hear him laugh but thankfully, the wind was just too loud. With the wonderful lack of toilet paper, drip-drying was the only option left to you, though you were certain your vagina would be full of ice by the time that happened. After several moments, you pulled up your pants and secured the button and zipper, then your belt, curling your lip at the yellow patch of snow. The apocalypse was gross.

“Done!” You announced cheerfully loud.

“Wash yer hands?” He chuckled when you were close enough.

“Oh, shut up and walk.” A handful of poncho enabled you to spin him around and shove him forward. You were smiling to yourself when the hairs stood on the back of your neck. It wasn’t from the cold. “Daryl.” It felt like someone was watching you. Your eyes met his. He had felt it too; was already pulling his crossbow from his back.

“C’mon.” He motioned you closer while you each surveyed your surroundings. The Whisperers had been absent since the cold had set in, but it was possible they had returned. Over the scream of the harsh wind, neither of you heard the low growls coming from below.

Daryl yelped when a hand caught his ankle and gave a sharp tug. You could only watch as his boot slipped and he tumbled, the back of his head bouncing off of the ice with a sickening crack and splatter of red across white. His weapon slid to a stop several feet away.

“Daryl!”

The walker was trapped in the snow, only one arm and half its face exposed. Enough for your blade to find its mark. Dark, congealed blood covered your knife as it fell next to the archer, your hands on him immediately. He remained unresponsive to each shriek of his name, but you had to find some measure of calm to assess his condition.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The frosty vapor that formed in front of his lips showed him to be breathing. You quickly removed a glove to press your fingertips to his neck, finding a thready pulse rather quickly. With the gentlest touch you could manage, you slowly, carefully lifted his head, nauseated at how boneless he appeared. You were terrified of moving him. Head and neck injuries were never a thing to play with, even in the old world when hospitals were abundant and functional.

Holding his head only slightly off the ice, you whimpered at the moderate amount of blood that had covered the pale surface. Head injuries bleed a lot. He’s fine. He is fine. Your teeth were nearly puncturing your bottom lip while you probed the back of his head blindly. Through his wavy hair, it was difficult to find the injury straight away. Once your quickly numbing fingertips pressed onto a swollen split in the skin, you were forced to turn his head for a better look.

The laceration was small but deep, most likely near to the skull. You couldn’t see bone, but the snow and blood made that nearly impossible. For now, you needed to take care of the blood oozing from the wound and over your fingers. The cold would help with the active bleeding but you unwound your scarf and placed it behind his head. Why the fuck didn’t you bring medical supplies and food on patrols when shit like this was a distinct possibility?

“Daryl.” You said loud enough to be heard over the wind but with a calm that betrayed the panic stirring within your chest. You had to move. The two of you freeze if you remained. There was also the possibility of walkers or Whisperers, and you were sitting ducks. “Come on, baby, wake up.” The pet name flowed out easily, reserved for intimacy or comfort.

You were met with unrewarding silence for a moment that seemed to last forever but finally, your archer groaned and grimaced. He made to turn his head before even opening his eyes, gagging almost immediately from the pain that surely accompanied the movement.

“Stay still for a minute. You’ve got a concussion for sure but I’m worried about more.” You soothed, rubbing his chest in lieu of touching his face or hair. “Getting back is gonna suck. Take some time to get yourself ready.”

“Survived worse.” He slurred. You didn’t need to see his pupils to diagnose the head injury. He had hit so hard that you wondered how the ice didn’t splinter from the impact. You kept a sharp eye on the surroundings to buy him some time. Both of you knew what the journey back to the gates would entail, short as it would be. “Le’s get outta ‘ere.” Daryl shifted toward his side to get an arm beneath him. He had yet to open his eyes, likely knowing the tilt of the world that awaited.

“Slowly.” You kept your hands on his arms, his shoulders, prepared to assist and comfort. “That’s it.” The archer barely made it to a sitting position before retching, cognizant enough to turn the opposite direction from you. Your hand rubbed circles over his back, a grounding comfort that was also a display of gratitude for not vomiting on you. “I’m sorry.” Your heart ached with a need to draw the pain from him and take it upon yourself. The whimper that followed the sick was the only indicator of the agony the action had likely caused.

“M’ready.” He panted.

“Okay, let me grab your crossbow.” You scooped up your scarf, stuffed it into your coat pocket, took carefully swift steps to collect the weapon and strapped it to your back as you returned to his side. “Okay, grab my shoulders and pull yourself up slowly. I’ll help balance you but you go at your pace, okay?” There was the slightest dip of his head in an almost nod before he thought better of it and mumbled an ‘okay’ that you couldn’t even hear.

You planted your feet, watching the area for any signs of threats while Daryl used you to begin levering himself upward. At the first pull of his weight, you grunted and he let go.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you, baby. I promise you won’t hurt me.” You smiled, hand on the crook of his shoulder with your thumb stroking his collar bone. He didn’t balk at the endearment, not even the usual scoff.

“Okay.”

The process began again. Daryl was stout, but the challenges of surviving had helped you build strength. While it wasn’t easy, it was not impossible for you to bear the added weight. On his feet, the archer swayed and granted you the first glimpse of his unfocused blue eyes. One pupil was noticeably larger; worrisome but you couldn’t do anything about it. He needed medical attention that the infirmary could hopefully provide.

You were quick to grab his elbows and steady him when he stumbled backwards. “You’re vertical. I’d say we’re making progress.” One of his arms pulled across your shoulders, the two of you embarked on what promised to be a difficult trek home.

You’d only been walking for about five minutes, when Daryl lurched forward and vomited, painful heaves that made keeping him upright nearly unattainable. He groaned, clenching his eyes shut and spitting onto the dirt.

“You can do this. Just hold onto me.” You frowned at the hardened blood on the back of his neck, frozen into flecks by the bitter cold.

The process repeated several times and by the time the gates were a looming shadow beyond the whiteout, Daryl was putting nearly all of his weight on you, toes of his boots dragging with each slow step.

“Almost there.” Your voice was no longer reaching him. As the gates opened, the archer went down and dragged you along with him. You began shouting for help, silhouettes of your friends growing more perceivable with each hurried step. “Help! Daryl needs help!”

Your worry for him was overriding the urgent voices surrounding you, blurred hands coming into view to settle on your archer. You had no choice but to step back and allow them to take him, following in a daze while more hands guided you along. The panic you had stored away was finally able to break free.

You cried.

Stitching the wound had been a brutal excursion. Daryl needed to be held down as the near frozen skin, hypersensitive in the heated infirmary, was forced together. Aaron and Gabriel assisted, their guilt for the required intervention was evident in both faces. You sat in front of him, whispering encouragement and reminding him how much you loved him. The archer vomited from the pain alone before unconsciousness mercifully claimed him.

Without the means to confirm, Daryl was released on strict bedrest in case of a skull fracture. He could sleep as long as you were near to monitor for any changes in his vitals. He would become confused, nauseous, and irritable. You were there to hold back his hair, mindful of the stitched wound. You needed to remind him of where he was and what had happened. At one point, he had even asked for your help in finding Merle, who had died years before.

After a while, he settled and dozed, Dog on the bed with his furry head on the hunter’s thigh. You finished your list of chores quickly, placing a steaming bowl of soup and a cup of tea on the nightstand by your side of the bed. Daryl was awake the moment you had stepped inside the room. Damn hunter’s senses.

“Hey, Humpty Dumpty. How are you feeling?” Settling yourself with your knees resting against Dog’s side, your fingers gently brushing back Daryl’s hair. The archer hummed, and caught himself seconds before he would have moved his head to scowl at you for the nickname.

“Had worse.” He croaked.

“Doesn’t mean this can’t hurt like a bitch.” You countered immediately. The archer hummed once more. It probably hurt less than speaking. You had helped him clean up just after his release to recover at home. If he was stuck in bed, you were going to make damn sure he was comfortable. The flannel pants and Ozzy t-shirt at least made him smile. “Do you need anything?” You adjusted the blanket Carol had left once during a visit.

“Jus’ you.”

You smiled, your face and neck flushing. You pressed your lips to his temple, the brush of your mouth against his skin but a mere whisper.

“You’ve had me for a while, Mr. Dixon. That’s not gonna change now.”

#whumpuary2024 #whumpuaryno1 #snow #blood #head injury #the walking dead #fic #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #murda writes

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z3nitsusgf · 2 years

Text

sewn into my silver lining

billy butcher | you - 2.3k

cw: angst angst angst, no happy ending, mention of blood and violence, butcher being butcher, toxic dynamics

a/n: he’s sad pathetic and sad i hope his brain turns to swiss cheese fr (affectionately)

He comes to you bloodied and dripping in viscera.

Frenchie and Kimiko are off getting supplies, probably smooching in the middle of the snack aisle. Hughie is busy at work, being cushy with Neuman and getting his bagels stolen from his boss. MM is with his daughter, couldn’t be bothered with Butcher’s bullshit anymore. So that leaves you, sweet ol’ you, to take care of the English bastard when he comes blazing through the place.

Butcher doesn’t say much when he pushes open the door and stalks inside. His boots left red sticky patterns on the tile. He’s spattered in blood, the color so deep it looks almost black on his jacket. Another one of his ugly Hawaiian button-up’s ruined because he’s too in love with the feeling of fighting. His face smeared in the irony liquid and god - he reeks of copper and dirt.

Your lips curl at the sight of him. You’ve long since grown used to the sight, but he usually makes an attempt to clean up before he sees you. He says it’s because he doesn’t wanna hear your bitching, but you know deep down he’s saving you the anxiety of having to see him like that.

When he looks at you he gives you a wide feral smile, teeth glinting a pearly white, “Ello love, m’home.”

You can tell he’s exhausted, whether it’s physically or mentally you can’t decipher. Probably both knowing him. You scoff at his words, shaking your head as you glance over his stumbling body. He’s a wreck.

“You look like hell Butcher. What happened, ass-bomb another supe?” He fucking laughs because of course he does, his hands clutching his bruised ribs as he wheezes out breathy chuckles. Every exhale makes his eyes water, the fluttering along his ribcage shows signs of hairline fractures, a bitch to heal.

He’ll never ask for your help, only taking it when he needs it. Still, you offer it anyways.

“Good one love, but no.” He doesn’t explain anymore and you don’t ask. He gets cagey when you prod him for answers and you don’t really feel like dealing with a cunty Butcher right now.

You sigh, getting up from your place on the ragged couch. You don’t bother to turn off the TV, it's nice to have the background noise when he doesn’t speak. You’re pointing to the bathroom, a knowing look on your face.

“Come on old man, you smell like shit.” His thick brows draw up and he looks at you with a straight face, the smirk dropping off his mouth. You almost laugh, biting back the chuckle as he curls his lip at you.

“M’not that old.” He grumbles, allowing you to wrap your arm around his waist and guide him to the bathroom.

“Mhmm, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night, geezer.” He rolls his eyes at your words, hiding his smile.

The place is not glamorous, the building is old as shit and better left for rats and junkies. But it makes sure you all are hidden from The Seven, Homelander especially. You won’t lie though, you miss your clean, nice bathroom from your old apartment. This one is dingy, glowing with a gross-looking fluorescent that buzzes so loud you think you’ll go deaf. The porcelain tub is permanently stained with.. you don’t know what. But there’s clean(?) water and electricity, so you can’t complain too much.

He sheds his coat, the poor thing has seen more carnage than you will in your entire life, and he sits on the closed lid of the toilet, rolling his neck in a tired manner. The bones crack, the soft warm gush floods the nerves and he sighs out in relief.

You already know the drill, pulling out a relatively clean rag and running it under the tap and a small plastic first-aid kit. You stand between his legs, dabbing at the cut on his cheekbone with the damp cloth. He doesn’t flinch or wince or even make snarky comments while you clean his bloodied face, trying to be gentle with the cuts and bruises that littered his skin. The faded yellow and blue kiss all over his skin, disappearing into his beard where you know more scars lie.

“You need to be more careful.” You mumble, swiping along his forehead.

He grins, a cheeky smile on his lips, “Why? Ya worried about dear ol’ me?”

You scoff, pushing the rag harder against his skin. He just smiles harder at the pain, the lines of his face showing as he leers up at you.

“No, I’m just running out of bandages because you keep getting your ass handed to you.” You sass back, huffing at him like he’s a stubborn dog. And he is. A stubborn old dog that’s learned his tricks and won’t drop them now because they’re embedded into his system like cancer.

“Besides, you gotta keep this pretty face intact. What will Hughie do if you lose your teeth and have to get dentures?”

You pat his cheek in a mocking manner and Butcher clicks his tongue. He comes up and pinches the side of your waist, reveling in the yelp you give him.

“Don’t act like you don’t adore this pretty face.”

You go back to wiping the carnage from his face, humming under your breath. He is very pretty, handsome like the moon. With high resting cheekbones, how his words drip from his lips like nectar. Down to the sloping breach of his nose and the puffy waterline of his sunken eyes, blinking under heavy lashes. He’s an old type of beauty, one that gets better as he ages. You’ll never admit that to him though, you’ll just admire it from far, occasionally getting to touch it when he allows you to.

It’s the little things that you know about him that give you clarity. Those small quirks only you know or notice. Like the silent way he observes the world around him. And the blank way he stares into space and seemingly disappears into his own void. The way he clasps his palms together and holds them like a prayer, keeping them close to his thighs. the way he likes his coffee - strong with lots of sugar in it and no cream).

You’re both bathed in the glow of the bathroom, the faint buzzing of the lights and the scattered talking of the TV all blend together in a calm haze. It all feels too domestic.

You’re a sweet thing, like Hughie. Young, with the world at your feet. and Butcher is dragging you down with him. He hates that he doesn’t have the heart to let you go. To tell you that none of this is worth it, that he’s self-serving and bad for you. Butcher keeps his eyes down, dark eyelashes fluttering with each soft drag of the cool fabric across his heated skin. He hardly notices the sting of the water seeping into his cuts. It feels good, he doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him so softly. Years, he thinks. When she used to-

There’s a tenderness you show him. Like gentle April rain, you shower him in a sweetness he does not deserve. One that makes his lips purse and his jaw tick, one that reminds him too much of her.

You’re too focused on debating whether or not he’ll need stitches to notice his change in demeanor. Butcher grabs your wrist, fingers tightening around the bone. You can’t tell if he’s trying to push you away or pull you in.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, voice too soft for someone like him. You smooth your other hand over his hairline, uncaring of the sweat and blood that coats the pads of your fingers. What isn’t wrong? This whole façade is slipping out of his hands and he can’t keep pretending he’s not tired of getting up each time he gets knocked down. This world is so cruel, has been so cruel. And he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

He’s so full of rage. It’s dangerous to keep it all inside. A man only has a grip as tight as he does because he knows that if he lets go, even slightly, he will hurl himself into the abyss. He needs to hate the whole world and everything in it. Butcher doesn’t shed his pain, instead, he upholds it like a boulder over his shoulders.

He looks up at you, he feels himself wanting to just let you in. Just give up and crumble into your chest. There’s a pull in his chest that begs him to just completely open himself up to you. Let you smooth over his scarred wounds and heal the new ones. But he won’t.

His eyes harden and he’s letting go to smack your hand away from his face, the sting spreads across the back of your palm. Your lips part at the feeling.

“Quit treating me like I’m your fuckin’ daddy, cause I ain’t. You want someone to take care of so badly why don’t you get a fuckin’ dog.”

You joined knowing what kind of man he is. Hell-bent on getting rid of supes and stubborn as a mule. William Butcher was no saint, but he’s more broken than he’ll ever admit. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t burn whenever he’s mean.

“I-“

He’s snarling, lacing his tone with so much hot-spit rage that you draw back,

“You’re so fucking clingy n’ pathetic. You always need one of us to save ya and ya can’t even handle a bit of roughing up.”

You should be used to it by now, the brutal humiliation and the way he flips on a dime. You’ve seen it, with Hughie and Kimiko. But you’re not. You’re still soft in the center, still raw and open, still too naïve.

He’s not looking at you, he’s staring past you. Behind your silhouette and at the flickering of the bathroom light that casts dark shadows on the peeling wall. His jaw is clenched so hard you’re almost worried about him chipping his teeth, there’s a vein that pops on his forehead.

You clench the rag tighter in your fist, there are salty crystalline tears that prick your waterline. You always hate crying in front of the boys, especially Butcher.

“Fuck you, you’re such-“ You inhale shakily, the air so hot and humid you want to choke.

“You’re such an asshole, Butcher.”

It’s juvenile at best, your shitty little comeback is all you can throw back in his face. Words he’s heard a million times. He chuckles, eyes roaming over your face, he sees the glassy look in your eyes, the lip tucked between your teeth. He lands the final blow, severing it completely.

“One of us has to be. Can’t have you ruinin’ everything just cause you’re too weak to get it done.”

He twitches at the breathy inhale you give. He’s got this clenched look on his face, the plane of his features so blank you want to just crumble on the spot. His mouth is pursed, eyebrows drew together in a way that shows he’s serious.

How does he always manage to make you feel bad for wanting to be good?

Butcher knows he’s a piece of shit, knows that you’re just an innocent thing that got caught in the cross-fire. He’s always pushed and pushed and pushed everyone’s boundaries, to see how far they can go before they leave. But he still wants to punch himself when he hears your sniffles. The quiet quiver of your lip and the subtle tremble in your knuckles as you completely pull back from between his thighs.

He misses your warmth.

Sometimes you hate him, sometimes you wish he’d just disappear and never come back like he often threatened to do when everyone was getting too soft. Like right now, you want to smack him in the mouth for being so… so mean. You know it’s stupid, childish, but you want him to understand.

But then he saddles up to you like a beaten dog. Looking at you with soft dark eyes and giving you a worn smile that makes your heartache. You hate to admit that Butcher has wormed his way in, like smoke in your clothes. You always knew he would come back, even if he never made any promises. A silly childish part of you always hoped that he would stay.

Maybe that’s your mistake, thinking he would ever soften up. Even if it was for you.

He’s silent, brooding, acting like it’s not even a big deal. That makes you snap, the disregard he has for everyone. You snarl at him, lips curling over your teeth as you bare your incisors at him. You fling the rag into his face, turning on your heel as you call out over your shoulder,

“Clean yourself up or don’t, I don’t fucking care.”

Your tone is so watery, so filled with that tiredness that Frenchie and MM have. It makes him sick. Butcher jumps slightly when he hears you slam the front door. He can hear your boots as they stalk away, the muffled sniffles coming from your nose. he knows you’ll go off, whether to cry or be alone (or both), but he doesn’t make any move to stop you.

He’s alone.

He knows you’ll come back. Knows that in the dark of night you’ll slip back into the apartment. And if not, Kimiko and Frenchie will go and find you, pleading with you to come back and give it another chance. They always do.

Butcher clings to the rag you threw at him, fisting the material as he grits his teeth.

Why is he like this? Why can’t he just be satisfied with what he has? Why must he always crave more? Why is it so goddamn exhausting to keep himself indifferent? He’s never felt sad, only despair. Never mad, only full of resentment. He’s never been embarrassed, he only knows humiliation. And he loathes to feel this way because he constantly searches his brain for a time he was truly joyous, but he always comes up empty.

Always his fault, always. You’re just another unfortunate soul that got too close, bearing the brunt of his oozing heart.

#val.writes ❦#the boys.✮#the boys x reader #the boys x you #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher x y/n #billy butcher x you #billy butcher #the boys #the boys angst #billy butcher angst

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another-whump-sideblog · 2 years

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Jane’s Pets Pt. 21: Every Whumpee’s Needs

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

Blood loss | Running out of air | Hyperthermia

It’s been too long since Jane last hurt you. Something’s coming. You wish you were brave enough to run again, but you can’t even think about it without thinking of overwhelming pain.

Your wounds are finally healed. You can finally move without restriction or pain. Everyone’s relatively okay. Kit is mostly healed. It’s absolutely terrifying.

Your nightmares are getting worse. You are constantly full of dread and fear.

You keep practicing holding your breath. You alternate between freezing cold and boiling hot showers. You sit in uncomfortable positions for hours, trying to learn to handle stress positions. You eat less, hoping to get used to hunger.

You wake up crying often and beg Kit and Dollie to not let her hurt you, to protect you, please please please.

You know it’s not fair. You can’t protect them, to expect them to protect you is unfair. Still, you want so badly to feel safe.

It’s almost a relief when Jane calls you down to the basement. Almost.

You’ve been doing this thing lately, where you compare the fear of living here to your old greatest fears. Would you rather spend an hour in the basement or a day in an airplane? Get beaten with a crowbar or bitten by spiders?

Over and over, you come to the same answer. You would rather be anywhere than here. You’d be less afraid if you were walking down a staircase to be executed.

“Hi, Bunny. Give me your collar.”

You slowly undo your collar and hand it to Jane. It’s a lot easier to breathe without it, but you know that won’t last long.

“That’s a good Bunny. What’s your name?”

“Bunny, Master.”

Jane laughs. “No, not yet. But we’ll fix that, won’t we?”

“Master, please.” There’s nothing else to say.

Jane just smiles. “Kneel.”

You kneel.

Jane produces duct tape and tapes your mouth shut. And then she plugs your nose.

Your lungs start burning almost immediately. You didn’t get a chance to take a breath.

“Liam.” Jane’s voice drips with an emotion you don’t recognize. “Liam.”

If you could breathe, you would laugh. It’s so stupid. Just saying your name over and over again while she tortures you. And even more stupid is that it will work, because it worked on Dollie and Kit and they’re stronger than you. You’re going to be too scared to even think of your name because of something so stupid.

Tears leak from your eyes and your vision blacks out. You think, for a moment, that she’s going to let you pass out, but she lets go. You breathe as deeply as you can through your nose.

“You’re so cute. I know you’ve been practicing holding your breath for me. Sweet little Bunny. Show me how good you’ve gotten.”

Jane plugs your nose again. The fact that you practiced does make it less scary, makes the feeling of suffocation more familiar. But you don’t have any control. You’re not the one choosing to hold your breath, and it won’t end until Jane wants it to.

Your practice and preparation don’t matter. It never will. You’ve been spending all this time hurting yourself when you should’ve just been enjoying the time you had where you weren’t being hurt. Kit was right. Of course they were right.

You can’t beg. You know it wouldn’t help anyway, but somehow that makes it worse. You’re completely powerless against someone simply plugging your nose.

You force your hands to stay down at your sides and try not to squirm. Fighting her will do nothing at best and get you punished at worse. You squirm anyway. God, you’re so fucking weak.

It’s amazing how long a minute can be. Jane once again releases you right before you pass out. You inhale, and she cuts off your air supply once again.

“Does it help? Do you feel powerful? In control? Strong? Was it worth it?”

You can’t answer.

“I doubt it. There’s only so much air your lungs can hold. You’ll always run out of air pretty quickly, no matter how much you work on it. Liam. My Bunny. You’re not the brightest, are you?”

Your vision swims. Can she do permanent damage, like this? You don’t know. Isn’t it three minutes of oxygen deprivation before your brain gets damaged? No, wait, that’s before you die. You can go three weeks without food, three days without water, and three minutes without oxygen. But you remember something about people surviving being stuck under ice for hours without air… Where did you even hear that three rule, anyway? Was that even true?

Jane is still talking, saying your name over and over. Your insides burn, but you feel nice. Ha, she’s trying to torture you but instead you feel nice. Wait, why’s she trying to torture you? You didn’t do anything. What’s happening? Why can’t you open your mouth?

The world spins and your vision is tinged with dark blue. Jane lets go. You still can’t get enough air. She plugs your nose.

You smile beneath the tape and close your eyes. The ground is rippling, up and down, up and down. You think this wouldn’t be the worst way to die. Are you dying? Where are you?

You feel like you’re floating. You feel like you’re a flame, flickering, flickering, flickering. You feel like…

You feel like…

You wake up sweating.

You lie on the floor of a room you haven’t seen before. It’s so fucking hot. Your clothes are soaked with sweat. It’s so hot.

Your head hurts. Your mouth is still covered with duct tape, but your hands are unbound. You could take it off. She never told you to keep it on, you wouldn’t be breaking any rules.

Or maybe she did tell you to keep it on. You stopped listening to her, while you were being suffocated. You should’ve been listening.

Best not to risk it. You don’t want to give her any reason to hurt you worse.

You slowly get to your feet. It feels a bit better, to not be making as much contact with the hot concrete. But it’s not enough.

This is the hot room. You try to remember what Kit told you about it. They didn’t say much, except that usually Jane leaves people in here for longer than an hour.

You’re not sure how this is supposed to help with the goal of forgetting your name. Maybe it’s not. Maybe Jane just wants you to suffer.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, after only a few minutes of standing. You feel nauseous.

The door doesn’t have a handle on your side, and it won’t push open. Like always, there’s no escape. You will be left in here until Jane wants to let you out.

Your heart pounds. You shouldn’t be panicking, that will heat you up even more. Still, your thoughts race. How long will she leave you in here? You don’t want to be in here, you want it to stop.

You double over at another wave of nausea. The room spins. The duct tape is loosening from the sweat on your face.

What would Kit do? What would Dollie do?

You wish Kit had given you advice. That’s what you wanted, when you asked what things might happen. Is it better to take your clothes off, or are your damp clothes keeping you cool? Should you be standing, or should you be finding a position that takes less energy while still lessening contact with the ground?

You don’t know. You wish Kit was here, which makes you feel bad. You shouldn’t wish they were being tortured with you. But you know it would be easier if they were here.

Tears fall from your eyes. No, you can’t lose any more water! You have to stop!

But your panic just makes the tears fall faster. You want to curl into a ball, but that will just make things worse.

The duct tape over your mouth falls off. You would put it back on, to avoid upsetting Jane, but being able to breathe through your mouth makes you feel one hundred times better.

And, well, now it’s already fallen off. So if Jane told you to keep it on, you’ve already failed. No point in going back.

Your hand spasms and you gasp. It reminds you of being electrocuted and it /hurts/. Is that normal?

When your feet start spasming, you have to sit down. You try to focus on your breathing, but your mind keeps going back to how hot you are.

And how sweaty you are.

And how badly your head hurts.

And how your throat hurts.

And how you’re dizzy.

And how you’re thirsty, so so thirsty.

And how you’re nauseas.

And how your muscles keep spasming.

You’re going to have to get better at distracting yourself if you ever want to handle situations like this. You know you’ve experienced it before, that feeling of separation from your body and the pain, but right now you are stubbornly locked inside your body.

Your nose starts bleeding, because of course you need to add blood loss to the long list of things going wrong with your body.

She won’t let you die. She said that that was a long way away. She won’t leave you in here long enough to die.

You don’t know if that’s a relief or not.

You recite songs in your head (not out loud, you’re too thirsty for that). You count the minutes. You focus very hard on not crying. Blood and sweat and maybe some tears drip onto the ground.

Your chest hurts. Is this it? Did she go to far? You throw up and it hurts, it hurts your stomach and your chest and your throat and your head, and you can’t breathe. You hands spasm at your sides.

There’s only so long this can go on. Either she’ll let you out or you’ll die. This will end.

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra. This will end, this will end. It can’t go on forever. This will end.

You start to feel like you’re not so much breathing as moving air around. Hot air comes in and out of your lungs, and it doesn’t help. You’re suffocating, you’re dying, oh god you don’t want to die, you don’t you don’t you don’t. You need to get out!

You are overwhelmed by dizziness. You know, suddenly, that you’re going to survive. You’re starting to realize that what you need to survive and what you need are two very different things.

Your body falls forward, and you’re unconscious before your head hits the concrete.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset

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gentlemanthiief · 1 year

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♕ so, this is an excerpt from a one-shot i wrote many many moons ago back when i first made the burnish au for akira ; linked ★ here ★ for anyone who wants to read the full fic ( 5.6k words ) . it's one of the few things i've actually finished for akira XD and i'm a little proud of it which is why i'm willing to share it here. keep in mind that the fic is not necessarily canon to this blog's akira. it was originally written for my writing partner at the time, who i did ship with so it's got a bit of the gay™ in there. just for a few seconds because it was funny. anyways, enjoy ~

content warning: violence

❝ End of the line ! ❞

Vulcan strolled towards Akira, the barrel of that wretched ice rifle resting carelessly against the back of his fat neck. ❝ You didn’t think you’d get away after leaving us all those nice little breadcrumbs to follow, did ya kid ? ❞ He approached with a casual stride. Not at all like he was about to drag Akira by his heels to permanent imprisonment.

Akira didn’t respond. He simply stared at the wall opposite of where he’d landed on his side, catching his breath and feeling hollowed by his loss. There was still a vain spark of hope found in a deep corner of his heart that wished for this to just be another terrible dream. But he knew from the pain in his hand and the hard asphalt chilling his bones that it was all very real.

The Freeze Force captain bellowed out another vicious laugh as he continued to draw nearer: ❝ Come onnnn, you ain’t gonna beg ? Not even a little bit ? ❞

Silence, apart from his ragged breathing. Akira knew there would be no mercy here. Vulcan didn’t even bother to aim true, he’d much rather toy with his prey than just slap Akira’s hands into a set of freezing cuffs and be done with it.

But Vulcan was dissatisfied with the young man’s lackluster response. So he pressed harder as he stopped before Akira’s prone form, ❝ The way you ran around the city like a headless chicken, you had me thinking you actually valued your worthless life! But now look at you … ❞ he crouched, forcing himself into Akira’s field of vision and staring him down with malevolent glee. ❝ Curled up like the pathetic rat you are. ❞

Akira felt nauseated. All of this spectacle for the capture and detainment of a single Burnish who just wanted to live a normal life. He didn’t want this. He never asked for this.

He never wanted to be Burnish.

❝ Go on. Beg. ❞

The way Vulcan towered over him, waiting to hear Akira plead for his life like it would make a difference…suddenly, the fear that had all but paralyzed him began to melt, replaced by a spark of indignant rage. Akira lifted his head slowly, meeting his captor’s diabolical grin with a defiant glare. He grit his teeth, ❝ ... Why should I ? ❞

Crack!!!

Pain bloomed through Akira’s whole skull as Vulcan slammed his fist against the side of Akira’s face. Each beat of his racing heart sent another vivid pulse of it, radiating all the way down his spine. The lens of his glasses shattered, the broken frame flying off and skittering across the asphalt. White and black dots swam through his tear-blurred vision, a fuzzy sort of numbness settling over the ache in his bones. Akira struggled to inhale, his throat still sore from being crushed by the brute who strangled him in the convenience store.

Now this one grabbed Akira by the chin, angling his head forcefully to look up at his assailant. He brought his face so close to Akira’s, the Burnish could smell the stale cigarettes on his breath. ❝ Because it would make me laugh harder. ❞

Vulcan all but shoved Akira’s head back onto the ground, another fresh wave of pain flashing through his skull. He coughed as he inhaled the blood dripping into his throat from where Vulcan had damaged his nose, trying to hold himself up so he wouldn’t choke on it. The Freeze Force captain rose to stand upright again and took a few steps back, aiming his rifle at Akira once more.

❝ Any last words, kid? Come on…make my day. ❞

Over the soft whirr of Vulcan charging his weapon, there was a sudden, sharp thwock, as something pierced its casing.

A very brief hiss.

And then the rifle exploded, showering Vulcan and the few feet around him in a glittering sheet of ice.

Akira looked up just in time to react. He jumped so fast to scramble as far back as he could that it made his head spin. His back hit the gate, and he raised his arm to shield his face from the initial blast. In mere seconds, chaos erupted. One by one, each of the ice guns wielded by the Freeze Force grunts burst in a cloud of frozen mist, destroyed by long, thin, glimmering projectiles. They all shouted, dropping the faulty weapons and desperately brushing the ice off their armor and helmets. Vulcan’s arms had been encased in a thick block of ice that was meant to have trapped Akira’s whole body. He roared, struggling against the restraint—the ice creaking under the force behind his effort until it broke in a harsh, hollow crack and he tore his arms free.

Akira’s stomach sank, apprehension snaring every cell in his body as he awaited Vulcan’s retaliation. But Vulcan’s eyes were no longer on him, instead trained on something up above. Akira could practically hear him snarl before Vulcan threw the destroyed weapon to the ground, turned, and ran back towards the Interceptor, barking commands at his squadron.

For a moment, Akira was stunned, staring in bafflement at this turn of events. He lowered his arm before turning his body so he could try to pinpoint the source of the disturbance that had so suddenly captured Vulcan’s attention—

Beyond the fence, Akira could see a figure in black, surrounded in Burnish flame.

#memories { drabble }#when the hope of new beginnings burned our feet ; now we need it { the burnish }#// *kakusei starts playing*#// plotting with the burnish boy had me feeling nostalgic so take this offering

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takato1993 · 2 years

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I watched a bunch of spooky movies this month. i watched most of them on Tubi for free I have been meaning to watch some movies on there but I just never got around to it until this month partly because I did not know it had such a good selection of movies which do ...

seem to rotate out after a set amount of time so some of the movies I am reviewing will be gone today and some might be there permanently of gone in a month or two so catch them quick if anything I watched is on your to watch list. ( 5?10 is average and thats ok)

Phantasm- 7/10

a classic with really good theme music and practical special effects. about a boy who discovers some dark and creepy things going on in the graveyard.

Tubi only had Phantasm I and III so I only watched the first one I think Phantasm II was the one I was curious about in the first place.

Jason X- 6/10

one of 2 movies in the Friday the 13th that were not aired in the marathon I saw on tv last year ( still don't know why they skipped VII but thats the only one left to watch now)

I enjoyed this movie it was fun but flawed I don't have much to say but I think the hate for it is a bit silly

Creepshow 2- 8/10

I think this movie hasn't aged the best but the middle segment " The Raft" is just a compelling and horrifying as I remembered and I highly recommend it.

Remember to always make sure someone knows where you are when you go to an isolated location is just good advice, tho cellphones sort of mitigate this problem- if you have a signal a charged battery

Subspecies I, II, and III- 7/10, 7/10, 5/10

honestly this was one of the best vampire movie series I have seen

this movie is about three college students that go to Transylvania to study the local legends.

this movie is very ambitious with very good practical effects, on set castles and ruins, and to my delight Ray Harryhausen inspired stop motion animation.

and I promise the antagonists constantly blood stained dripping lips will go from a little silly to creepy as the movies go one

theres a spinoff and a 4th movie I didnt watch them. I might later on.

C.H.U.D- 4/10

I Liked the creature designs well enough but this movie was painfully boring and If it was trying to have a message about polution and treating homeless people better i don't think it did that well either

tempted to watch the sequel even tho its supposed to be worse

Warlock I, II, and III- 8/10, 6/10, 4/10

another horror series with beautiful practical special effects this time we have time travel, witchcraft, and the antichrist

the same actor plays the Warlock/antichrist each movie even tho its a different character each time

a delightfully evil character just so over the top with it

avoid the second movie if animal death scenes bother you a lot, theres only one but hoo boy it's a lot.

this series does sadly get worse each movie but I genuinely enjoyed the first 2

Re-animator, Bride of Re-animator- 8/10, 7/10

A movie about a man who is very arrogant and adamant about being able to bring people back to life but they turn into violent mindless monsters every time.

and also a man that should know better and should have kicked him out of his house immediately but instead follows him pretty blindly

Herbert West is both the antagonist and a villain protagonist and I think it is hilarious that he tries to solve every problem by bringing the dead back to life (usually the problem is that he tried to bring the dead back to life)

a better antagonist does arise as well and they are delightfully messed up

contains one very disturbing and prolonged animal death scene

there is also a cute little monster made from a hand and some eyeballs int the second movie. it should be like the series mascot or something but alas it gets squished.

haven't watched Beyond Re-animator yet but I am curious about that one scene

Basket case- 5/10

I actually learned about this movie from Who's Line is it Anyway which is a pretty weird place to learn about such a graphic horror movie from

Casper- 7/10

not all movies I watched were horror or thriller movies

rewatching this I am surprised that it seems to have been completely forgotten.

it was fun, the effects were good, the set was a beautiful spooky mansion with vaguely gothic architechture how is this not a beloved mainstream Halloween classic

Witchouse- 5/10

Tubi's autoplay feature selected this one

a spooky witch themed horror movie with a lot of dead teenagers . its just okay

Nightbreed- 8/10

Rawhead Rex- 5/10

The Pit- 5/10

Black sheep- 5/10

Witches in Stiches- 8/10

Frankenhooker- 6/10

a modern comedic take on Frankenstein

my only question about this movie is why this man who is clearly devoted enough to his thicc dead girlfriend to spend all his time figuring out how to bring her back to life with stolen body parts decides to bring her back super skinny.

a coward that makes Herbert West look heroic by comparison uggh

had a cute little brain monster with an eyeball it lives in an aquarium

May- 6/10

another modern take on Frankenstein in a way, this time the focus is on May a socially awkward woman who gets pushed past the breaking point over and over

this movie also contains an animal death scene, and frankly it was unnecessary for the plot

Bad Taste - No rating

before Lord of the Rings Peter Jackson directed some very weird lower Budget movies

for the second time watching one I can't genuinely recommend it to people ( the first time was Meet the Feebles)

I am not going to criticize this one as much as i could because it was very independently made on a very low budget

Parents- 6/10

Repo! the Genetic Opera- 7/10

Castle Freak- 6/10

The Church- 7/10

Feast- 6/10

Deathgasm- 6/10

Tucker and Dale vs Evil- 7/10

The Stuff- 6/10

Tourist trap- 6/10

The Lair of the White Worm- 7/10

vampires, snake gods, the lambton worm this is a solid fantasy horror movie.

its also vaguely a comedy and I do not usually detect that in most British movies and I probably should not have in this one

there a weird scene where the villainess tells a series of bad and obvious lies and the burns her favorite board game " Snakes and ladders" to convince the protagonist she is telling the truth

Don't Be Afraid of the Dark (2010) - 8/10

this ones about a dysfunctional family that move into a spooky old mansion that has a bunch of little monsters living under it deep under its buried and hidden basement that the family opens back up of course.

this is a remake by Guillermo Del Toro I have not seen the original and I know most people prefer the original but I don't think this is by any means a bad movie.

the father can be insufferably mean spirited at times. but hey step mothers get a rare kind representative.

The Babysitter- 9/10

this one is about a boy who discovers his beloved babysitter is doing human sacrifice and stealing his blood for a dark ritual

i watched this one on netflix with friends

its every bit as funny and clever that i hoped for and more

The Babysitter: Killer Queen- 6/10

Deadly Blessing- 4/10

the 4th worst twist killer reveal in a horror movie I have seen, at least there were hints.

Howling 3- 3/10

this movie convinced me that The Howling series really is bad tho i still like The Howling 2

oddly almost heartwarming

Its like the writers couldn't decided between weather this was a werewolf movie with Australian folklore tacked on ( kind respectfully tho I think), or a werewolf/ political drama, or werewolves in the movie industry/hollywood

whoever made the baby marsupial werewolf puppet really wanted it to get the most loving and lingering shots in this movie and it shows

Suspiria (1977) 7/10

the Monster Project- 4/10

Frightmare- 4/10

#halloween #horror movies #thriller movies #this list was too long I did better than I thought I would for movies this month #but I'm tired and would rather spend my time watching one or2 more to end the season than typing anymore

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lovelybarnes · 3 years

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scars- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader warnings: heavy mentions of insecurity, focus on scars, injuries, blood, wounds, canon violence about: requested! (PK9) kissing scars, bruises, scratches, etc. + (PF26) person a wiping person b’s tears away a/n: thank you so much for requesting!! i hope this is what you wanted and that you liked it!!

[ @tylard-blog1 ]

you’re aware that everyone on the team has them; natasha romanoff, even steve rogers, with his unbreakable milk skin, and bruce banner, with the green that tinges the hue of his temples when a scar is made. they’re reminders of what you do, some symbols of the lives that you’ve saved-- and others the lives that you’ve taken.

yes, everyone has them, but that doesn’t make you like the ones that litter your own body very much. nor does it stop you from looking away from them when you catch a glimpse of the scars that peek out of the clothing you specifically choose to hide them away from the curious eyes of the public. it doesn’t stop the frustrated tears that ebb in your eyes when you run the tips of your fingers over the raised tissue.

sometimes you realize how unfair it is of you to hate the scars that splay on your collarbone, and the ones that run across your hips and thighs, when you press your lips against the ones on bucky’s shoulder, pleading for him to believe you when you say you think he’s beautiful. the thought lingers when you playfully roll your eyes at natasha on the rare moment when she narrows her eyes at the healed bullet wound that sits above her hip, genuine words assuring her she looks great no matter what slipping out of the same mouth that utters ugly words at the mirror. you ignore it even as it guilts you when you touch the scars on bruce’s arms with featherlight fingers, pressing that they don’t make him a monster, or any of the hideous words with which he describes himself.

you try to tell yourself the reassurances apply to you, too, because they’re true-- the scars don’t diminish the beauty of your smile, or the glow that you carry, and they shouldn’t hinder the upwards pull of your lips when you catch a glimpse of them in the mirror-- but even as you try to convince yourself of that, your eyes always flit away, hand positioning itself in front of the scars as you examine the way you’d love yourself without them.

you were never aware of the blue eyes that caught your moments of dislike for yourself, missing the bead of worry that embedded itself in the cerulean of bucky’s irises.

it was on a particularly bad day of yours that one of your relatively smaller missions was scheduled. listed underneath your name was bucky’s, although he was only on there because he had demanded you never to go on a mission to an active hydra base alone, even though he knew you could handle it; you didn’t mind, always enjoying the quiet moments you got on the quinjet with bucky-- and the pilot, usually clint or steve, who bit their tongue, unlike sam or tony.

it would’ve been fine on any other day, but your day hadn’t started on the best note. the scars underneath your clothing seemed to burn every time you moved in the way they had when you first received them. you had stared at them for far too long, wishing you had the super-healing of the asgardian gods or the super soldiers you surrounded yourself with, who would never get permanent scars from the things you had experienced. they felt especially ugly sitting on your skin, making you want to lay in bed all day, pretending they didn’t exist.

your mission cut off your day of wallowing in your bed, forcing you to shove on your suit and sit in the quinjet to arrive at the mission you could’ve easily handled by yourself had it been another day and you had felt any other way.

you were from the same black widow program natasha was from; you were probably impossibly better, more ruthless and uncaring because from the moment you were born, you had nothing to lose, no family to protect, no memories of a childhood--even a fake one-- to hang onto. your movements were always calculated and perfect, like they had been forced to be, and your emotions were never supposed to cloud your anything-- they never did, except for when you had the days that knocked you off your feet, just like these.

nevertheless, you were distracted in the base with bucky, although you shouldn’t have been, considering the delicate information you were handling. you flawlessly did the routine of knocking guards unconscious, ignoring the way a harsh heat flashed in your hip when bucky’s hand touched the place where one of your more brutal scars was. it felt nearly as if he could feel it under his fingers, even though it was a ridiculous thought considering the material of your tac suit.

it was still going relatively fine; you had recovered the usb file you had been assigned to secure, and most of the guards were dead, fallen in a trail that created a clear pathway for bucky to find you, usb drive clutched tightly in your hand as you bled out on the floor, a knife thrown next to the pool of blood quickly forming underneath you and the person who had done it lying dead a few feet away. your gun was in your other hand, one of its bullets embedded in the hydra agents’ chest. bucky could hear the strangled gurgles of breathing coming from the agent, but he paid no attention to him as he rushed to your side, eyebrows furrowing as his hands reached the stab wound. you hissed sharply when you felt the cold of his vibranium fingers meet the burning hot of the injury, pressing down hard as lightly as he could while he mumbled something into the comms you never used. you were suddenly gathered into his arms, cringing when you heard a scream you didn’t realize was yours until you felt bucky’s lips moving in reassuring sentences next to your ear, a string of apologies falling from his lips. you never let go of the drive, desperate to keep hold of something that connected you to the real world, not wanting to focus on your other alternative: it was irrelevant when compared to everything else, but through the blinding red of pain, the only thing you could focus on was obsessing over the fact that a new scar would inevitably heal in place of the stab wound-- one you knew you would survive because you’d survived a hell of a lot worse than it, but the next ugly thing to form in your abdomen might just make you never want to see yourself again.

warm tears rolled down your cheeks as bucky carried you back into the quinjet, one of your hands tiredly fisted at bucky’s shirt, trying your best to stay awake but ultimately failing from the loss of blood and will.

it’s stupid. you’re aware, but your first thought when you open your eyes again is how there is yet another scar that will form on your abdomen, making tears rush to your eyes in frustration because it was your fault it was there anyways. had you just paid attention-- just not concentrated so on the wretched things, a new one would not be forming right now. the collection of ugly tissue that littered your skin was already too large.

the frustration you felt overpowered the painful numbness that settled over the wound in your abdomen, making dried tears spring back to life and dribble down your apple cheeks, alerting your boyfriend of your state. “doll? what’s wrong?” he asks, and at the sign he’s there, listening to your whimpers and audible disdain, the dam breaks loose, your hands reaching up to your face and tugging at the gash.

bucky’s up on his feet, tender hands circling around your wrists to pull them back down, “y/n, what’s wrong, doll?” he repeats, gentle blue eyes scanning your tear-streaked face. you squeeze your eyes shut, another salty trail making its way onto the bow of your lips. bucky’s warm fingers wipe away the wetness, his fingertips light.

“baby, please tell me what hurts,” he begs, his vibranium hand making its way into yours. you shake your head, squeezing his cold fingers. “i hate them,” you mumble, feeling his palm cupping your jaw, “i hate them so much.”

“hate what, honey?” he questions gently, brows furrowing further when he sees your hand curling into a loose fist above the place where his hands have lovingly settled: right on your scars. “i’m sorry,” you cry quietly, nose scrunching up when his fingers trace over the tissue he’s memorized the location of, “i hate them. they’re ugly and i hate them.”

“these?” bucky inquires, surprised. he lifts your shirt-- really, his-- to see the object of your tears, catching when you shut your eyes again and more tears drip off your jaw.

“bucky, no--”

bucky looks up at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “y/n…” he starts sadly, pulling away to get you to look at him. “they’re not... “ his eyes flick down to one of the scars, and he taps on it gently, “d’you remember this one? it was a couple years ago when i barely joined the team.” you can feel a lump growing in your throat, perfectly able to recall where you got it.

“you barely knew me back then, but you did know i was a super soldier, and you jumped in front of that bullet anyways. god, i knew i had to ask you out before someone knocked sense into anyone else.”

you sniffle, biting your lip, “this one,” he touches another one, “you saved nat and a little girl from a madman. her parents were so thankful they stayed with you until you woke up to thank you.” his finger wipes away another tear, “she invited me to her birthday party this year,” you snivel, and bucky smiles.

“these are not ugly-- you are not ugly, i promise.” he tells you. “i love you, every part of you--” his head suddenly ducks down, and you can feel his lips softly pressing against the scars, careful to avoid your newly forming one. your hand reaches his jaw, running your nail along his stubble as more thankful tears slip from your eyes. “i love you,” he repeats, kissing your lips.

“thank you,” you whisper against his lips, sniffling as you feel the burn on the scars slowly begin to disappear with the coolness of bucky’s vibranium fingertips.

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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 3 years

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hi, i just wanted to say i loved your charles oneshot :) i was wondering if you could do an enemies to lovers w/ daniel ricciardo? thanks!

DANIEL RICCIARDO ONESHOT

TEMPORARY STRANGERS

( WARNING: swearing, alcohol, blood/injury, little bit of fluff/angst? )

word count: 5.4k

< this is my attempted version lol >

You’d debated whether or not to go to Theo’s party. For one, it was on a Thursday night, which, in itself, was rather tragic for a party thrown for an adult because surely he had to have thought that most people would be working on a Thursday night? Secondly, you had an early shift at the hospital in the morning, so you weren't sure if staying at a party fit for Blair Waldorf for a couple of hours was entirely worth your presence.

But, after a persuasive conversation on the phone — in which Theo spent the majority of it begging you to make an appearance — you’d caved and now you found yourself standing in the middle of a kitchen sipping on a lemonade, expertly avoiding everyone’s eyes and wondering why you agreed to come in the first place.

The apartment was a large, luxurious one, decked from head to toe in pricey decorations and with an open-plan layout. You even had half the mind to compare it to what you imagined a Royal Palace looked like.

In other words, it was big and incredibly tasteful and fancy, in the most annoying way possible.

Then again, Theo did own a successful Estate Agency, which specialized heavily in selling buildings in the centre of London. The money pooled from that spoke for itself, and it also meant that since university he’d met people in all aspects of his work, all of which looked like they’d been invited to his party, which unfortunately meant you didn’t know anyone, and the couple that you did, you had absolutely zero intentions of actually talking to them.

The guests themselves were glamorous, dressed to the nines and decked with expensive watches and jewellery, and you felt out of place wearing your best dress with your favourite high-tops and a blazer.

On another note, the lemonade and food were delicious. It was almost as if he’d hired a private caterer and then shoved them out of the back door before people started arriving.

“You know, I didn’t think you meant it when you said you’d come.” A smooth voice knocked you out of your reverie, and you whirled around, hastily swallowing the lemonade when you noticed the familiar blonde that you’d befriended in uni.

“I didn’t think I did either if that makes a difference.” You replied, biting the inside of your cheek as Theo rolled his eyes, making his way around the kitchen island to place a couple of collected empty glasses near the sink.

“Well, are you having fun?” He asked, leaning back against the counter next to you, his shoulder judging yours teasingly.

You hummed, narrowing your eyes, “Not as much fun as when you crashed my Grandparents party and scared away the boy they tried to set me up with, let’s just leave it at that.” You breathed a laugh, swirling the lemonade in your cup as if it had suddenly become the most interesting thing.

“Oh, I haven’t had that much fun in ages.” He said, his attention turning to the other partygoers in the near vicinity, his eyebrow raising as he spotted someone trying to sneak one of his clocks into their bags without being caught. It didn’t work; they saw his gaze and turned a suspicious shade of red and pretended as if they’d simply been admiring the thing before walking away.

Theo cleared his throat, adjusting his tie.

“I think I’m just gonna…” he trailed off, his finger pointing in the direction of the culprit, an apologetic look in his eyes. You nodded, breathing a short laugh in understanding.

“I think I’m going to head out anyway—”

“Oh, please stay.” He held out a hand, silently begging for you to stay.

You hadn’t seen each other in at least a couple of months because of clashes with schedules, and it was getting to the point where the odd texts and phone calls and video calls were starting to feel more like a chore than a privilege. You had been close friends for the best part of ten years now, and you were still close, but adult life was more difficult than you expected trying to balance relationships and work.

You breathed in deeply, eyes flashing around the guests, accidentally catching the eye of Daniel and flicking your attention back to Theo hastily.

“I’ll stay for now but I’m going home in an hour, I have an early shift in the morning.” You promised, offering a small smile as Theo nodded, returning the gesture before disappearing into the throwing of people.

It wasn’t long before you were approached by an unfamiliar face. She was — like all the other people in the room — dressed nicely, and she stumbled slightly in her heels, almost running into you.

“Oh, shit, sorry about that.” She muttered, and you could smell the faint, bitter scent of alcohol on her breath, indicating that she wasn’t completely sober.

“Oh, it’s no problem.” You reassured, asking if she wanted something else to drink, seeing as though you were standing next to the drinks table and the fridge.

She shook her head, instead resuming Theo’s place against the counter next to you.

“Do you see that man over there?” She whispered, pointing her finger in the direction of the crowd out in the living area.

You furrowed your eyes, trying to lean slightly to make sure you could see who she was pointing at.

“I think you’re gonna have to be more specific because there’s about thirty people in that general direction.” You said, resisting the urge to laugh as the woman sighed, shuffling closer to the group and standing in her heeled tiptoes to see over the sea of heads.

“Okay, so he’s about 6 foot, brunette, curly hair…” she snuck a glance at you out of the corner of her eye to make sure you were trying to look out for the person she was talking about, “really fit and has an Italian nose.” She concluded.

You pursed your lips, suddenly feeling quite awkward in the presence of a stranger. You averted your eyes back to the pile of drinks on the kitchen island and halted your actions in searching for who could only be Daniel Ricciardo.

She noticed your reaction and gasped loudly, her hand flying to her mouth as if you just spilled the hottest gossip of the season.

“You know him.” She stated, stepping back slightly with an accusatory shine in her eyes.

“I don’t know him, I just know of him.” You lied, trying to brush the topic off as subtly as possible.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, taking your arm and ignoring the cry of protest from your lips as she dragged you away from the kitchen area and into the heart of the party, where the chatter was significantly louder, “I don’t believe that. You can introduce us.” She insisted.

You dug your heels into the floor as best as you could, trying to push away the wave of panic that surged through your veins.

“Lady,” you started, ripping your arm out of her iron grip, “I don’t know him.” You reiterated.

“If you don’t know him, how can you know of him?” She enquired snarkily, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow in your direction.

“How can you not know of him?” You returned, shrugging. Her face remained blank, and it occurred to you she really didn’t know who Daniel was. “That’s Daniel Ricciardo. Formula 1 driver for McLaren this year.” You told her, straightening out your blazer uncomfortably, unaware of the eyes on you from the other side of the room.

“Formula 1? So he’s, like…a millionaire?” She licked her lips,sultry eyes slipping over the crowd and fixating on who you assumed to be Daniel.

You cringed, resisting the urge to turn your nose up at her. You suddenly regretted telling her about his career because even a blind man could see that his money was the main thing on her mind at that moment in time.

You neglected from answering her question, instead trying to slink back to the kitchen, but you were interrupted by the scuffle of feet and the sound of something shattering before an obvious cry of pain was heard throughout the room, nearly drowned out in the volume of the music pumping from the speakers.

You swivelled back around, and several people had stepped away from the scene leaving an open gap in the crowd as more people gathered around to see what the kerfuffle was.

The girl had disappeared seemingly into thin air and you were about to take the moment of peace as an opportunity to leave, but Theo’s voice called your name over the crowd, laced with urgency.

You furrowed your brows in confusion, heart pounding with anxiety at the panic in his voice. You made your way to the crowd, apologising to people as you pushed your way through to get to the centre of all the attention.

As soon as you edged into Theo’s vision, he dragged you by the elbow into the centre, pointing to the person who’s cry of pain was heard over the music.

Blood was dripping from a deep gash in the palm of their hand, and the person in question looked a little pale, holding their hand up above their head, a permanent wince etched onto their face. Despite that, they looked rather uncomfortable with all the attention, and it was this that caused Theo to turn to the crowd and usher them away.

“I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.” Theo informed you, and you wasted no time in helping the injured person raise their arm higher above their head, guiding them through the crowd with a secure arm around their waist.

“A cut on my hand doesn’t hinder my ability to walk, okay?” They tried, shifting out of your grip.

“No, but if you pass out, it hinders my ability to patch you up.” You retorted, hurriedly passing your glass of lemonade back to Theo.

The person let a weak, sarcastic huff pass their lips, but they let you guide them to the bathroom, keeping an eye on the blood dripping down their arm and creeping into the sleeve of their blazer.

“Toilet or tub?” You asked, kicking the door shut behind you and casting a weary glance back at their hand.

“Depends on the context.” They answered.

You rolled your eyes, settling them on the toilet and quickly rifling through the sink cupboards, locating the first aid kit with ease.

“I’m gonna need you to take off your blazer.” You said, never imagining that you’d say those words to Daniel Ricciardo of all people.

Your relationship with Daniel was weird to say the least. You first met at — surprise, surprise — Theo’s party a few years ago. You’d gotten along swimmingly, perhaps a little bit too well, and it was safe to say he was incredibly charming and cursed with good looks. You were quite good friends, actually.

Until one day he pulled a face at you when you approached him at an award’s evening of some sort. You’d got no idea what happened to elicit such a negative reaction, or any idea on what you could have done, but he’d sneered at you and turned around, making conversation with the person next to you. He’d never explained why, but ever since that day he’d ignored you as much as possible, and it wasn’t exactly hard not to enjoy his company when he was so obviously disgusted with your presence.

Maybe it was the fact that you only managed to snag one piece of cake that night.

“You want a striptease? At least take me out for a date, first.” He muttered, pressing his lips together in obvious discomfort as he peeled his blazer off, being cautious of the blood. “I don’t even know why you’re bothering with this anyway, I’m fine.” He insisted.

You perched yourself on the edge of the bath, placing your bag on the tiled flooring and zipping open the first aid kit.

“Dan, you’re dripping blood…you’re clearly not fine.” You muttered, carefully rolling his shirt sleeve up past his elbow, ignoring the fact that this was the first time in a long time you’d been this close to him. Ignoring the fact that he looked positively fine in a suit, minus the blood.

He let out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes and shifting uncomfortably under your touch.

You turned his hand over, assessed the gash and winced, trying to ignore the tingling, uncomfortable sensation mirrored on your own palm as your eyes ran over the gash. It ran the width of his palm, and it didn’t take a genius to notice that it was quite deep in some places.

“Can we please be quick?” He sighed, his other hand smoothing out non-existent creases in his dress trousers.

You hated to admit it, but his words stung.

��Can you at least pretend like you don’t hate me, for fifteen minutes at least?” You said, an unintentional fierceness to your tone, one that you’d tried your best to dial down in his presence, but it seemed to no avail.

“Only if you do the same.” He muttered, and you took the liberty of ignoring his comment, reaching to fish an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit, gently dabbing at the edges to clean off some blood so you could see the extent of the damage. You flexed his hand, ignoring his hiss of pain as the cut stretched slightly.

“What was that for?” He asked, his free hand slapping your hand as he fought to take his cut up hand out of your grip.

You opened your mouth in surprise, the skin on your own hand stinging slightly with the sudden contact.

“Don’t slap me! I’m trying to make sure you don’t have glass in it, you twat.” You said, shaking your head, “Which it doesn’t, by the way, so you’re welcome for checking.”

“How did you even know to check for glass?”

“Because there was broken glass on the floor?” You answered, applying pressure to the wound and lifting his hand a little higher again.

He huffed, turning his face away from you, so he was facing the wall, his lip curling into a sneer.

You rolled your eyes, “What did you mean when you said ‘only if you do the same’, anyway?” You murmured, keeping one hand on the wound and reaching to the floor to pick up your bag and unclip the front.

He narrowed his eyes, watching you root around in your bag for something, and he was about to say something, before he was interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door.

“Everything ok in there? Everyone still alive?” Theo’s muffled voice echoed into the room.

“We’re fine.”

“Yeah.”

Daniel grimaced, brown eyes burning through the door as if he was trying to send a telepathic message to Theo through the door.

“Good.” Was all Theo said before the full sound of his shoes against the wooden veneers could be heard on the other side of the door.

You hummed in delight, producing the very thing you were originally looking for in your bag.

“Haribo?” Daniel asked, raising his brows expectantly.

“To get your blood sugar levels up, you’re still pale.” You answered, ripping open the packet, and just as you were about to pour the sweets into Daniel’s outstretched hand, you paused, recoiling.

“What?” He asked, noticeably frustrated that he wasn’t scoffing the sweets.

“Why don’t you like me?” You questioned, biting on the inside of your cheek anxiously as he stared straight at you, his face expressionless.

He was quiet for a while, and you almost told him to forget you even said anything because the simple question looked like it hit home, but he opened his mouth, quickly closing it again. He looked at you from behind furrowed brows, apparently confused by your question.

“Why don’t I like you?” He repeated the question. “Why don’t you like me?”

You gaped at him, your cheeks flushing with irritation at his words.

“I don’t—I never—” you sighed in frustration, the hand clutching the packet of Haribo clenching unconsciously as Daniel looked at you with mild concern, “Why the hell would you think I don’t like you?”

He blinked, casting his sights back to the wall, ignoring your eye contact.

“Theo told me you, and I quote, ‘hate me’,” he answered, swallowing roughly as you continued to stare at him.

His discomfort under your gaze brought a sick sense of satisfaction, but at the same time you were having difficulty wrapping your head around what he’d just admitted.

“Theo? My Theo?” You clarified, arching an eyebrow.

He nodded.

“When did he tell you that?” Your heart was starting to hammer in your rib cage, the power of which was almost painful to endure.

“When we went clubbing a while back,” he shrugged.

“Why would he—?” You muttered, before turning back to Daniel. “Are you sure he said that?”

“Positive.”

“So you’ve been so hostile towards me for months now, all because of something someone else said to you in a dark, loud club when you were — let’s face it — probably drunk?”

Daniel sucked in his cheeks, now realising how there would have been so many chances for misunderstanding in such an environment.

“Yes…” he replied, dragging the word out slowly, trying his best to take his mind off the way your grip on his wound was slowly increasing.

“I never said I hate—”

“So…you don’t not like me?” He interrupted, his eyes wide.

“No…Yes…I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that, but I never hated you.” You said, ducking your head down at his intense glare, instead turning your attention back to his bleeding hand, carefully peeling off the gauze to take a peak. You suddenly remembered the scrunched up packet of Haribo still clutched in your grasp, and you shoved it in Daniel’s direction, not bothering to even look at him when he took it, humming quietly in thanks.

He didn’t know how to respond to that, the revelation sending his mind spinning about a hundred different directions.

He was mad at Theo, even if what happened wasn’t entirely his fault, but he was mostly mad at himself for not even bothering to try to talk to you and hash it out. The months he spent trying to ignore you were completely miserable, and the worst part is, he put you through hell without even giving you any reason, and all of that ignorance was not even worth it…that is, if what you said was true.

“Oh.” Was all he said, taking to watching you strap up his hand after telling him he (thankfully) didn’t need stitches, but he did need to rest it for a while, which was probably for the best because the F1 Summer Break was currently in full swing.

Once you’d put the soaked gauze in the bin and tidied everything away to how you’d arrived before the bloodbath ensued, you stood up, brushing nonexistent dirt off your dress, and offered Daniel a rather confused smile.

He bit his lip in thought, your eyes unconsciously zipping to his mouth, before steering your gaze back up to his eyes when he caught you, raising his eyebrow slightly, a pale shade of pink tinting his cheeks as he fought back a smirk.

You turned away, looking at the door, which was very much tempting you at that moment in time.

He cleared his throat once he’d noticed your attention flicker away from him, and it was only then he registered he practically craved you to be looking at him. Whenever he was at functions with Theo, he would always unknowingly search for you, even when he thought you hated his guts, he’d still scan the crowd of unfamiliar faces in the hopes that he’d see you again.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek nervously, feeling your eyes on him. It was as if he’d suddenly melted into a teenager again right beneath your eyes. He cleared his throat again, sinking back against the toilet in an attempt to make himself smaller at the revelation he’d just arrived at.

It was weird, seeing him so shy when he was naturally such an outgoing character.

You found a part of your brain secretly admiring his flustering, but you quickly shut that down, reminding yourself that you shouldn’t be having those thoughts, especially since you’d just had to mop up a slice on his hand.

“I think I’m gonna go grab a drink and join the fray.” You said, hating the way your voice sounded so small against the echoing walls of the bathroom tiles.

Daniel snapped his eyes to yours, holding them intently, slightly alarmed at your words.

The last thing he wanted was for you to leave him; call it soppy, but he wanted to make up for lost time as soon as he possibly could, and he knew there would be very few opportunities considering both your careers were so demanding.

“Um…” he cleared his throat, “Yeah, I just want to say, thanks for all of this.” He gestured down to his hand, and you smiled.

“No problem. Just…stay away from broken glass for a bit and you should be fine.” You mumbled, words not registering in your brain as Daniel breathed a small laugh, looking utterly starstruck and sad at the same time.

“I’ll try my best.”

You offered one last smile, checking you still had your bag, and without another word you slipped out of the bathroom door, hearing the handle click behind you.

You could still hear the thumping remnants of the party in the next room, and without really caring who you bumped into along the way, you made a beeline for the kitchen, filling up a plastic wine glass with the nearest spirit and downing it as quickly as possible. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, immediately feeling guilty because of the early shift, and hurried to fill the glass back up with water, trying your best to dispel the effects of alcohol before they even had an impact.

It seemed to work.

Your head was spinning, unrelated to the liquids you’d just absorbed, but because of the bathroom fiasco that had just occurred only moments prior.

You were that caught up in your own thoughts, trying to separate fact from fiction and thought from feeling, that you completely missed the very brunette on your mind stride past the kitchen and into the living area, looking like a man on a mission as he tried to seek out Theo.

It didn’t take him long, he just had significantly more trouble trying to shake off a blonde that refused to let go of his arm, and he found Theo leant against a table, looking worn out, his mind absent from reality.

In the time it took for you to patch Daniel up, it looked as if Theo had faced a war and somehow escaped.

“You okay?” Daniel asked, hand clapping into Theo’s shoulder in an attempt to bring him back to reality.

He jumped, immediately relaxing when he registered just who was standing in front of him.

“I’m fine, but if that…person over there takes another step towards my Grandma, he’s not going to know what hit him.” He answered, finger pointing at a rather suspicious looking man.

“I don’t see a Grandma anywhere.” Daniel pointed out, slightly concerned.

Theo rolled his eyes, as if he’d had to answer the question a million times already, “She’s the purple one on the mantelpiece.” He muttered, taking a swig of whatever was in his glass.

Daniel nodded, feeling guilty for even bringing up the topic, but the completely detached behaviour from Theo was giving him a hard time in focusing on what he actually came over to do.

“Sorry about that, mate.” He apologised, breathing in deeply.

Theo shrugged.

“Anyway, does Y/N still have the same phone number or did she change it?” Daniel questioned, attempting to pretend like the question wasn’t that big of a deal by shrugging and avoiding making eye contact with Theo, but the raise of the eyebrow and curious, piercing blue stare proved that his attempt was futile.

“I knew you still liked her.” Theo chuckled.

“Am I that transparent?” Daniel quipped, pressing his lips together in a tight line.

“Only for me.” Theo grinned, patting Daniel’s cheek.

Daniel pulled a face, swiping Theo’s hand away.

“But no, she’s still got the same number. Why’d you ask?”

Daniel shrugged, already backing away, attention flickering around the room, once again searching for something — the action of which didn’t go unnoticed by Theo, who positively cackled inside, “Just curious.”

“If curious means ‘I-fucked-up-with-a-really-good-person-big-time-and-I-need-to-make-it-up-somehow-before-I-ask-her-out-for-real-this-time-instead-of-practicing-it-in-the-mirror’, then, whatever you say.”

“That was ages ago!”

“People don’t forget!” Theo yelled, smirking in triumph as Dan disappeared around the corner, no doubt searching for you.

You were sitting on the cold, stone steps outside the apartment building, your phone in your hand and debating whether or not to call a taxi or walk home before it gets too dark.

Your thumb was hovering over the call button to your local taxi when the building doors slammed open, the sound of shoes slapping against the concrete as a tall figure leapt down the last three steps, running a hand through their curls in frustration as they looked left, then right, and sighed, reaching into their jacket pocket to produce their phone.

You couldn’t see their face, only the back of their head, but you’d recognise that figure anywhere.

You looked down, your heart stuttering at the sudden buzzing of the phone in your hand.

You narrowed your eyes, resisting the urge to laugh at the hilarity of the situation, and answered the call, lifting the phone up to your ear, your eyes fixated on the pacing figure on the pavement, watching him from your spot at the top corner of the stairs.

“Hello?” The person asked, sounding a bit breathless through the phone.

“Hi.”

“It’s Daniel...Ricciardo.” He winced at his own awkwardness.

“I know. You’re still saved in my contacts.”

“I am?” He replied, tone laced with shock.

You were almost embarrassed to admit that you’d held onto a little shred of hope in thinking he’d eventually get over himself, “You had a paddy with me, remember?”

“About that, I’m really sorry. Like, really, really, really,really, really—”

“I get the idea.” You sighed.

“No, I don’t think you understand how sorry I am for it. It was so insanely stupid of me to stop talking to you because of something I thought I heard in a club — a fucking club of all places — without even thinking of talking to you—”

“Why didn't you talk to me?”

He was silent for a while, and you noticed he’d halted his pacing on the pavement. “I know it sounds like I’m making up excuses, but I really thought you hated my guts, and that...it hurt because I kind of had a bit of a crush on you and I pushed you away because I think a subconscious part of my mind thought that if I did that then it would be better in the long run because I wouldn’t be so attached to you if something went weird later on.” He explained, his voice lowering and quieting towards the end, as if he’d just understood what he didn’t understand.

“That’s...a lot to unpack.” You murmured, noticing the way his shoulders had slumped.

“Yeah...we don’t have to do it right now, though.”

“No, I agree, I think we’d need a nicer place to sort though our emotional struggles than outside Theo’s apartment building.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit weird — what?” He caught himself, spinning around on his heels.

You offered a shy wave once he’d tilted his head in your direction, realising you’d been watching him talk to you the entire time.

“I was looking for you.” He said once he’d hung up the phone, meeting you halfway on the steps.

“Why?”

“Can I walk you home?” He resorted to asking.

_____

The journey home took about twice as long as it usually would, and by the time you’d both made it onto your street, night was beginning to creep through, the sky changing to a darker blue, street lamps beginning to turn on.

The conversation flowed remarkably easily, albeit there was a noticeable hesitance in dancing around that subject, but you pretended not to notice it, and you had a feeling Daniel was trying to do the same.

He kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, almost disbelieving of that fact that you were in front of him, even after what he’d put you through, and he had to keep catching himself to ensure you didn’t notice him looking.

You did.

“So, how are you feeling about going back after the Summer Break?”

He stifled a smile, “I don’t know why, but I have a really good feeling about going back. You know what? It has to be those Haribo’s.” He breathed a laugh.

“What? I hand out magic Haribo?” You smirked, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Yep.”

“No.”

“You say that now, but you’ll take it back when I get a podium.”

“When you do win, just don’t go around telling everyone about my magic Haribo.”

“Oh, the Haribo are reserved for me and for me only. It won’t have the same effect if you give some to Lando.”

“I’ll just take your word for it, I guess.”

You breathed a laugh, coming to a halt on the pavement, the familiar house standing to your left.

Daniel looked up.

“I thought you had a Fiesta?” He asked, pointing to the blue Hyaundi parked on the driveway.

“I’m sorry, is my car not up to the standard you’re used to?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow teasingly in his direction.

“Oi, I’ll have you know that I learnt to drive in a — I can’t even remember what model it was, but I do remember having to really press down on the brake…and the air con was broken.” He defended, throwing his hands up as if to say he was surrendering.

You bit your lip, “I learnt to drive in a Mercedes.”

His reaction was priceless.

“A Mercedes? You learnt to drive in a—wow.”

“It was just the company car, I didn’t really have a choice.”

“Still…wow.” He paused, feet tapping the pavement agitatedly, “I have a proposal.”

You met his eyes, unable to help feeling slightly anxious by the prospect.

“Go on.” You encouraged, crossing your arms tightly.

“If I win a GP…wait—can we make a deal?” He asked, throwing his hand out.

You nodded.

“If I win a GP, I get to take you on a date.” He offered, raising one eyebrow but somehow maintaining eye contact.

“But…what’s in it for me?” You smirked.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “That’s so rude…but, okay…I take you to Monza, and if—when I win a GP, I get to take you out. For my own sake, I’m gonna pretend like I will win one because I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t.”

“You’ll win one.” You stated simply, shrugging.

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“Because you’re Daniel Ricciardo, when have you ever not been successful in a car?” You asked, pulling a face as if it was obvious from the get-go.

Daniel didn’t say anything after that. He just sort of looked at you, twisting his mouth up in thought. You couldn’t tell what was going through his mind at that moment in time, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was trying to believe your words.

“You really believe that?” He finally said, a hint of what sounded like insecurity laced in his tone.

“You don’t?” You shot back, your heart breaking slightly at his demeanour.

“I never left.” He mumbled under his breath, turning away from you slightly with furrowed brows, seemingly having a conversation with himself.

You knew those words would stick around in your mind for a long time.

But there was something so addictive about ‘Daniel Ricciardo wins the 2021 Italian Grand Prix’.

#daniel ricciardo #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 oneshot #driver x reader #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo oneshot #mclaren #daniel ricciardo x reader #enemies to lovers #f1 fanfiction #fluff #angst

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mercy-burning · 3 years

Text

Wakeup Call - BLURB

I’ve had this idea on the backburner for a while now, but my Discord friends and I put together a little kink challenge to come back to whenever we needed inspiration, so I figured it would be a great opportunity to finally get this done!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: SMUT (18+) Content Warnings: possession kink, consensual somnophilia (sleeping during sex), fingering, oral sex (female receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cum play/eating Word Count: 1.5k

MASTERLIST

Looking down at your sleeping form, Spencer's heart races possibly the fastest it ever had. He's never done anything like this before, and that alone rattles him with nerves almost as much as it excites him.

Key-word almost.

About a week prior, you were thinking aloud together, discussing things you'd wanted to try in order to spice up your sex life a little. Not that it's a bad sex life by any means, but just hours before you brought it up, Spencer had discovered something very interesting about himself.

He's very possessive over you.

You'd been on your back, on the brink of tears as he pulled a fourth orgasm from you, his hands gripping to your breasts for dear life as he pounded into you relentlessly, when he let it slip.

"You look so good like this, letting me take what's mine..."

The words seemed to finally spring you both over the edge, cries of intense pleasure erupting from your throat as deep, broken groans came from his.

After cleaning up and laying in bed wide awake just an hour later, it was obvious that there were some things to discuss.

Long story short, you both had found it extremely hot that he found himself claiming you as his in some way. And after a long discussion of other things you liked in bed, Spencer found out something interesting about you.

You have somnophilia.

And the way you'd described it to him had him hard again instantly.

It was the way you leaned into him, and the way you lowered your voice, softly explaining in detail how you loved the thought of being woken up to his tongue parting you and taking what he wanted regardless of your consciousness... It was the images running through his head of your still, sleeping body above him as he simply helped himself.

And more prominently, it was the words you'd said, implementing both of your kinks at the same time.

"I want you to claim me and take what's rightfully yours... And I want to be asleep while you're doing it..."

He came in his pants as soon as the words left your mouth.

Then, it was just a matter of setting a time and date to try it out.

The time is now, just a week later.

Spencer recalls the night before, how you'd gone over the basics of what you're comfortable with and what he could do— which is pretty much anything. You'd given him the go-ahead to fuck you however he saw fit, and with that, he could formulate a plan.

He'd peeled the blankets from your body and gently adjusted you so he could get to you more easily. Now your hands are rested gently over your stomach and your legs are spread just enough that he can fit between them.

Which is what he does, laying on his stomach and running his finger along the seam of your cunt, his eyes up to focus on your steady breathing. Slowly but surely he dips his finger in deeper and deeper, testing the waters and feeling you stretch beautifully around him. You're not awake to purposely clench yourself around him as you normally do, but all the same it's wet and warm and snug.

To take the next step, Spencer leans forward and darts his tongue over your clit, taking experimental little kitten licks until he's sure you won't wake just yet. That's when he lets himself get lost in the moment a little, serving a slow and steady rounding rhythm between his middle finger and his tongue.

The moment he hears a little whimper from your throat is the moment he pauses, slowly lifting his face to see that you've slightly adjusted your head on the pillow.

Though the thought of you waking up to his face between your legs is enticing, the jolt of excitement that surges through his body at the prospect of getting caught this early on makes him long for something else.

Your words ring loud and clear in his head, all-consuming and oh so alluring.

I want you to claim me and take what's rightfully yours...

Spencer removes himself from you then, leaning back to take off his pants and boxers. Once everything is gone, he lets you be still for a minute or two, making sure you're truly sound asleep. And as he kneels over above you, languidly jerking himself off between your legs, it becomes increasingly harder to resist the urge to wake you up right now and fuck you hard into the mattress.

He holds off, though, getting comfortable and settling himself perfectly between your thighs, lining himself up and preparing to fuck you slowly.

The very second he slips inside of you, he holds back a loud groan, settling for a sigh that would have had you in shambles had you been awake to hear it. He's so thoroughly wrecked and overwhelmed by the situation at hand that he almost comes right then and there.

He holds out though, at least for a few gentle thrusts. But by the sixth one, he's already coming, filling you with his release and praying he knows how to proceed, because he truly hadn't expected a premature ending to this excursion.

He pulls out of you and leans back on his heels, surveying your body— still succumbed to the lull of unconsciousness. When his eyes land on your exposed and dripping pussy, though, he gets an idea.

The thought makes him hard again, but he relents, getting back down on his stomach and bringing his tongue out to lick up the small stream of cum that's found its way out of you. His eyes roll back at the salty, bitter taste of the both of you together, and in no time at all, Spencer finds himself eating you out once more.

Now he takes his sweet time. And he's messy, plunging his tongue in deep and swirling around the cum he'd given you. And this time he isn't worried about moving you too much or making as little noise as possible.

He's decided that this is how he wants to wake you up.

He wants you to wake up knowing that he's already come inside you and marked you as his. He wants you to feel him everywhere. To feel his warmth, to feel his tongue spreading it around and making a mess of you...

Your eyes start to flutter open at the intense stimulation you're feeling, soft groans and whimpers falling from your lips until, finally, you're awake.

And it's even better than you imagined.

Spencer's tongue is lapping at you with fervor, and the sounds he's making... Once you realize that he's already come inside you and is now cleaning it up, you moan loud, your hands stretching outwards to touch him.

He pulls away with a glistening grin and a low, "Good morning..."

As hot as it is, though, you're close to orgasming, so you gently tug at his hair and pant. "Don't stop, please..."

You're grateful for his eagerness to finish what he started, his mouth attaching itself to you with a greed and need to possess that makes the high even higher.

It isn't long before he flicks his tongue rapidly over your clit and draws out your orgasm, using his fingers to fuck the rest of his cum into you at the same time. Even through the blood pounding in your ears, you can hear how incredibly wet you are.

And all of that totaled together pulls the lever that releases your orgasm.

Even as you come down, Spencer slows, though his tongue is still interested in cleaning you up. He laps at you slowly, the overstimulation burning just enough to feel pleasurable without it being too much.

When he finally pulls away from you, he kneels, his hands resting on your knees and a satisfied smile on his lips. "There. I think that's all of it."

You laugh, making grabby hands and trying to catch your breath. "Get over here and say good morning, Lover Boy..."

"Hmm, I thought I already did that," he muses, though he does as you asked anyway.

He greets you with a kiss, and the taste of your mixed fluids on his lips pulls a groan from your throat.

"Mmm, what a wakeup call..."

"So that was... okay?" he asks cautiously, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your arm.

"Oh, honey, it was more than okay... Seems like you thought so, too..."

He doesn't realize what you mean until you reach out and graze his erection with your fingertips. With a hiss, he flops his head on the pillow and takes in the feel of your hand wrapping around him.

"Well, since you've already eaten your breakfast this morning, I think it's my turn, don't you?"

Spencer doesn't stop you as your body snakes down the mattress and your head lowers to his crotch.

***

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

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#spencer reid x reader #spencer read x reader smut #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds smut

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omgreally · 3 years

Note

Hi there!

Could I please make a little request for Din?

"I didn't know where else to go"

Thank you, hope you're doing ok today! ❤

Hey lovely! First off, I am SO SORRY this took so long. I know it's been months and I have nothing but terrible excuses. Hopefully this makes up for it at least a little?

Shelter M, Din Djarin/Smuggler F!Reader, 2.1k words Warnings: Angst, drinking, unhealthy coping mechanisms, swearing, Helmetless!Din, lil bit of making out, brief almost-but-not-quite questionable consent, unresolved sexual tension (but who knows, maybe I'll do a Part II?) Summary: Mando has nothing left, nowhere to go. Except to you.

He stands on your doorstep, a soaking wet mass of metal and muscle. The rain falls in rolling sheets, sliding through his hair, down the back of his neck, underneath his cloak and in shining rivulets over his Beskar breastplate.

Without the helm, the Mandalorian looks...smaller, somehow, deflated, but maybe that’s just the defeated look lurking in the dark space behind his eyes.

He looks drained. Empty.

It’s him, though - nobody can fake pure Beskar armor, much less the set he wears. It’s mirror-finish, reflecting your stunned expression in rain-blurred steel.

You open your mouth to say something, but fail to find the words. They all seem so inadequate to address Mando standing in front of you, maskless.

He’s not quite looking at you, his gaze alternating between the ground and somewhere beyond your left ear. You resist the urge to glance behind you, instead taking him in, cataloguing the changes since you last saw him.

It’s been months, but it usually is. His circuitous route of bounty hunting doesn’t intersect with your parts of the Rim very much, which is fine; this way your businesses don’t overlap. As a smuggler, you’re far too likely to be on the wrong end of a tracking fob, so you stay away and so does he.

Once, you were a useful connection. You’re not sure when you crossed the line into ‘ally’, much less ‘friend’. Yet here he is, staring at you through the pouring rain. Helmet off, tucked almost protectively underneath his arm.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says, dully, and his voice sounds so different yet familiar that you experience a sense of disorientation, of the planet’s surface tilting beneath your feet as you re-orient yourself to this strange new reality where the Mandalorian comes to you for help.

Once, you would have asked for credits first. Now, all you say as you recover from your shock is, “Are you all right?” He shakes his head mutely as you step back and allow him access into your planetside flat.

It’s small, so small that his arm brushes you as he steps over the threshold. You resist the odd urge to put a hand on his shoulder; you’ve never had to comfort him before, save for buying him a round at some space dive or other after a job gone bad. This is something different. This is something else entirely.

You don’t ask what happened. You doubt he’ll give you a straight answer anyway. And you don’t ask about the helmet. He takes a seat at the kitchenette counter and sets it down on the counter in front of him. The black, empty visor stares at you silently as you fetch a bottle of something cheap and strong and hand it to him, knowing he won’t need a glass.

Mando uncaps it and takes a long drag without a word. He makes a face - so strange to see the expressions that are usually hidden by the mask of the helmet - and suppresses a cough as he hands the bottle back to you. You shake your head and set it down next to the Beskar headpiece.

You’re not known for your empathy, and neither is he, so you settle on practicality which you know he appreciates. “Are you injured?” you ask, businesslike as you examine his face a little closer. There’s the bloom of a bruise on one temple, underneath the damp plaster of his dark hair.

“Not permanently,” he says, that trace of dry sardonicism that you usually find irresistibly hilarious now making you frown. “I’m fine,” he adds gruffly as he reads your expression. You huff, crossing your arms, but he says nothing more. Just picks up the bottle again and swigs with an audible “Ahh,” from his throat.

“Why are you here?” you ask, at last, after watching him drink for a minute in silence. Mando looks at you, at your eyes, and holds your gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before he finally answers.

“I lost him.”

“The kid?” It feels like you’ve been hit, the air punched from your lungs. You assumed he was back on the Crest, asleep, not - gone.

You had only met the little gremlin twice, once when Mando needed fuel and ammo on the cheap, another for a place to lay low for a day or two. The weird green creature...grew on you, like a very cute fungus. His nonsensical babbling, insatiable appetite, and obvious love for the Mandalorian was infectious. You admit it; you were weak. You got fond. And, in turn, fonder of Mando himself.

And now…

“You found his people?” you manage, and it comes out in a croak. You clear your throat and Mando offers you the bottle. You take it, tossing your head back for a deep swig. It burns going down and warms the suddenly-cold cavity inside your chest.

“Yeah,” Mando says. “He’s...he’s safe, now.” The he was never safe with me is unspoken but you hear it anyway. You pass the bottle back to him.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mean it. “I know...I know it was never a permanent arrangement, but he clearly meant a lot to you.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at his helmet before fitting the rim of the bottle to his lips, tossing his head back and draining the rest of its contents in several long gulps.

You watch the shape of his throat bob in his neck above the wet snarl of his cloak and look away quickly. A buzz is building in your veins already and he’s had most of the bottle - you’re surprised he’s still upright.

“You holing up in your junker tonight?” you wonder, after casting around for a change of subject. An expression of pain crosses Mando’s face, a grimace not caused by the alcohol, for just a second before it’s gone.

“The Crest is gone. Melted to slag and dust.” He says it without inflection, and that’s how you know it’s hurting him.

“Fuck,” you summarize elegantly. Mando nods.

“I haven’t got anything left,” he states. “No ship. No credits. No more favors to call in. Nothing.”

You reach out, more out of anger than anything else, and grab his hand, squeezing so tightly that the wet leather squelches. “Stop it,” you say harshly. “You have everything you need. You’re a kriffing Mandalorian.”

He snorts, pulling his hand away - with some effort. “Not anymore.” He stares down at his helmet, and beneath the scruff and fuzz and rain, his lips press together in a tight line.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I broke my Creed,” he shrugs, setting a hand atop the smooth dome of Beskar. “More than once. Didn’t matter at the time. All that mattered...was saving the kid. Making sure he was safe.”

“Mission fucking accomplished, then,” you say, shaking your head. “You pick yourself up. You rebuild. You move on.”

“How can I?” He meets your gaze, and you flinch at the dark intensity of his - something molten, furious there that you’re suddenly afraid of. You haven’t forgotten the promise of violence coiled in his every limb. “I have nothing to go back to. Nowhere to go. That’s why I’m here.” He waves a gloved hand with obvious disgust, and for some reason, that hurts, a sting behind your breastbone like something almost physical.

Mando must see the look on your face, for he wilts like damp lettuce. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine. I get it,” you say brusquely, your words clipped. You take the empty bottle from the counter, your fingers curling around the neck and squeezing, hard. “You come in here, beaten-up, drink my alcohol and drip all over my floors - but I’m the last place you’d go. I get it.”

He rises to his feet, and you forgot how tall he is, how broad. And despite - ormaybe because of - the unfamiliarity of his helmetless appearance, Mando is still intimidating. You don’t shrink back, though; you square your shoulders and your jaw and lift your chin in challenge.

“You’re the last person I’d put in danger,” he says in a low voice, a voice that stirs a strange sensation in the pit of your guts that you haven’t felt in a very, very long time.

“You forget what I do for a living?” you manage, your mouth suddenly dry. You swallow past it, tasting the aftertaste of alcohol and your own misplaced nervousness.

“I’ve been hunted from one end of the galaxy to the other,” he continues in that same husky baritone that makes your knuckles go white. “I wasn’t going to bring that down on you.”

“I appreciate that,” you manage, diplomatically - but he’s not having it, staring you down like his life depends on keeping eye contact. “But I’m a big girl. I can handle things myself.”

He looks you up and down - just once - but with such practiced ease that it makes you wonder how many times he’s done the same thing from beneath the visor. You shiver despite yourself.

“I know,” he says, and then before you can move or react or think, he lunges into your space and kisses you.

If you were shocked by Mando’s sudden appearance, you’re fucking floored by this. You don’t know how to react at first but he proves quickly to be competent enough at this to coax your lips apart with his and get you to kiss him back.

He tastes like a distant hint of blood and smoke and his body is solid as his arm snakes round your waist without you noticing and he pulls you to him. He holds you so that you’ll have to twist away to escape and with the confidence that says he knows you won’t want to.

And you don’t.

Instead you let the bottle fall and it clatters forgotten to the ground as you grab him by the pauldrons and let him lick into your mouth with the answering surge of your tongue and your hips pressing to his.

Mando kisses you like he needs to, and you realize that he’s half-hard already, impatiently nudging a knee between your thighs and pressing you to the wall. You break from his mouth to breathe and wonder if he’s ever had anything but this - a wild, fervid fumble of hurriedly-parted clothes and tangled limbs.

You don’t want to be this for him - a receptacle for his despair, his rage. You have too much of your own to deal with. But you can’t deny that you’ve thought about this, imagined something similar to this very scenario - but you never counted on the weight of emotion that comes with it.

“Stop, Mando,” you say as he sucks bruises into your neck, the edges of his teeth making your breath catch on nothing. He goes still, but his hands are tight on your hips, holding you to him. You can feel his breath, heavy and warm in your ear.

“Not like this,” you tell him. “You can stay, but we’re not doing this. Not like this.”

At first you think he’s not going to let you go, and the thrill that passes through you from the thought is unconscionable. But then his grip loosens and his leg withdraws and he steps back, out of your space. You rub your face with hands you can’t admit are shaking before finally looking up at him.

He looks wrecked. Broken. Staring at the ground, damp hair hanging over his forehead, and you catch the trembling twitch of his bottom lip even as he ducks his head to try to hide it.

“You can take my bunk,” you tell him. “We’ll talk in the morning. Okay?”

For a second you think he’s going to argue, or just...walk out. Relief blooms in you as he nods. He turns without a word to retrieve his helmet before he retreats down the hall.

You watch him go, and the slump to his shoulders breaks your heart. But he’s staying, and that’s something.

You never thought you’d have a broken Mandalorian sleeping in your bunk.

And you’re not sure if you regret the fact that you’re not there next to him.

#request #din djarin/f!reader #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #mando/you #mando/reader #mando/f!reader #mando x you #din djarin x you

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