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wraithprint · 1 day

Text

Housewarming ;

✖ a twisted metal fic

⊱rating: explicit ; minors dni ⊱summary: you handle a knife like the world ended before your parents taught you how to cook and Sweet Tooth loves like the world ending finally gave him the chance to. ⊱pairing: sweet tooth x afab!reader ; primarily sweet tooth pov ⊱wc: 4.3k. help ⊱contains: no beta, no use of y/n, established relationship, age gap - Sweet Tooth is in his late 30s/early 40s and you are a 20something apocalypse baby, no gendered pet names, descriptions of blood + murder, brief mention of child abuse, fluff, yearning, ruminations on codependence, smut, piv sex, creampie but i don't focus on it, kitchen sex, dom needles if you squint, gloves stay on mask stays on, a whiff of yandere if you squint, narrative and tonal delineations between sweet tooth / needles kane / marcus kane, extremely specific early 2000s reference, general inability to write a short and punchy sex scene, sweet tooth can't fuck without being a little annoying about it ⊱a/n: this was supposed to be short. this was supposed to be a bullet list. help. i also dug up my CD + CD player just to relive my cereal box kid's choice awards CD memories. that synth opening on Sometimes is so bad.

Sweet Tooth kind of hates houses.

Not in a gestalt sense — he'll spend all day watching reruns of HGTV if given the chance; he's developed more opinions on farmhouse decor than what should be healthy. No, houses just happen to be the vessel in which household dynamics were inflicted upon him. He feels the same about dollhouses, too: It's less about the house and more about it being the stage upon which Mommy Doll screams at him for not making enough in residuals to afford another trip to the Bahamas this year, and where Not My Daddy Doll ruins the plaster every time he gets upset.

But there's something about this house.

Maybe it's the lack of an open concept floor plan. Maybe it's the adrenaline from killing the couple who lived here, still warm in the foyer in their matching tennis outfits. It could be the polished marble floor, which is complimented so well by all that blood right now, or it could be because it's a mansion. Those high ceilings and vacuous rooms feel spacious enough to house his baggage without it piling up against the walls.

Or, he thinks, at the sound of you shrieking in delight from the kitchen, it could be you.

He's cleaning his machete on the wife's tennis dress when he hears you from the room over.

"They've got fucking chicken in here!" Your voice is half-muffled from inside the fridge; back end jutting out from behind its open door.

"The chicken is doing what now?" Sweet Tooth calls back to you.

There's a thunk, then the distinct sound of produce hitting the floor and rolling. You're glowering at him when he rounds the corner. The hair on the back of your head is disheveled; several potatoes roll aimlessly along the glossy tile. He doesn't have to say it. You already know he knows.

"The chicken," you enunciate laboriously, "is about to get chef'ed by yours truly."

"You cook?" he asks, mildly incredulous. "I got the impression you just ate whatever fit in your mouth." And, according to recent sordid memory, some things that don't quite fit—but you're creative. You find a way.

"Well, that's because I haven't had anything worth cooking." You intone as you rummage through the crisper.

"You mean aside from that possum you made last week."

This time, you dip lower before you snap your head out of the fridge and pivot on a heel towards the counter with purpose. He doesn't mind that you're stubbornly avoiding his gaze—he's busy moving behind you to shut the fridge, watching the line of your hips as he does it.

"Aside from that possum I killed and you insisted I try to cook with aerosol and a lighter."

It came out charred on one side and nearly raw on the other. Absolutely abysmal eating. Also sixty percent his fault.

"You listened to me. That's on you, sweetheart."

You shoot him a bird, he shoots one back, and the two of you descend into banter about everything from the tiles to the backsplash to the enormity of the kitchen itself and what all it could be used for (murder, cooking, fucking - in that order). You've got some crushed garlic and pat of butter (real butter!) going on a bougie ceramic skillet and the air sings with the scent of aromatics.

"Hey, Needles?" You call a bit louder than necessary, as if he could ever stop paying attention to you. "Put something on, would you, please?" He follows the nod of your head to a swanky-looking CD player sitting on the counter a safe distance away from the sink. There's a CD rack beside it, the rotating kind, like a seasoning rack for disc jockeys.

"What're you in the mood for?" Asks Sweet Tooth. In two strides he's there and thumbing through the collection. Rock and grunge, mostly. Nirvana, Foo Fighters, The Cranberries. Soundgarden—he'll save that for you—and...Weezer, for some reason. It's completely possible that the previous homeowners put all of their taste points into music rather than interior design. Too late to ask them now, he supposes.

You make a noise just north of indecisive before saying, "You pick. Surprise me."

He gives it another spin, ignoring the ones that feel too easy, rolling his eyes at some others (Loggins and Messina? Really?) until he settles on one that stands out. It's in a ragged paper sleeve. There's a faded General Mills logo on it, and by the look of it, it must've come from a cereal box. The disc itself is glossy, embossed with a clean pattern of rings that feel pleasant to run a thumb over. He entertains himself with the aesthetics of it for a few seconds before reading off the disc to you.

"How about...The Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards 2003 Volume 2?"

You say nothing for a long moment. Sweet Tooth keeps reading the CD face.

"Featuring music by Britney Spears, Nikki Cleary, Backstreet Boys..."

"...NYSYNC and other hot artists?" You say automatically.

"And other hot artists indeed." Sweet Tooth taps the lid of the CD player and it eases open. You watch him so intently he can't actually tell if you want him to play the CD or snap it in two.

"I ate so. Much. Cereal. To get all four of those CDs."

Sweet Tooth loads the disc and presses play: swears he sees your pupils dilate at the sound of the disc whirring into place. After a few seconds of cheesy synth, the beat kicks in and Britney Spears drifts through the speakers, singing about Sometimes.

"Holy shit." Your garlic is starting to burn, but you can't bring yourself to care about that right now. "This is it! This is the one. I got this on the morning of a spelling test and listened to it all the way to school. It was in a box of Cookie Crisp," You start nodding your head to the music, mouthing words you half-remember, swaying to the back beat. Sweet Tooth falls into rhythm with you, albeit with far more gyrating than necessary for a Kid's Choice Award-winning song.

"Cookie Crisp," Sweet Tooth echoes fondly, voice rumbling through his mask. "A cereal after my own heart. Did you P-A-S-S the T-E-S-T?"

"Dunno." You shrug. "School blew up right before I handed it in."

The rhythm leaves your bodies, then.

He tries to imagine you school-aged; tiny and swallowed up by a uniform that runs too big in some places and too small in others. Hair flying wild after recess, dried spaghetti sauce on your cheek after lunch. Your little hands gripped tight around a pencil, trying to remember your i's before e's except after c's. Did you have a favorite subject? A favorite teacher? A favorite animal you secretly wanted people to ask about?

When the bombs started dropping, where did you hide?

Before you, Sweet Tooth never questioned what it was like to have been born at a different time. Time lined up well for him: old enough to have learned everything he needed before society collapsed, young enough to still enjoy it all when the doors to Blackfield flew open. He'd already seen his 21st birthday in the asylum by the time you learned your times tables. But moments like these get him thinking about if.

If he was born a little later.

If he had a different family.

If he had grown up in your neighborhood .

If he had gone to the same school as you.

Do you think we would have been friends?

Instead he says, "Hey, chef. Your garlic's burning."

And when you say, "Good. That one's yours."

He wonders if this is what a house is supposed to feel like: full of light, music, and the smell of vaguely burnt garlic.

Sweet Tooth has never known what domestic feels like, but he's seen movies. Read books. This—you, gushing about eating something that doesn't come from a can, mocking the leathery tans on the bodies by the door—it's gotta come close. It has to.

Sweet Tooth crosses the kitchen and moves the skillet for you, and it's on his return trip that he sees how utterly wrong you're holding the kitchen knife.

Almost the wrongest he's ever seen it. Cutting way too close to your knuckles, chopping a hapless carrot like you're trying to sever a limb and he's wincing each time the blade comes down like a guillotine. You handle a knife like the world ended before you had to cook for yourself, and it shows. A sense of duty settles itchy between his rubs and Sweet Tooth slots behind you, thick arms framing you as he settles his gloved hands over yours.

"Your knife etiquette is atrocious." He corrects your grip, shows you how to form a claw to protect your fingertips while you hold an onion. "Who taught you how to chop?"

You lean into him, slack and trusting as he guides your hands and Sweet Tooth has to remind himself how to hold a knife. How to cut. How to breathe. He curls himself around your shape and you let him, the both of you twisting into a single being and he likes the idea of that. The two of you, joined, forever. He could chop carrots for the rest of his life with you and he doesn't think he'd mind. Not if he got to be like this.

The question turns over in your head and finally, you answer.

"No one," You say blandly. Like you're discussing gas prices. "I lost my folks in the collapse. I think...the first time I put thought into holding a knife was when I was about to kill someone with it."

A beat.

He sees that same school uniform, sticky and ruined with blood. You probably still had baby teeth. If he had known you then...

Would you have trusted him?

He can't say he knows.

Instead, he holds onto what he does know: how your weight settles in his arms. The smell of your skin, the lye from the bar soap you use, so old that any real scent it had has faded by now. That scar at the base of your neck you got from a fishing accident, and the knowledge that if he kisses it right now, your breath would hitch in that secret, shuddering way he loves. He knows he would die for you.

And he longs to ask:

Do you know?

What he says is,

"I'm showing you, then. It's like this: a rocking motion. Tip to hilt. If you hold what you're cutting like this," he slides his hand under your palm, curls his fingers up into it for yours to rest against. "You won't lose your fingertips. Keep your fingers pinched at the base of the blade and you'll have more control."

You hum, considering this.

"It almost feels like an extension of me." You say more to yourself than the man attached to you. Your weight leans in the direction you're cutting, bringing Sweet Tooth with you like a shadow. He watches you work that thought down to the bone along with the remaining onions and potatoes on the cutting board.

Something about clicking the skillet back on after you add the vegetables puts two and two together for you, like remembering something once you get to the bottom of the stairs.

"Is this what it's like with your machete?"

Sweet Tooth makes a low, thoughtful sound. It reverberates through your bones, settles into the marrow and he doesn't miss it when your pulse stutters into a sprint at the sensation.

"Most good things should feel like an extension of you, I think." His voice is bright, smile wide behind his mask. "Some things feel that way because they're made well. Other things, it's like you grow into it. You take the time to understand it, nurture that bond, and you become..." He stops, then, brain wholly preoccupied by you taking a slice of carrot from the board and bringing it to your lips, taking his hand with it. Something hot braids slick in his in gut. The heat of your breath bleeds through the skin of his gloves and he can't. He can't say it.

Intertwined.

"Want one?" You've already got a slice of carrot up to his chin. He separates from you just long enough to expose his mouth, and in a moment he's eaten it.

In another, his mouth is on you.

His lips find your neck, settles on the sensitive skin of your throat. Feels it contract when you gasp. Gloved hands retreat from yours, take up residence under the hem of your tank top, travel the expanse of soft skin around your navel, the base of your ribs. The ribbed knit of your top sticks a bit when he peels it up, soaked through with arterial spray from earlier that's dried and set into the cotton by now. It leaves a scaly, sticky texture under your bust, and before you can protest the behavior Sweet Tooth's tongue is laving it from your skin in hot, wet stripes.

"Right now, Needles?" You try to keep your tone even, you really do. But he's licking what you know is someone else's blood off of you and the blood in your head is rushing to needier places at the moment. "With food on the stove?"

He ignores you, of course. You pry yourself from him, force yourself to drop the stove to min once again and all the while he's muttering little apologies as he follows you:

"'m sorry. couldn't help it. didn't mean to."

He's not apologetic for very long.

There's no shame in the way he positions you against the sink, bent slightly at the hip, elbows bowed to brace yourself between the counter and the weight of him behind you. That weight lessens a moment, just long enough for the sound of zipper teeth to catch the air. Your nostrils flare at the sound, and Sweet Tooth can't help but admire the way your hips cant back for him on reflex. Your tank top and sports bra are in a bundle at your armpits, your pants are still fully on, but nonetheless you react. Smooth leather slides over the swell of your hips. One hand settles where you've pivoted for him to hold you in place, and the other moves forward to unfasten your jeans. He only opens it enough to fit that hand in, to press the seams of his gloved fingers against your cunt through the fabric of your underwear and like many other things he knows this before touching you: you're already wet.

Sweet Tooth eases your pants off of you. Your underwear comes with it, and he lifts you up with that other hand just enough for you to kick the heap of fabric off your ankles. He lets you reposition yourself on the lip of the sink for all of three seconds before he removes the space between you. That first finger slides in, all the way to the knuckle and in a moment you're folded against the counter. The beveled edge of the granite is cold against your skin, bites into your hips and promises to bruise from the pressure but you don't care.

It's the first stretch you like the most - the sweet tension before your body goes slack and he starts finger-fucking you open in earnest, pressing open-mouthed kisses onto the backs of your shoulders and your neck, dragging his teeth against you until raised marks form. With your weight settled properly against the counter now, that other hand finds your clit. He pinches it just to make you clench around him before he sets a steady pace of rolling it under the pad of his middle finger.

"W-E-T," Sweet Tooth spells. His voice is rough, but you can still hear the chuckle in his throat when he asks, "What's that spell?" And he adds that second finger, curls them both inside you in a way that makes you hiss with pleasure.

"It spells—ah!—fuck you," you snipe back, but it's toothless. Stars swim in your vision. Your lower half tingles and all you can think about is the heat of his cock rubbing against the inside of your thigh each time he ruts against you.

"W-R-O-N-G. Might have to spell 'detention' next, sweetheart." There's just a drop of venom in his voice, the part of him that gets off on having power over you. It's this part of him that dips his head into the crook between your neck and shoulder and bites down hard. Hard enough to pull a strangled cry from you, half-surprised, half-pleasured, wholly addled by lust. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave two parallel rows of bruises blossoming under the skin.

Needles catches the white of your eyes flash up at him in the reflection of the glass. You're clever, keen enough to sense that shift in his tone even three fingers deep and he'd reward you for it. If you earned it. His hand leaves your clit to palm himself finally, allowing you just a moment to focus on him. "Next one's a twofer, honey, so pay attention."

You try. It's hard, with his fingers scissoring slow, deliberate strokes inside of you, but you bite down on your lip and you try.

"C-A-V-I-T-Y. What's that spell, hmm?" There's an edge to Needles' tone, like he's testing a blade against his thumb to see how much pressure it takes to pierce. A fresh wave of ache, raw and new from his teeth on your neck, pulls you away from the edge of an orgasm just enough to form a response.

"Cavity," you breathe, and your voice warbles from the effort. You can barely see the whites of his eyes under his mask in the window, pupils blown and locked on you. There's a tacky sound - skin on skin - and without seeing you know it's him squeezing himself faster. Needles shudders against you, some low, animal noise coming from him that makes your blood feel superheated in your veins.

"Clever." And it doesn't quite feel like a compliment when Needles says it so much as it feels like the other shoe preparing to drop. "And what do we do with cavities?" He sounds twice as pointed, voice a ragged thing in his throat and you want to stay cogent, you really do -

but you really need to come.

It's too much. You know the answer but your brain strains to grasp the word and bring it to your lips.

We fill them.

You can't say it. Tears prick your eyes, the apple of your throat bobbing on a wordless cry and that tell-tale tension starts to seize you, just before the dam breaks, just before -

Needles takes his fingers out.

You're almost mad at him for it.

"What do we do?" He enunciates, unimpressed, or...impatient?

Was he...waiting for you to finish his setup? It seems he is, because he lets you get a few breaths in you without punishment before tapping the leaking tip of his cock against your cunt as if begging the question.

"Fill them," You finally gasp. "We—"

Marcus Kane sinks into you.

It's like this: tip to hilt, a rocking motion, like you're an extension of him. All good things feel like an extension of the body, and from this angle he's not sure where you end and where he begins. He likes you like this, wet and trembling and split open on his cock, all the air in your body dedicated to him.

He doesn't let you move at first; he just holds you there, lets you feel the steady and relentless pressure of him spreading you on the length of his dick until he bottoms out so deep inside you that for a moment you can't stop clenching around him, some nerve hit and held down inside you. There's some confusion on what to call him. Sweet Tooth, Needles, Baby, please, rightthere, fuck - he'll answer to any and all of those, but he leaves you hanging on his length until you say his name.

"Marcus—" you finally sob. You're unbearably full. Each time he twitches inside of you, you clench around him like a sympathetic response, your body attuned to him on some synaptic level. "Please."

It's all you have to say.

Marcus breathes your name like it's precious in his lungs, and then he moves. His hips stutter forward, just that much deeper inside of you after having spent so long around him and it hits that spot in you, soft and vulnerable and you finally come undone. It starts with a litany of gasps, your core squeezing and spasming until your whole body feels like a clenched fist. He fucks you through it , relishes the staccato of your voice on the pace of his thrusts until that last moan climbs up and out of you with such volume it echoes off the tiles. He brings his hand down to your clit, circling it with each squeeze you give him, thrusting shallow and persistent against that spot until your legs dangle nerveless over the lip of the sink, until your orgasm rides the road of your body and all that's left is the two of you, intertwined.

You're dripping when he starts moving again.

He's vaguely aware of the CD starting over when he starts pumping in and out of you, filling and hollowing, shaping you to fit the bend and weight of his cock. This is how it's supposed to be—he belongs here. Inside you, with your head turned to kiss him so he can swallow each moan that spills out of you, with your legs hanging slack and open, swinging to the rhythm he fucks into you. Your chest heaves with effort, eyes glassy, already fucked out and touch-wrecked but you still lean into him, seeking his touch like a lizard to a hot stone. He could kill you right now and you'd let him. You could kill him right now and he'd let you, so long as he dies like this. So long as the last thing he feels is you.

Wet, vulgar sounds echo off the counters and the walls, and Marcus absently wonders if the neighbors can hear you. Can hear him, grunting so deep in his chest that his teeth feel like they're rattling. They could show up and moment looking for their tennis partners and neither of you can bring yourselves to care. It's a conscious effort to look at you, to hold you in his mind's eye what for the way his eyes keep rolling back in his head each time your walls press around him. You're both sticky from sweat, your thighs a mess of your own release and his precome steady forming a rope from the join of you to the floor. It's when you start babbling again that Marcus picks up his pace, feeling his own release creeping up in kind.

"Fuck! I'm gonna—" You swallow suddenly, hearing yourself for the first time in several minutes, voice foreign in your throat. "Gonna come." You're secretly glad he doesn't ask you to spell it.

"You're doing so good for me, baby." His voice thrums against the shell of your ear, calm, quiet, breathy. Like he's somewhere else, somewhere only the two of you can go, and only like this. "Almost there, just...hold on."

You hum, or as close an approximation you can get with a raw throat.

"So well."

Marcus makes a low questioning noise, slows just enough for you to say,

"Doing so well."

You can only moan, then, when he shifts his angle and drives into you from a new angle, driving the breath from you, but you hear him chuckle. It's a quick, biting thing, like he didn't mean to let it out but you hear it and Marcus fucks this new pattern into you it's what you focus on when your second, screaming orgasm shoots through you from gut to the space between your eyes and everywhere in between. Marcus comes just after with a desperate groan of his own, hips pumping sans rhythm until he unloads all he has inside you. He thrusts a bit more for good measure, slave to the feel of you tightening obediently around him — or bound by the need to make you utterly his. He can't tell anymore, and he can't care. His only cogent thought is how lovely you look folded over the sink like this, dripping in sweat, chest rising and falling in gasping, labored breaths. You're looking up at him in the reflection, ignorant of the world on the other side of that glass.

The sunlight filters through leaves now, the day landing on your skin from a different angle. Marcus resolves to kiss each dappled spot of sunlight from your skin and he's well on his way to do it until you start squirming desperately. Wordlessly, he lets you down, holds your hips to support your ambitious efforts to stand after such a thorough fucking and it's you who speaks first, after everything.

"The chicken..." Is all you can say. "I forgot the fucking chicken."

And the bubble pops, the music drones back in. Your afterglow is interrupted by the sight of your poor veggies sitting wilted and dried-out on the skillet, not quite burnt, but not exactly Michelin dining, either. Browned patches of butter cling to various spots on the skillet, a few degrees away from scorching. The chicken lies neglected and uncut where you'd left it, never even a contender in the morning's itinerary.

Sweet Tooth laughs. "We got the 'fucking' part down, at least!"

You turn to him, a pout set deep into the lines of your face, and that's all it takes for Sweet Tooth to get roped into cooking while you shower, raid the pantry, and spend the afternoon resting your aching legs on the chaise with Harold. Sweet Tooth doesn't mind. You've got this way of making anywhere feel like home, and even if the two of you won't be sticking around here, he might be convinced to spend a few days. At least until the fridge gets emptied...and definitely after you try out the beds.

And the shower.

And the couches.

There's something he's been meaning to ask you, now that you're stretched out catlike in the other room. He shouts for you, the shape of your name upturned in a question.

"Yeah?" You call back, voice wrecked, but he can hear the smile on your lips.

"What's your favorite animal?"

#.txt #twisted metal #sweet tooth #needles kane x reader #sweet tooth x reader #wraithwrites #twisted metal fanfiction #icon is not white because i am not white and i never see brown skinned ppl in these x reader gfx #slasher x reader

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