#Pain On Top Of Kneecap

[bucksangel]

my left knee fucking hurts so bad i’m trying not to cry

[adarkandmagicalforest]

blood lust

benjicot blackwood/ofc bracken (elma bracken)

warnings: fight kink, smut, rough oral sex (female receiving), short and sweet

2nd installment: once again, 3rd installment: hunted/hunter

Blackwoods were savages.

That was snarled into her ear from every person in her household, Mother, Father, brothers and even the cooks and maids.

And even if knocked on the back of her head, forcing her to lose all memory of any advice, thought and history: Elma Bracken would've immediately agreed with them when presented with Ben Blackwood.

He was a savage. From every spark of maddening delight every time she clanged the sword she'd stolen at him. His teeth were on display, a horrible display as he met her every swing, his grin broaddening each time she pushed him backward, barking a laugh when she shrilly screamed with frustration, which of course infuriated her all the more. 

She stepped right.

He stepped left. But then, she finally moved unexpectedlyand then his face wavered. The flat edge of her blade rang against his kneecap, causing a painful shout to erupt out of his mouth, much to her deep pleasure. 

Of course then, without any sort of warning, the fucking barbaric, horrible boy had snatched her sword by the blade! Minding naught the cut of the steel, he merely grunted and yanked it out of her hands, throwing it a yard off to the side of their disheveling argument before he rushed forward and tackled her to the ground.

The ground hurt from the force he's used, but she could never bare to hear that she'd lost to a Blackwood.

So Elma hit him. Then, she bit him.

But Ben Blackwood was on top of her, his body lodged between her legs while he attempted to grab her flailing arms that were trying to more solidly sock him on the nose. And that was about when she'd felt it - after her 5th blow against his cheek, when her gold ring had just sliced at his cheek. His cock, very evidently thick ans hard inside of his trousers while he bled on her.

They both knew that she knew. But she didn't care. How could she? What did that matter when there was the priority of winning? Success over a mortal enemy was surely more important than his heavy cock or the damp heat that was increasing between her legs.

So they kept fighting.

Soon, the fucking Blackwood bit her back, right upon her neck, making her hips jerk and a snarl (surely not a moan) come from her parted lips. Then, worse off, he rose his lips up in that snarling smile, she could feel it so, before he opened his mouth and slowly pressed his hot tongue along her throat and up to her ear, tasting her sweat and slightly dirty flesh and making her shiver beneath his body. So she shoved him away, freeing her arm so she might slap him again, hard across the face. The slap was loud, painful, and left a pink imprint of her hand against his cheek. But this only seemed to please him, as his cock was now positively throbbing against her.

Her riding breeches were yanked down in his attempt to wrestle her. They dropped down her milky thighs, baring her flesh to the cool afternoon.

And then Benjicot grinned wildly, devils twirling in his eyes as he suddenly released her wrists and dropped himself lower.

He dodged her kicks, catching one of her dainty ankles in hand before it hit his face. All at once, cool air hit against her cunt for just a single shocking moment - before it was gone just as fast. Her opponent had just shoved his face between her legs, his cackle of success lasting only until he'd pressed his mouth against her and began to hungrily devour her. There was no plan, rhythm or deciding motion, he simply did everything to her. Licking at her wildly, sucking at her cunt as he pleased. He'd even shoved his tongue inside her, she could feel it delving there as if to test her flavor... He'd even risen back up to disgustingly dribble his own spit over her cunt before he forcibly began to grind his flat tongue and face against her mound, then shaking his head like a filthy dog with his tongue grinding so fiercely against her cunt that she was surely sopping wet.

Elma's hands on their own had found their way to his dark hair, gripping it punishingly tight as her choked out cries escaped from her throat at the Blackwood's motion. And then he'd shoved his fingers inside her - thrusting them with reckless abandon once he'd found the angle that forced her to wriggle and squirm - and so he'd stolen her peak, the lurid, dreadfully wet sound still coming from her cunt while his fingers fucked her through the bodywrecking pleasure becoming so loud that Benji's body shook with pleased, cruel laughter. He didn't even stop when it was over, even though she'd just soaked his face. He just kept on, enjoying the sound and taste of her, especially when she yanked on his hair and hit him again, attempting to pull him away from her sensitive cunt. That he seemed to like more than anything, her swats and the pain from her pulling on his hair.

But he built her up again - doing so fast so he could insure that the second peak hurt, just enough so that the pleasure was sharp enough to force the shivers over her body and make her toes curl within her boots, her cries as he swept over her desperate for him to stop and yet desperate for him to continue.

When he finally pulled away, his lower face was shiny and wet, and his eyes were blown out just the way they'd been when they fought with swords.

"Again." The Blackwood son dared.

Elma narrowed her eyes. And then she kicked him, her heel hitting him square in the belly, before she showed him how Brackens rode.

[skauni]

They Had The Wrong Traitor….

!!WARNINGS!!: Torture, Explicit Descriptions, Gained Trauma, No Happy Ending.

They didn’t know.

How were they SUPPOSED to know..?

Two months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 realized they had a traitor amongst themselves. Someone giving information about them to Shadow Company. They didn’t know who, until all signs started to point to you. Since then has been hell.

They tied you to a cold metal chair with ropes so tight they rubbed your ankles and wrists raw. You still remembered the day it started. Waking up with a splitting headache in the cold, dim lighted, concrete room. A table in front of you. On it you saw a hammer, pliers, a metal bat, sets of knives—even a damn corkscrew.

That first day was hell. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that you were innocent as your main tormentor, Ghost, broke your fingers slowly. Knuckle. By. Knuckle. When you still didn't confess he took the pliers and slowly ripped your nails from your broken and mangled fingers. Making you scream louder in agony.

The rest of the days blurred. Hardly any food or water; just barely enough to keep you alive. Every time a wound scarred they re-opened it. Soap held your jaw open today as Ghost slowly ripped out your teeth. Your voice long gone from hours of shrieking before this. No fight left in you when their radio's crackled to life. "Soap, Ghost, hall. Now." Price spoke. His voice sounded uneasy.

When they left you tilted your head forward. Letting the blood from your removed teeth drip slowly from your lips. It was painful to breathe. Bruised, cracked, and maybe even broken ribs and a broken nose they kept targeting so it never healed. A broken hand and forearm from three harsh strikes of the hammer. Several deep gashes from some of the knives Ghost used on you. A dislocated kneecap from being bashed in by the metal bat.

You couldn’t hear what they talked about out in the hall. But you knew it was something shocking based on the dead silence that came after Price’s muffled voice. In all honesty, over these two months, you started thinking it was your fault this happened to you. Thinking it was your fault you were framed; you just made yourself too easy a target to frame as the traitor.

You heard rushing feet and the sound of vomiting in the trash can down the hall. You guessed Gaz since you heard Soap ask Price something, you heard Price’s gruff grunt and Ghost’s Manchester accent as he swore under his breath. Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion but snapped open on instinct as you heard the door open again. They’d caught the real traitor, a newer recruit who had everyone wrapped around her finger.

Price had entered the room.

“I didn’t do it…” You whispered hoarsely. Your captain nodded. “I know, Y/N… I know…” he whispered softly. You flinched as he unsheathed his knife from its holster, he moved slowly as he cut your hands and legs free. He tried to pick you up but you cried out. He carefully set you back down and radioed for a few medics. They arrived a short while later as Price kept you awake to be sure you couldn’t slip away before everyone could apologize at the very least.

The medics came soon enough and moved you carefully onto a gurney so as to avoid shattering any bones further. They moved you to the med bay as fast as possible to get your wounds tended to and disinfected. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price all sat outside of the med bay as they listened to your agonized shrieks and whales of pain from the medics setting your already healing knuckles back in place.

It took a few hours after your corrective knee surgery for the boys to be allowed to finally see you. The medics said you’d be out for a few days so your body could regain a small bit of strength. None of the team wanted to leave your side. They all had set themselves up so they could sleep by the cot the medics placed you on. In and out, they would individually go on missions or go in pairs so two of them could still keep their eyes on you incase you woke up.

A few days turned into a few weeks. And you finally woke up. But not as easily as the team would have wished. A cold sweat soaking your forehead as you groaned in agony in your sleep until you woke up shrieking and tried to curl into yourself for comfort, only causing yourself more pain. The boys had to pin you down so the medic could inject the pain killer.

Through the times you were awake, you refused to let any of them remotely try to touch you. They could see it. The distance you put between yourself and them. The distrust in your eyes. The anger and hurt in your furrowed brow. You had trusted them with your life. And now you were beginning to think you should have never let your guard down. Not for one damn second. But a small part of you thought it was somehow your own fault…

Gaz spent the most time with you. No touching, just trying to get you to talk. Even if in anger. He was slowly piecing your trust in him back together bit by bit. When physical therapy came around you asked him to help you because your knee hurt too much to do it alone and the medic seemed busy with another soldier. The rest of the team saw this, beginning to hope they had a chance at forgiveness as well. They weren’t aware that you never forgave Gaz. You just trusted him enough to count him as a person you will let help you. Not a friend. And not a teammate. Not anymore.

Soap was the second to earn the right to help you, then Price not too long after that. Ghost… was a different story. All he did was glare at you, as if he still thought you were the traitor. To which you returned the hostility. He hadn’t let it show, but he was devastated. He wished he’d have never believed that false evidence. He couldn’t even look at you because all he saw was his work etched into your body. That was why he glared. It wasn’t meant for you, it was directed at his work that scarred your body.

When you could walk on your own without crutches, you went to Price in the break room where everyone was. Expression cold and dead serious as you handed him resignation papers. He froze. “You can’t… we need you on this team Y/N—“ he started but you cut him off. “Need? Or want me here because you loathe yourselves so much you need me to reassure you that you’re forgiven with my presence?” He staggered back. “I never forgave any of you.” You added.

“There isn’t a day we’ve woken up without regretting—“ he tried again. “You don’t get to play that card! Do you know how many times I woke up crying in agony from wounds that are already healed because of you four!? Oh, or how about the fact I can’t stand to be touched by ANYONE anymore!” You snapped back. “Y/N…” Price started to beg. “No. I hate you. All of you. For what you did to me. Don’t even contact me. If you have something to tell me, keep it to yourselves.”

The team was silent. You walked to your barracks and packed. Booked a flight back to your hometown. And walked out the doors of the base. Giving none of them the time of day to apologize or try to fix things between you and them. You hadn’t even told them you neglected to sleep most nights out of fear someone would come out of the shadows and beat you half to death again…

[blushstories]

you hide an injury from joel after your patrol shift | hurt/comfort, slight angst

i had two versions for this and they will be split with a —— so please enjoy either or both!

five runners. five bullets. the run down store’s only light came from broken windows and missing roof tiles, and you’ve backed yourself into a corner so that nothing can sneak up on you. your torch casts shadows behind them and they approach in a line. you send a bullet through a head, a kneecap and its head, a neck. you duck one clawing at you and shoot up once from the floor. the screeching doesn’t end, and you pull the trigger again to hear an empty click. your heart stutters, your breath hitches, and you kick at the runner’s leg to send it to the floor, and aim another at its head as you scramble to your feet. you holster your gun and reach for your flipknife. but your pocket is empty. you dig into it a bit more, stepping backwards as the runner recovers, but it’s not there.

you want to scream. not in fear, in fury. a glint catches your eye and your torch has caught the blade of your knife on the floor. the runner charges, and you launch yourself next to your knife, slamming into the floor at full force. you grab it, roll onto your back and catch the incoming infected as it jumps on top of you. gripping it at its shoulder, you stab the knife into its chest, its neck, its temple, until it ceases its movements. its blood seeps through your fingers, dripping onto your chest. with a cry of relief you shove it off of you and wipe your knife on your jeans before pocketing it. its only when you try to sit up that you feel it. a sharp, hot pain in your side, forcing you to lie back again. you glance at the lifeless runner next to you, a distant pang entering your heart at the person they used to be.

you wince as you try to sit up again, inhaling sharply as you peel your shirt away from your side. and there it was, a neat shard of glass wedged into your skin.

—————— track 1 starts here ———————

“oh, fuck.” you sniff, blinking up at the sky. deep breath. removing it might make you bleed out, and you know maria could help you. not tommy; he’d blab to joel, who’s already not keen about you going on patrol on your own. but he has things to do in jackson, you couldn’t let him risk his life out here. it only takes one wrong move.

you lie back, and gently roll over until you’re on your knees, trying to keep your torso as straight as possible. using a nearby shelf, you pull yourself up. it’s fine. it’s not bleeding too much, just leaking here and there. you check again and swipe it up with your thumb. you’re not too far from jackson, you think as you reach your horse. riding on horseback would definitely fuck up your insides, so you decided on a gentle walk. you don’t have much daylight left though, so you try to get a move on.

the sun is kissing the horizon by the time you see jackson again, and the doors open as you approach, as if they had been waiting for you. your feet feel numb, and you’re trying to stand up as straight as you can without wincing. the intruder in your side causing a deep, aching throb. you let go of the reins and let your horse run off towards the stables, right before you hear your name echoing across the courtyard. tommy slips down the ladder from the watchtower like it’s slick with grease, his boots barely touching one rung before it’s met the other.

he bounds towards you, forehead glistening, and slams into your good side with his arms around you. you bite your tongue at the force, feeling the glass slicing into you more. but you mustve let some sound out, becaus tommy pulls away and holds you at arms length.

he breathes your name, eyes assessing you. “jesus. you look— joel’s been about to send a search party for you.”

��it’s not my blood,” you lie. then you sniff, briefly breaking eye contact. “not all of it. where’s maria?”

tommy freezes for a nanosecond, eyes boring into yours. he knows, but he doesn’t ask, using two fingers against your forearm to nudge you into following him. he doesn’t pay any extra attention, as you walk past jesse, dina, and ellie, he probably doesn’t want any sort of rumour to find its way back to joel. and for that, you’re grateful. you smile at ellie on your way past, hand hovering over your wound to hide the bloodstain that was yours. she smiles back, you think. you’ve turned the corner before you and tommy are alone.

“you can’t tell joel.” you say. just then, your foot lands in a hole of land a lot deeper than you’re expecting, sending a painful jolt through your right side, exploding into the wound. you catch yourself on a nearby porch as your knees respond poorly to the shockwave through your body.

“woah,” tommy grips your arms carefully, avoiding your wound. “you’re kidding. he’ll find out when you tell him.” he helps you walk the little bit further to his house.

“no way. he’ll never let me patrol solo again!” tommy looks at you, eyebrows raised.

“is that such a bad thing?” he pushes the door open and shouts for maria to clear the table for an emergency. you hear a clattering and tommy shifts beside you. “sorry, darlin’,” he murmurs, swooping beneath your knees to pick you up and place you on the table. you wince and swallow your cries of pain, hearing his whispers of “i know, i know. shh.” in your ear.

you feel a soft towel beneath you and maria’s supplies are spread on a small table nearby. she’s quick to business, slowly pulling up your shirt just enough to reveal the glass, which to your horror has dug itself deeper into you.

“it’s not that big, right?” you breathe lightly. but you eye tommy in the doorway, whose hand is covering his mouth, raking through his scruff.

“christ.” he says into his palm.

“i need your shirt off,” maria says calmly, and with that tommy spins on his heel and leaves, the door closing quietly behind him. you hold your arms up and allow maria to pull your bloodsoaked shirt off of you, before you hear a flannel being wrung into a bowl of water. it’s warm against your skin, the blood and dirt disappearing. but she’s delaying the inevitable.

she has a pillow under your head, and passes you a dry flannel.

“put it in your mouth,” she says. “i don’t have painkillers.” you do as she says as she readies two pairs of medium tweezers, a lot of gauze and some thread. you feel sick at the sight of it and prefer not to look. so you watch the ceiling as maria counts down, and on two, your skin feels as if it’s being ripped through by a chainsaw. you have to bite your scream into the cloth in your mouth, slapping a hand on top to muffle the sound even more. you’re gripping your own face with such force that you know you’ve left marks behind when maria pauses. she wipes at your forehead with the wet flannel and says she’s giving you a break. you shake your head as a tear slides down your temple and dissolves into your hairline.

“just do it, don’t care. hurts enough,” you mumble, head feeling as if it’s floating away.

“you could pass out. i am not having joel at my ankles for that,” she says, with care. she strokes your head lovingly, and purses her lips. she asks you if you’re ready and you nod.

“the whole thing,” you say, not daring to glance down. maria doesn’t reply, but she readies the tweezers. she takes a breath. and the pain returns. your body shakes as maria tries her best to steadily extract the glass, and you feel something dislodge. maria swears, and somewhere far away, you hear an argument.

the door slams open. the jolt in the room sends a searing pain through to your head, and your throat feels shredded.

“shit, joel!” maria shouts. he’d heard your screams due to the open kitchen window, and fought tommy while he was standing guard at the door.

“what the fuck happened?” joel shouts, stalking towards the table. tommy slips in front of him, hands on his chest shoving him back.

“wait; let her finish. you don’t want this to be worse. trust me.” there’s something serious in his tone that would even make you shut up. joel freezes, and watches maria dump the shard onto the table before starting on plugging the gushing of blood that’s just left your body.

with a deep throbbing ache remaining, you’re too tired to keep your arm up, dropping the cloth away from your mouth as you try to catch your breath. you consciousness is floating away, your eyes unfocused, breaths fractured. joel bats tommy’s arm away and he’s on his knees next to your head, smoothing the hairs away from your sticky forehead. you hold your breath as maria increases pressure on your wound, and joel takes your hand in his.

“that’s it, sweetheart, take it out on me,” joel mumbles into your temple. you squeeze his hand and groan in pain, feeling nausea creep into your throat.

maria’s recruited tommy. he opens a bottle of alcohol and douses a clean rag in it, muttering an apology as he sets your wound alight. joel watches in horror as your body convulses, sees the oozing wound and hoping the blood is only making it seem worse. your forehead is slick with sweat, and you’re only half conscious, murmuring his name while existing on a different planet.

“oh, baby,” he whispers, shoulders hitched high. you’ve started breathing heavily, and he doesn’t relax until maria begins stitching, then eventually wrapping your body. joel helps to hold you up enough, cradling your head and keeping your shoulders up. when maria cleans you up as much as she can, joel whisks you from the table to the couch, pulling up a blanket to your chin to protect your dignity.

when you come to, he’s on the floor, back to the coffee table. he’s kept his head up with his arm braced on his knees as he dozes. you stir, and he snaps to attention. your breath catches in your throat, and you can’t stop yourself blabbing, “joel, it was an accident, ‘m fine, please don’t worry.”

he wants to be mad, he really does. he wants to hit you with a “what were you thinkin’?” but you’re so tired, and your voice is all pebbly, and he doesn’t have it in him. he’s soft on you.

so all he says is, “i know. but i will. and we gotta talk about this soon.” you swallow the rocks in your throat, but you nod. maybe it’s time to stop being a lone wolf. an extra gun could save your life, after all.

———————— track 2 starts here ————————

you stare at it for a few moments in disbelief. heat pools behind your eyes and you take a sharp inhale. the runner twitches next to you and your heart flies into your mouth. you think your wound isn’t hurting as much as it should do, but you’re putting it down to adrenaline.

“fuck me, i guess,” you mutter to yourself shakily, pulling yourself onto your knees and hauling yourself up. should you pull it out? maybe it will fall out itself, it doesn’t seem lodged too deep. you wince with each step you take, and consider using your walkie talkie to call for backup. but you want to deal with this yourself.

the route back has a noticeable lack of infected, which you’re grateful for. your horse, gale, nudges at your shoulder when you seem to slow down, but the pins and needles in your feet can’t be reasoned with.

“‘s fine, gale. we’re almost there,” you say blearily, watching jackson appear dead ahead.

your feet drag against the ground, and your hand is slick holding onto gale’s reins. there’s a strange smell in your nose. pain. it’s metallic and stale, and your eyes feel too heavy for midday.

you don’t know how you find the strength to shout for the gate to open, but you do, and you slide in — they only open it a crack for patrols. you jolt slightly, thinking you’ve nicked the shard on the side of the gate, and with your next step you realise you have. your smile turns wonky, and instead of greeting tommy as usual, you settle on a wave.

you leave gale with the rest of the horses and stumble towards your house, where joel is working in the front yard. his muscles flex underneath his flannel as he moves a bucket of something to one side. he catches a glimpse of you approaching as he sets it down, and you try straightening up. heat rushes from the wound to your face, and you sniff away any cry of pain.

“hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping with honey. he pulls off some heavy gloves and turns around with a smile, wiping his forearm across his forehead. it drops as soon as he sees you. his eyebrows set and his eyes narrow.

“what happened?” he asks, the words stale. you shuffle forwards, aming to dodge him.

“a successful patrol, if you must know. ganked a bunch of infected. i want a shower though,” you say, a little too fast. joel chucks the gloves to one side and doesn’t break eye contact.

“you’re standin’ funny,” he says. you try to play it off.

“you think i stand funny?” you feign hurt.

“knock it off. are you hurt? i need to know, baby,” his mask cracks. there’s a stab in your heart, and your side.

“i’ll get back to you on that,” you begin, sliding past him and climbing the stairs of the porch, using your arm more than your legs to pull you up. but you’ve crunched your side too hard, and you feel the shard begin to pop out. you’re glad you’re facing away from joel as your face crumples in agony, the electric hot wound sending prickles through your entire body. “but right now—“ you wince halfway, “i need a shower.”

the toe of your shoe catches the tip of the last step and you fly forwards, onto your hands and knees. you hear your name behind you and then you feel him. hands. on your shoulders, on your hips. you’ve frozen as the pain rockets through you, stealing your breath and your composure.

“fuck. jesus, fuck.” he’s turned you over and has spotted an angry red patch on your shirt. and it’s growing. he’s so mad. but your eyes are drooping and your eyebrows are all creased. so he bites the inside of his cheek in panic. he taps your cheek with his fingers. “stay with me, now. hold on sweetheart,” he says. you’re whimpering because you need to bite your tongue in case you scream. “you gotta—“ he sniffs harshly through his nose, “you gotta let me help you.”

his hand grasps your shirt and pulls it up. with wide eyes, he whips his head around to scan the immediate area, spotting ellie and jesse emerging nearby. he shouts for help even though his tongue feels numb. he can’t put pressure on the wound — for obvious reasons — but blood’s pooling onto the porch and he feels sick because if you don’t pull through, and the wood is stained forever…

footsteps thunder through your head, and there’s a murmuring that buzzes through your consciousness and you’re falling from joel, further and further.

you wake up in your bed. the sheets are soft and you feel clean. even though joel sleeps next to you routinely, he’s now slumped in a chair, arms folded tightly across his chest and chin falling into his neck. you lift up the sheet covering your body and eye the neat bandage around you, with only a faint patch of red seeping through. your throat is dry, and you feel so tired; a dry crackling at the back of your throat sends you into a coughing fit. the action jerks your wound which in turn remixes your coughs into cries of pain.

joel stirs, then, and his head snaps up. his eyes are bleary until he realises that you’re awake, so he reaches for a glass of water on the side and stumbles over to you. he slowly tips it into your mouth and the cool liquid tastes like gold. you tap his wrist twice so that he doesn’t accidentally waterboard you, and he listens. your coughs die down and you put pressure on your wound in case it makes it hurt less. and then he settles next to you.

“how’re ya feeling?” he says. you nod.

“‘M alive.” you aren’t sure what to say. there’s an elephant in the room, and you’re too scared to address it. joel isn’t, though.

“i don’t know why you’re so reckless. why you try to hide it from me.” he averts his gaze, but it’s clearly planets away. “i’m not putting you on patrol again,” he says. your jaw falls.

“what? but it’s the only job i’m good at!” you insist. “i didn’t say anything because i knew you’d say that.”

joel runs his hand down his scruff. “you could’ve died. hell, you almost did and it wasn’t even a fuckin’ infected.” you know he’s reliving something that you can’t remember.

“exactly, it was an accident. c’mon joel. next time—“

“there won’t be a next time. don’t you get it? next time, a clicker eats your throat. next time, runners take you down. next time, a bloater rips your jaw open—“

“joel, stop—“ you cringe at his graphic monologue.

“no, i won’t stop. you’re a smart girl; why aren’t you acting like it? i’m not letting you out of my sight,” his voice cracks imperceptibly, “m not gonna lose you.”

oh. that’s why he’s lashing out.

“you won’t. okay? you won’t. can we please work this out later? i’m very good at compromising,” you say, your hand finding his jaw and pushing him to look at you. he does, and there’s care in his eyes. he squeezes your hand and inhales steadily, blinking back something.

“okay, fine,” he says. “do you need anything?”

you shake your head, biting back a smile, “just you.” you pat the bed next to you and wait patiently for joel — now suppressing a smile — to stalk around the bed, toe of his boots, and lie next to you. you lean up against him as much as possible, already drifting again into sleep. there’s a soft kiss to your head, and you’re smiling in your sleep.

[jam3sacaster]

May I please request something on a shag rug with either one of our hunks of spunk 🥵

I can’t take that image out of my head now it’s so 80s but also so bloody hot

you know for you, my darling, i have to present you with some declan filth🥰💋 gorgeous idea my heart 🫶🏽 (ps, hunks of spunk… brilliant x)

“Time for a new one.”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

18+ FANFIC / SMUT. Reader character aged at 21. Hope you enjoy 🩷

“Et voila.” Declan grins joyously, whilst on his hands and knees wielding a small fluffing brush. Rising to his feet, you both take a moment to admire his new addition to the sitting room. Well, he was admiring. You were more.. tolerating. He had taken the liberty of purchasing a new shag rug — rust orange and seemingly vast enough to carpet a small football pitch and have some left over. “Don’t you think it’s a bit…?” You begin, tilting your head in unconvincing deep thought. “Ya’ don’t like it? I t’ink it’s fuckin’ marvellous.” The Irishman beams, genuine happiness spouting from his lips. “Yeah, no, of course. Love it. Love the size, love the colour. I… love it.” You fib, crossing your arms over your chest and internally telling yourself that you don’t use the sitting room much anyway.

“Ahh, come on! Don’t be like that.” Declan tutted, sinking slowly onto his rug until he was starfished on his back. “What on Earth are you doing?” You couldn’t help but snigger at his idiocy. “Come on. Just feel it once n’ if ya’ still hate it, we’ll get rid of it.” He pleaded, tugging at your ankle until you relented and lay beside him. Admittedly, you were rather comfortable as your body sunk into the mellow fibres of the rug. “Let’s say… we christen it?” You suggest, propping yourself up on an elbow and wiggling your hazelnut eyebrows towards him suggestively. “Oh, it’s like that, is it? I t’ink it needs christening too.” Your lover agreed, kneeling above you and removing his belt before you had time to convince him further.

Shuffling out of his way, you allowed for him to lie down. It was undeniable that he adored you being on top — so it would be cruel to not ride him atop his new purchase. Once your constrictive clothes had been peeled from your body, Declan could only watch in awe as you positioned yourself just above him, slowly sinking his thick cock into your dripping cunt. “Oh fuck.” He hissed, gripping firmly onto your waist. The sight of Declan’s bear-like chest hair was enough to induce an orgasm then and there — he was the personification of sultry masculinity.

“Show me how you ride it.” Declan commands, and you waste no time in obliging. Steadying yourself with your hands on his sculpted chest, you began to bounce on his cock, eyes closed in an amalgamation of glorious pain and unbridled pleasure. “Declan, you’re so fucking deep.” You purr and scan his face, his brows were furrowed and his mouth ajar in astonishment. Seeing him reach for a fistful of fibres from the rusted rug, you smirked to yourself and increased your tempo, fighting forcibly through throbbing kneecaps. “Am I making you feel good?” You ask through stifled breathing, and, much to his delight, beginning to spell out his name through meticulous hip gyrations. “Yes, ya’ fucking are.” Declan spat in response, hands reaching up to paw at your perky breasts.

When Declan was nearing orgasm, his animalistic desire overcame his body. He pounded into you at a frightening speed, motivated by your irresistible moans. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He panted, and watched as you pulled yourself off of him, laying next to him on the rug and wagging your tongue desperately. “Oh, thirsty girl, are ‘ya?” Declan questioned, thighs bucking as he knelt over you, hammering his cock with a closed fist and grunting at the sight of you glaring at him with wide, pure eyes. “Please.” You begged awkwardly through outstretched tongue.

With a glorious melody of earthy moans, Declan’s hardened dick spurted ropes of cum over your tongue, with some flying astray onto the rug. With a devious grin, you swallow his cum and greedily lick your lips for the last remnants. Cackling at the sight of his cum coagulating on his previously pristine rug, Declan rose to his feet and tutted, “Time for a new one.”

[hyperfixiation-station]

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Information Pt.3

TW: Blood, Torture, Violence

Summary: You get rescued(finally)

Part 1, Part 2

Silent. From the moment Price had found you in that dingy cell, broken and bleeding, that was all you had been. You were silent when they moved you, though it had to have hurt with how many broken bones and lacerations you had. You were silent when the medics asked you where you were injured, how you had been hurt. You were silent through the debriefings, through the desperate attempts to find out what you had been through, what secrets you had spilled. You were silent through all of it. 

It wasn’t your fault, not really. A mental barrier you had constructed during months of torture to keep secrets from spilling, a dam built with a mantra of DON’T TALK to keep your thoughts at bay as your captors repeatedly tried to draw them out of you. 

Even now, when the rational part of your brain knew you were safe, knew that these men, the men you served with, the men who had tracked you down and saved you, were to be trusted, the barrier would not fall. 

Every ‘what did they want from you, what did you see, did you recognize them, how many of them were there’ was met with silence. Anytime you opened your mouth you were hit with a wave of fear so strong it sent you into a panic attack. 

They understood, in part. They had seen recordings, seen the rooms, seen your broken body at the time of rescue. 

It took them 2 days to get to you after figuring out your location. They went in guns blazing, and tore the place to the ground. They split up, Price and Gaz taking the left with Soap and Ghost taking the right. They shot at anything that moved in their quest for vengeance, breaking down doors and checking every nook and cranny for where you might be locked up. 

Price found you about a quarter of the way into the camp. He took the bottom floor and Gaz took the top as they cleared the building. He had stopped before a door that was different, metal and welded shut with a small little flap in the middle, instead of solid and wooden like the others. It took him and Gaz some prying and metalwork, but they got the door open. 

Price almost cried when his eyes adjusted to the change in light. You lay curled in the corner, back to the wall as you shied away from the light. Your hair was tangled and matted with dried blood, your clothes were torn and dirty and your skin was crusted with so much blood and grime that he couldn’t even see you underneath it. 

“Y/n?” He had called, but there was no response. He crept slowly toward you, keeping his movements as open and relaxed as possible. He crouched in front of you, taking note of your dilated pupils, sunken eyes, obviously malnourished form. He winced at the weird bulges in your skin, indicative of broken bones. 

“Sorry love.” He whispered to you, taking a steadying breath as he slid his arms under you and lifted. Hise expected you to cry out, the action no doubt causing unspeakable pain, but you didn’t. In fact, you didn’t react at all. He didn’t dwell on it then, opting to get you somewhere safe and secure. 

“9 broken ribs, a broken left femur, both shoulders dislocated, pneumonia, dehydration and severe malnutrition, multiple lacerations that required stitches, broken wrists, all 10 fingers broken, right kneecap dislocated, multiple concussions, and a hairline fracture on their skull.” The doctor had said. It hurt all of them to hear how badly wounded you were. 

They gave you two weeks to recover before asking any questions. The first week you were unconscious, in a coma as your body tried to heal you. The second week you spent in worrying silence, saying nothing to anyone, not to your doctors, not to your teammates, not to your friends.

Price sent Ghost in first. He had had similar experiences and Price figured he would be able to relate. However when Ghost came storming out an hour later, slamming the door behind him, he came to regret that decision. 

“I got over it.” He had said, “Why can’t they?” Price reminded him that not everyone responds to trauma the same way and sent him away.

Soap tried next, and came out near tears after sending you into a panic attack after calling you ‘Little Bird’. He was confused until Ghost not-so-gently reminded him of the video they had seen, of the words ‘Pretty Bird’ being used over and over. Ghost pretended not to hear him throwing up in the toilet later. 

Gaz tried, to no avail. He ended up just sitting in silence with you, showing you videos of his cats. He counted it a victory when your busted lips twitched into a tiny grin for a few seconds.

And on and on it went, with refusing to speak to anyone. They were losing hope until the psychiatrist finally spoke with you. 

“GIve them time.” She said gently, “You trying to force a response will just make this worse.” 

So they do. The higher-ups still want answers, of course, but Price manages to dissuade them from asking until you are out of the hospital. They spend the weeks treating you as normal as possible, stopping by to give you updates on missions, show you a video of Soap absolutely biffing it in training, tell you the latest gossip of which recruit is sleeping with who. But even though they are trying, they still handle you with kiddie gloves, afraid that the wrong word or look will make you shatter irreversibly. 

Which brings you to now. It’s nearly 2 A.M, and visiting hours are long over as you stand unsteadily in the bathroom, staring at your pale, pathetic form in the mirror. You open and close your mouth, trying and failing to get words out, the barrier cemented in your mind by blood and tears too strong to break down.  

‘Speak, you stupid fucking bitch!’ You scream mentally at yourself, ‘You have to speak! If you don’t you'll be discharged and you'll never be able to serve again! They already think you’re broken, and if you can’t tell them different they’ll never treat you the same. Stop. being. So. Fucking. Pathetic.’

Tears streak your cheeks as you slide down the wall. You draw your knees up, hiding your face in them as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. Rationally, you know you are safe. Rationally, you know that if you were to speak, nothing would happen. But it’s not the rational part of your brain that is keeping you from speaking. 

Going dark in that hellhole you were trapped in had saved your life, and you couldn’t seem to get past it. Sure, not responding had almost killed you right at first, as Kravchenko became more and more ruthless in his attempts to get you to speak again, but eventually he grew bored. His little plaything had lost its sparkle, and he locked you in a cell and threw away the key as soon as he lost interest. But starving to death was still a better alternative to the all-consuming agony that had been your day-to-day. 

And now, the subconscious, irrational part of your brain was convinced that if you spoke you’d be dragged right back and strapped to a table, that you’d wake up to find that your rescue had all been a dream. That you-

“-/n! Y/N! Y/N!” You flinch, startled out of your reverie. You look down to see rivulets of blood running down your arms, your nails having gouged holes into your skin. You look up to see the eyes of a worried nurse, holding your hands in hers. 

“There you are. We lost you for a minute. Do you mind letting me bandage you up here?” Her voice is soft and gentle and you find yourself nodding, letting her lead you back to your bed where she cleans and bandages your upper arms. 

“What are you doing up so late sweetie?” Her voice is calming, almost hypnotic, “I mean, I’m awake cause I get paid to be, but you should be sleeping all your injuries away, shouldn’t you dearie? If I was you, I’d of been cryin’ too, being awake at 2 A.M. for free.” She laughs, the sound echoing through the room, “Course, I suppose you probably think I’m crazy for agreeing to work this shift anyways. Did you know I was supposed to have this shift off? But Roberta’s kids have the flu and so I agreed-” She keeps talking, her voice soothing your fears and helping you relax. YOu can’t help but mentally thank Roberta’s kids for being sick, for sending this wonderful lady who does not treat you like you're going to break at any moment to you tonight. 

“And that should about do it dearie. Just press that little call button if you need any more help, alright?” She says cheerfully. She squeezes your hand and heads to the door before pausing. 

“Make sure to get some sleep.” She leaves, gently closing the door behind her. Something about her makes you feel safer than you have since falling off that helicopter. Maybe it was her motherly demeanor, maybe it was the fact that she treated you like a normal human being, maybe it was the fact that she could have put you on a psych hold an ddin;t, but whatever it was, you loved her for it. 

And as the door closes and the room stills, you whisper a quiet “thanks.” 

Part 4?

~tags~

@louthedino @scarletdfox @dangerkitten1705 @warenai @spineless-spino @rainy-darling

[pl0tty]

✍️ wip snip 💭

i was tagged by @edieblakewrites and @soliblomst to share an excerpt from something i've been working on :') thank you for tagging me bbs!!! <3

this started out as an entry for a fest but is now just a regular ol' wip i sometimes fantasize about finishing heh.

junior auror potter gets saddled with draco malfoy's parole visit one sunny day and has to check out his potions laboratory while he's there:

There was a furious flush on Malfoy’s face. Harry was clutching his throbbing kneecap when Malfoy swiftly levitated the book into the air and, with a flick of his wand, produced several sheets of paper next to it. He flicked his wand again and the book shot across the room, slamming into an open cabinet, its wooden doors shutting and locking in its wake. The papers fell on top of Harry’s head, then scattered around the floor. “Oops. Sorry,” Malfoy said, sounding extremely unsorry. “Well, those are your copies of the ledger.” Harry glared at him. He pointed his wand at the papers, and they promptly gathered into his outstretched hand. “I wasn’t going to duplicate your weird porn sketches, Malfoy.” “They’re not—!” Malfoy looked pained now. “They’re scientific illustrations, Potter. It’s research. You wouldn’t understand, of course, anything more cerebral than Quidditch Through the Ages goes straight over your head—”  “What kind of scientific purpose requires you to analyse the anatomy of an arsehole?” Harry pressed, completely forgetting himself. It was like Hogwarts all over again, the scarlet colour of his robes at the edge of his vision barely tethering him to his painstakingly cultivated adult persona. “It’s not just the—! It’s also the surrounding…!” Malfoy paused, took a few sharp breaths while looking as if he’d really like to be stomping his foot. “It’s for my formula, alright! For my lubrication potion!” He did stomp his foot then. Harry frowned. “Your what?” “I don’t expect you to understand, of course. Hetero Hero of Our Hearts, Protector of the Straight and Narrow—” “What are you even—” “However,” Malfoy went on, looking bored all of a sudden, his annoyance devolving into his usual, devastating drawl. “Some of us are a little bent, Potter. Some of us are very bent, actually, and keen on exploring ways in which we can bring pleasure to our bodies beyond what we get from the very utilitarian Lubrico.” Harry felt the fight leak out of him. “You’re…bent?” “Yes,” Malfoy said, raising his chin. “Are you going to write that down in your little form?” Heat rushed to Harry’s face. “Er, no. That’s. Not necessary.” “Whatever,” Malfoy said. “You can. I don’t care. Write it all down, see if I stop you.” “Of course I’m not going to—” “Please,” pressed Malfoy, voice coming out kind of reedy now. “I can help. The parolee has been spending his time on house arrest renovating his mansion and perfecting his formula for homemade lube. How’s that sound?”

tagging @appleslightning @fluxweeed @itsphantasmagoria @fastbrother @fanarthasmyheart if u wanna share ur lovely sketches/words 💕

[taergalive]

Even More Incorrect Radioapple Quotes to Fill the Void in My Heart

Lucifer: Can you please be serious for five minutes Alastor: My record is four, but I think I can do it -- Lucifer: I made tea. Alastor: I don’t want tea. Lucifer: I did not make tea for you. This is my tea. Alastor: Then why are you telling me? Lucifer: It is a conversation starter. Alastor: That’s a lousy conversation starter. Lucifer: Oh, is it? We are conversing. Checkmate. -- Lucifer, tending to Alastor's wounds from his fight with Adam: How would you rate your pain? Alastor: Zero stars. Would NOT recommend. -- Lucifer: I want to wake up with you every day for the rest of our lives Alastor: I wake up at 4:30 AM Lucifer: Lucifer: I want to see you at some point every day for the rest of our lives -- Lucifer: If there's going to be a big dramatic scene, wait until I get back. Alastor: Of course. I can't flip this table by myself. -- Lucifer: I turned out perfectly fine! Alastor: Lucifer, this morning you thought a ghost made your toast Lucifer: I DIDN’T PUT THE BREAD IN! YOU DIDN’T PUT THE BREAD IN!!! -- Lucifer: Can you keep a secret? Alastor: Do you know anything about my life? Lucifer: No I do not. Good point. -- Alastor: Look. I may not be a saint, but it's not like I’ve killed anybody important. I’m not an arsonist. I’ve never found a wallet outside of an IHOP and thought about returning it but saw the owner lived out of state so just took the cash and dropped the wallet back on the ground. Lucifer: Okay, that's really specific, and that makes me think that you definitely did do that. -- Lucifer: Hey Alastor, have you seen the reporter? Alastor: Nope. Have you seen the meat tenderizer? Lucifer, confused: What? Alastor, grabbing the meat tenderizer out of the drawer: No reason, cute girl things! -- Lucifer: Alastor and I were crossing the street, and this dude drove by and honked at us Charlie: * Sighing * What did Alastor do? Lucifer: He chased him to the next red light, then reached into his window and... Alastor: Who wants a steering wheel? -- Lucifer: What time is it? Alastor: I don't know; pass me that saxophone and we'll find out Alastor: * Plays sax extremely loudly* Husk: WHO THE FUCK IS PLAYING THE SAXOPHONE AT TWO IN THE MORNING?! Alastor: It's 2 am - Lucifer: I told Alastor his ears twitch when he lies. Charlie: Why? Lucifer: Look. Lucifer: Hey Alastor! Do you love us? Alastor, covering his ears: No! Charlie: -- Lucifer: Why are your tongues purple? Angel: We had slushies.I had a blue one. Husk: I had a red one. Lucifer: oh Lucifer: Lucifer: OH Alastor: Alastor: You drank each other's slushies? -- Alastor: Imagine being under 5’4’’ and thinking you have rights hahaha couldn’t be me. Lucifer: You wanna keep those kneecaps you better shut the fuck up! Alastor: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you from all the way down there, can you repeat that? Lucifer: I SAID FUCK YOU BITCH -- Lucifer: When are we gonna fuck? Alastor: What? Lucifer: Oh sorry autocorrect. When are we gonna hang out? Alastor: First of all, those two words aren't even close to each other. And second of all, this is a verbal conversation... -- Lucifer: As top in this relationship, I think we should- Alastor: I can't believe you're pulling rank on me. -- Lucifer: You have to apologize to them Alastor. Alastor: Fine! But I must warn you that this might make me a better, nicer person and that is NOT the person you fell in love with!

[hotwritergf]

I don't want to bother you, but can you please do one for Eddie where reader is really clumsy? Like, she trips on her on foot, loses balance and falls even when just standing still, always has bruises all over her body because she is simply an air-head and ends up hitting her face on a closed door, her knee on the corner of the table and falling in all the stupidest ways possible.

Bambi. Clumsy!Reader x Eddie Munson. Fluff. Blurb.

(You’re never bothering me. I love writing your requests! I hope this is okay!<3)

“You okay there Bambi? You’re walking like you’re on wheels, need a hand?” Eddie teases, chuckling as you clasp your arm around his. He’s not the strongest of guys but his arm does offer you support. You’re clumsy, always have been. Your dad used to say you ran before you learnt how to walk, that you’d never really been able to stand upright on your own two feet without wobbling. He wasn’t wrong. Your parents had gotten you tested for dyspraxia, but the test results came back negative. Put simply, you were just a klutz, in medical terms? You’re just a little unbalanced.

“I know, I know.” You sigh, lifting your pants up to your thighs, letting the air brush against your shins. “Look at my legs Teddy, three new ones and a grazed knee” Muttering the last of your words under your breath, ‘three new ones’ refers to the three bruises scattered across your right shin. Eddie has a tendency to draw lines around your bruised skin and make the blue-yellowish stains look like Saturn, sometimes drawing smiley faces of the Nirvana logo.

He peered down, analysing the new shiners. “Seriously, you gotta be more careful. We’ve spoken about this before, eyes where you’re going, not where you were.” He exaggerated, speaking in a sing-song tone as he chuckles again. “Remember that time you ran face first into the glass door when we were kids? You split your lip and I cried because you were bleeding. Wayne had to deal with you bleeding on carpet and I was in hysterics because I was so sure you were gonna die. From a split lip no less.” Eddie’s mouth twitches up into a smirk as he begins to let out a full belly laugh. He screws his face up, as bubbly giggles escape him lips from reminiscing, “yeah, Wayne said you felt the pain for me cus I didn’t shed a single tear.” You confessed, joining Eddie in the melody of laughter.

“What can I say? I’m weak for a damsel in distress.” Eddie tilts his head and bows theatrically, standing up and opening the top cupboard. He places his box full of first aid supplies from the medicine cupboard onto the floor, opening up the first aid kit. “Let’s get this graze cleaned up shall we? Can’t leave it, will get infected and puss will spurt out. Will be so gross.” He speaks, pouring antiseptic liquid onto a clean rag. “Okay! Okay, I know.” You chime in, clearly disturbed by the imagery. “Just be gentle Eds, please.” You pout a little, hiding behind your hands.

“You know me Bambi, I have magic hands. I’m practically your personal nurse.” Eddie joked, gently patting the rag over your grazed skin being sure to wipe out any dirt and debris. “Hands of an old woman more like.” You tease, stifling your giggles from behind your hands, not wanting to see your wound.

“If you say so, but so you know. I’ll always be here to patch you up. Our little klutz.” He smiles, beaming from ear to ear. Choosing to ignore your cheeky comment, because “you’ve been in the wars.” He gently slaps a band aid over your kneecap and rubs his palm over it to make sure it sticks to you properly. Eddie leans over and pries your hands apart so he can see your face properly. “All done. You’re all fixed up.” He sighs, rubbing his hand over your cheek.

“Thanks Eds, good time to mention I’ve decided to take up ice skating?” You giggle, watching his face drop into the most shocked expression you’ve ever seen. “Kidding!” You tease, throwing yourself at his chest and starting to wrestle each other on Wayne’s living room floor. You are always gonna be looked after by Eddie, your chosen big brother.

[aplaceforyourhearttorest]

Blood Is Pretty ♱ Kirk Hammett (18+)

Mentions/Warnings: blood fixation, blood sharing, guided masturbation, thigh riding, kirk's labret piercing

Part Two

You always try to make sure that your blood fixation and fascination isn't too obvious. It'd started when you were a kid, and back when you and Kirk were just barely old and big enough to be able to run around the neighborhood without adult supervision. Your mom had gotten you a matching set of skateboards in a value pack, and you two were out of your childhood home before your mom was even able to fully unwrap them from their protective plastic cover. You two found an uneven and jagged curb across the street, and before you two could second guess it, you were both grinning at each other and pushing yourselves forward. The abrupt and harsh contact of the uneven and rough concrete underneath your palms and the sides of your legs had your eyes burning, but the pearl and beaded droplets of red that rushed out from underneath it made your pain a soon, distant worry. You were so transfixed on the stark contrast of red on top of your scraped skin, that you almost didn't register the sharp intake and hiss of a breath coming from behind you.

Kirk was sat with his knees cradled to his chest, and his chin was wobbling in barely concealed and discomforted pain, yet he was still beautiful to you. And so were the trails of bubbled red making their way down the bottom halves of his legs. You had rushed over and placed your hands underneath his kneecaps to try and help him alleviate some of the pressure, but your scraped skin gave way to the wetness, and you combined your guys' blood together instead. Your red mixed with dirt brown and his a more vibrant red, and your mom had to remind you to wash the mess off of your arms after she ran over once she heard Kirk's cry of pain. You were seven and a half when you were stood on top of a stool and watching the dark red hue of yours and your best friend's caked blood, slowly make its way down the drain. Small, darkened flakes remained afterwards, and you slowly picked them off with your scraped fingernails in awed wonder, somehow feeling like you two were now even more closely bonded. The next day at school, you and Kirk were sat next to each other in class with identical adhesive bands atop torn skin, and you couldn't shake the urge to want to peel his back and see how his still matched yours. And how you wanted to feel closer to him, like you had the afternoon before.

Years go by, and with each that do, another scar is added onto your guys' skin. If it wasn't from skateboarding or hopping fences to try and illegally get into concerts and cinemas without paying, they were from homemade piercing guns. More Kirk than you, but by the time you guys are graduated from high school and in your early twenties, both of your ears are pierced, and so are a few other places. Your belly button being a favorite of his to tug onto, whenever you have it visible, and your favorite being his labret. The droplet of blood that slowly presented itself through the thick skin underneath his full bottom lip made you shake when you pierced him, and Kirk had looked knowingly at you as you dabbed it away. The more than ten years in between your guys' first tumble had you ending up seeing even more friends fall near or with you, and strangely, theirs didn't excite you or invite you in like his did. It took you until your late teenage years to realize that it wasn't just his blood you were attracted to, but him as well.

The thick lips that pull themselves upward when he sees you, his brown eyes that darken whenever you two touch, his roughened and calloused hands from years of playing guitar. Blood may usually interest you in a way a genre of music would, but the raw way his would display on his tan skin would make something sing inside of you. And on the day he slits his finger open on a string of his guitar during rehearsal, something inside of both of you just rewires, and then snaps.

Kirk's cursing and lifting his guitar and its strap over his head to haphazardly rest it on its stand, before rushing towards the guys' shared bathroom. And when the sound of glass shattering catches your attention over Lars still repetitively thumping against his drums, you're running after him in worry. Yellow tinged light is beaming into the enclosed space as you hurriedly make your way in, and you halt in place at the smudge of blood in the middle of the now partially ruined and broken mirror. Heat drips its way down into your middle, and it churns as Kirk paces with his hand elevated in your peripheral. His frustrated expression turns into a grimace at the look on your face, and then it breaks away to turn into something more apologetic.

"I shouldn't have done that," he starts, and then stops himself in the middle of his sentence as he sees your lidded eyes stare down at the thin line of red resting upon his inner wrist. The flank of your back makes contact with the countertop attached to the sink as you peer at him and his cut, and he doesn't stop you as you shakily lift a hand of your own and encircle your fingers around his forearm. Using the loose grasp on him as leverage, you tug him even closer, and by the time the fronts of his shoes are nearly grazing yours, the accumulated blooddrop is about to fall from his pulse point. Your pinky finger stretches out to catch it before it can, and your breath stutters in your chest as it travels down into the small space in between your hold, and finds purchase on your palm. There's a heavy pause in time, and your irises rest on his when you experimentally look up. Amusement dances in his, and the piercing underneath his lip moves with his heavy swallow. His tone is stretched out and sounding high as he asks you, "you think blood is pretty, don't ya?"

Your heart hammers in your chest, and for a moment, you can feel yourself panic. You expect him to pull back and look at you in disgust, but you slowly start to untense yourself and your fingertips pressing themselves into his skin, when you find nothing but understanding in his gaze instead. The small gap in between your palm making almost exact contact with his arm closes in, and your tongue dampens your bottom lip when you find enough courage to answer and be honest. "Just yours." Your admittance is nothing more than a slanted whisper, yet from your guys' close proximity, he can hear you just fine. Something shifts in his gaze, and your eyes widen as he reaches forward to press the source of his bleeding against your bottom lip.

The dampness of the liquified iron welcomes itself into the pores of your lips and is absorbed, and then it spreads itself against your closed mouth's shudder. Confusion at his easy acceptance overwhelms you, until you look back and realize that he's had the same interest and fascination as you, all along. The way you two would mostly only watch horror movies together and dress up as killers during Halloween, the shared excitement over monster mania magazines, and the collection of horror movie memorabilia you two would keep over at yours for safe keeping. You slowly lax your lips until they open in a small gape, and maintain eye contact as Kirk slowly slides his bleeding index finger into the warm crevice of your mouth. The taste of copper isn't too pleasant and it's shocking against your tongue, but knowing that it's his and he's giving it to you, has you closing your lips around his second knuckle.

Kirk's eyes nearly roll into the back of his head when you apply light pressure to his incision, and he bites at his bottom lip while you suction to purposefully draw the last bead of blood from out of his cut. The heady taste has saliva pooling in your mouth, and as he slowly withdrawals his digit from in between your pursed lips, a trail of tinged liquid comes out with it. The thin and almost translucent line doesn't break until his hand is inches away from your mouth, and that's when you realize that his earlier look of understanding is a pale comparison to the hunger now painted on his face.

"Please." Is coaxed out of you, from around the iron taste in your mouth, and you're surrounded by him. By the diluted taste of his blood in your mouth, by the shared and identical scars of your legs, by the piercings in your skin. He's all around you, and now, you just want him to be inside. He's using his free hand to reach over and push the wooden door to your left to a close, before using his other, still slick with his blood and your spit, to guide your face towards his. The first wet glide of your guys' lips is wet and sticky, and you feel yourself pulsate at the realization that his blood is the substance that's slick and helping you two maneuver together. The sharpened stub of his labret piercing is pressing itself into the sensitive skin of your chin as he laps at the inside of your painted mouth, and the moan he lets out at the taste of himself has you arching yourself closer to him. The reverberation of his sound quakes and tremors in your chest, and you lick at the roof of his mouth as the hand he used to close the door, slides down to rest upon the button holding your pants upright.

A cold chill breathes itself through the small gap Kirk creates as he begrudgingly separates himself from you to talk, and the pink and reddish hue smeared on his lips has your hips lifting to plant themselves up against his. "Just mine, huh?" He questions, his voice on the precipice of a husk, and the brown of his eyes is barely even visible. The bulge of his dick pressing itself against his zipper is apparent as you make contact, and you pant as the fingers he has resting against your chin holds you in place. "What else is just mine?" His fingertips trail down the tense curve of your neck and press down along your stammering pulse, and then they rest on your right collarbone. "Tell me."

"Everything is yours." You expose, and you gasp as he abandons the button of your jeans to press you into the hard counter, before stepping back to turn you around. The small, bare sliver of your middle making contact with the cold marble has goosebumps waking on your skin, and they multiply when he rests his front upon your back. You can only make out your guys' wanton expressions over the punched in and fractured glass, and you can feel your flush spread even though you can't see it. His hands come down to rest upon your waist, and then slide themselves forward to unfasten the button of your jeans. Blown out and lust laden irises stare at you through the mirror and hold you in place, and your kissed red and blood smeared lips open in a startled moan as he presses his flattened palm against your clothed sex.

"You think I hadn't noticed when you kept staring at me as we watched all those horror movies, and the way you kept shifting when those girls would be kissed and covered in blood?" He croons, the tone in his voice redundant as his left hand carefully tugs your pants down to your knees. His still spit slick lips brush themselves against your earlobe, and your knees buckle when he bends his knuckle to press it right into your pulsing and wet middle. "Teach me how you touch yourself, when you go home afterwards and think about me."

You shakily lift your right hand from the hard surface in front of you and slide it down your front, until your fingertips run along the beginning of his, and then you intertwine. Kirk presses the back of his hand into your palm in silent reassurance, before guiding your joined hands under the cotton of your underwear, and mounts his lips against your clavicle as you cry out loud. The juxtaposition of your fingers soft pads just barely missing your clit and his meeting it straight on with the harsh skin of a callous has your hips raising, and your eyes stinging with the onslaught of desperate tears. "I didn't ask you to hump me, I asked you to show me." His words are direct and harsh, but his voice is amused, and slightly muffled as he teasingly peeks his tongue out from between his teeth. His appendage is lapping over a love bite when you carve and curve your fingers in just the right way to have his index and middle fingers press into your bundle of nerves, and you tremble as you twist your wrist in direct, and fast circles.

You're grateful for the background noise of the guys still absentmindedly and cluelessly rehearsing from less than twenty feet away, as your whines and mewls raise in volume and register. You can feel Kirk slowly grind himself against the swell of your ass, and he groans as your slick gives way to his fast motioning fingers, and as you press yourself back into his groin. The heat permeating into your skin from his still clothed dick makes your mouth water, and your eyes slam to a close as you feel the familiar lick of heat curl itself around your middle and beckon you in. Only this time, the man you always picture while you touching yourself, is pressing his fingers up right against you, and sucking bruises into your skin.

A light tsk is being breathed into the electrified air in the small bathroom, and then Kirk's forcing your hand off of his. Your heart plummets in your chest, and your eyes snap back open at the denial of your orgasm, before your lips mold into the familiar syllable of his first name. A taunting grin is raising his swollen lips, and then his hands are reaching down to spread your legs apart. A rough and clothed knee is pressing itself against you, and then calloused palms are guiding you up and down his jean clad thigh. "If you can't even keep your eyes open long enough to teach me, then the least I can do is help you use me," he drawls, and tugs your sopping underwear to the side. The fabric of your pants pool around your ankles, before sliding down to the floor as he lifts your feet from the ground. You're positioned onto his lifted thigh, and you can only grip and press your unsteady fingertips into the counter in front of you, as he guides you to ride and make a mess on his thigh. "You've been wanting this for so long, and you can't even teach me right."

The degradation would usually have you feeling offended. But right now, as his blood is still apparent on your tongue, as your pussy is roughly colliding with the dampening fabric of his jeans, as his teeth have made purple and red marks into your skin, and as his assuring and strong hands guide you back in forth, it only brings you closer to your release. You stare up at the blood smear just a few inches away from your face and ingrained in the reflector, and make the split decision to lean forward in his grip to run your tongue over it. It's dried into the fractured glass and nothing is added onto your appendage, but the visualization of you being hungry enough for more of him on your tongue has him cursing aloud behind you, and pressing the top of his knee into your sex.

You moan loudly and replant your hands in front of you as steady as you can, before pressing your weight into your forearms and circling your hips to bump and grind yourself against his limb. "That's right, sweetheart. Use me just like you need to, just like that." He's praising, and your vision whites out as your orgasm barrels into you. Oversensitivity and overstimulation makes you quake in his hold as he continues to beckon you back and forth, and he doesn't stop until you rest a hand against his and shake your head no. You're placed back onto your unsteady feet and carefully turned back around, before being lifted up onto the other side of the countertop. The coldness of the unused and glass free surface seeps into your bare backside, but you're unable to care as your head is tilted upwards and you're brought into a chaste and long lasting kiss.

Roughly swallowing around the last lingering taste of iron and panting into the welcoming heat of his mouth, you're only able to partially catch your breath, until he's leaning back with a carnivorous grin etched on his lips, and a hand is lightly tapping itself on the middle of the outside of your thigh. They shake in the aftermath of your orgasm, your chest still heaves, your eyesight is unclear, and your throat is sore and dry, but you're the fullest you've ever been. Yet, hunger reignites in you as he lowers himself in front of you to pick up your pants and realigns them with your ankles, and as he plants and sucks wet kisses and temporary marks on the expanse of your bare legs as he makes his way back up.

"I need you to head upstairs and get yourself ready," he instructs you once he is, and your pussy walls quiver emptily as you squeeze your thighs close and shut. Your head brushes against the unbroken side of the mirror as he follows you back, and your chest heaves as it sucks in your guys' shared breath. "I'm going to finish up here, and when I come upstairs, I'm going to tear you apart. Until you're crying and coming apart all over me, against me, and while I'm inside of you. That sound okay with you?" He's laughing as you needily and quickly nod, and the look he pins you with is filled with satisfactory want and anticipation. You watch unblinkingly as he licks at the fingers he had rubbing against you earlier until they're clean, and as he temporarily closes his eyes at the taste of you. When they reopen, his eyes are just as yours were when you were turned to look and face the mirror. Hungry, insatiable, soon to be fulfilled, and understood.

He's leaning back in a way that proves he doesn't want to be away from you, and then he's fully disconnecting his bottom half from yours with a heated promise, his hands trailing down your quivering sides as he takes a step back. "I'll see you upstairs. Go and get yourself nice and ready for me, baby."

[angryschnauzer]

I swear my physio thinks i'm completely nuts. I've been seeing her for a couple of years due to having shit poor core strength combined with a herniated disk that never properly healed, but just as i get better she sees me on her appointment roster and is always curious as to why i'm back. Todays visit went as such;

"So, hows the back?"

"Back is fine"

"Okay... why are you here?"

"My knee"

She rolls her eyes and sighs; "okay what did you do"

"I went to the cinema. When i went to take a pee break in the movie when i came back to my seat i had to go up the steps but every 3rd step is wider so i went to put my foot down and the step wasn't there"

*sigh* "okay, lets have a look" and she proceeds to feel my knee and calf; "why do you have two kneecaps in one knee?"

"When i was in high school a girl slammed her hockey stick into my knee during a game and we never got it fixed"

*her jaw just drops* "umm ok. Can you feel any pain when i do this?" Poking the top front of my shin.

"Nope. I cant feel anything there, i fell over in a swimming pool when i was 13 and cut my knee open and the nerves never reattached"

By this point she was just staring at me trying to process how a boring suburban mum could have so many injuries before finally gathering her thoughts;

"Okay, pull the leg of your cycle shorts up and we'll work through the lower thigh muscles OH MY GOD WHATS THAT?"

I point to a jagged scar on my thigh; "oh this? This is when my mum put me on a donkey for a ride when i was 4 and i didnt want to so i slid off but the donkey bit and trampled me"

"How are you still fucking standing? Are you the unluckiest person alive? How many car accidents have you been in?"

"Twenty two"

"Aaaargh!"

[fayes-fics]

Praise

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: DaddyDom Anthony praises his little girl...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub dynamic, daddydom/little girl (DDLG), praise kink, smidge of dirty talk, hair pulling, smidge of nipple play, spanking, riding, woman on top.

Word Count: 1.2k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. About two hours ago, I asked my lovely Discord mutuals to jumpstart my smut muse with a kink to write a blurb for. They gave me Daddy Kink and Praise Kink. And, errr, this is what I came up with. My peeps, you know who you are, this is for you <3

His knuckles run down your cheek as you stare up at him adoringly. You’ve been waiting for him, obediently knelt on the plush rug near the roaring fire, naked except for your jewellery, just like he told you to. Now he’s here; you cannot wait to please him.

“Good little girl, looking so pretty on your knees,” Anthony compliments, his signet ring cool against your heated skin.

You blossom under his flattering words, rocking slightly, anticipation burning in your belly at what he will have you do.

“Please, Daddy, may I have a treat?” you ask sweetly, eyelashes fluttering.

He chuckles. “What treat is that, hmm?” the tone teasing as he grasps your hair and tilts your head back, towering over you, the toe of his boots abutting your kneecap.

“Whatever you wish to give me,” you breathe, pitching forward to nuzzle his trousers, enjoying the warm, burgeoning mass there, his scent making your mouth water.

“Excellent answer, little one,” he groans, letting you rub your face briefly before gripping your roots and pulling you away. “As much as I love your mouth, I think I want you to work a little harder tonight. How would you like to ride for your daddy? Hmm? What do you say?  His smile is wolfish as he removes the hand from your hair.

You nod enthusiastically and stay kneeling as you watch him back up a couple of steps and take a seat in the oversized wingback chair right by the fire. Your breath speeds up as you watch him roughly tug open his trousers and free himself, the leather creeping under his hips as he does so.

“Crawl to me,” he orders, and you drop to your hands and knees, moving the few feet towards him bright-eyed, excited.

“Good little girl,” he cups your jaw as you come to a halt between his splayed knees. “Now, did you touch yourself like I told you to?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you nod happily.

“So you are nice and wet for me?” he checks, his thumb sweeping slowly over your bottom lip.

“Yes, Daddy,” you confirm.

Even if you weren’t before, you would be by now regardless, butterflies in your gut as you watch him lazily pumping his cock in his other fist. 

“Such a pretty obedient thing,” he sighs approvingly, “alright then, climb aboard, little one,” he smirks, removing the hand from your chin and patting his thigh invitingly. 

You scramble into his lap eagerly, guiding yourself over him, holding onto his shoulder as you sink onto his steely cock, pushing you open in a way just this side of painful.

“You are so big, Daddy,” you puff as you sink slowly, adjusting to his girth as you always have to—every time, it takes you by surprise.

“You can do it, my girl,” he responds through gritted teeth. You can tell he’s fighting the urge to surge up into you. “Do not stop,” he warns.

You exhale a shaky breath as you push the last of the way down, sitting split open on him, feeling so viscerally full. 

“Oh, Daddy,” you sigh wondrously and touch his face.

He smiles indulgently before his hands wrap around your hips, fingers flexing, encouraging you to move. So you do, raising a little and dropping back down.

“That's it, little girl, ride me,” he murmurs, leaning back into the chair, watching you with a contented, almost smug expression. 

So very keen, you start to undulate on him, sliding up and down, revelling in his cock pushing your walls wide with each move, every ridge and vein dragging against all the right places as if it were made just for you.

“You look so beautiful,” he lauds, “does my little girl like riding my cock?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you respond brightly, pitching forward. “May I kiss you?”

“Of course, baby girl,” he smiles against your lips and pulls you in for a deep plundering kiss that steals your breath and scatters your thoughts. You pause in your movements; sat with him deep inside, your hands curling around his neck, fingers toying with the hint of curls at his nape.

There is a sudden sting on your left bottom cheek, and you squeak into his mouth. 

“Who said you could stop riding?” He scolds affectionately, knowing the spank is hardly punishment; it makes you clench around him, a shudder running down your spine.

“More, please, Daddy,” you request meekly, and he chuckles richly.

“Naughty little thing,” his responding smirk growing bigger as he spanks your other cheek.

You groan loudly as both of his hands slide up around the sides of your body and capture the curve of your breasts. He pinches both your nipples harshly between thumb and forefingers, making you cry out. His grip still so your skin pulls taunt as you rise and fall. Riding harder now, you moan as he hisses his approval; your movements get bolder, more decisive, pressing hard down onto him.

“You ride me so well, baby girl,” he commends, his words melting something inside you, wanting to do anything he asks. 

A glow breaks over your body with the heat of the fire prickling your skin as you keep rising, his cupped hand sweeping back down to your bottom, spanking your cheeks as they bloom under his ministrations.

“Don’t you dare stop,” he gasps, his breathing becoming uneven as it feels like he is growing steelier inside you, approaching his peak.

You keep going, your thighs starting to tremble and burn with the effort of your movements, quicker by the second, chasing your satisfaction, too, your clit throbbing and burning hot as it drags against him with each move you make.

“Just like that,” he groans, his fingers stiffening on your hips, digging into your flesh, leaving marks. “Make daddy come, baby girl.”

You splay your knees wider and tilt your pelvis to get more traction, and he cries out words of praise; you slam down onto him, his cock so hard and huge at this angle you whimper with every pass, his heated damp forehead presses into your throat where he curls into you.

He’s swearing and clawing at your fleshy bottom now, so very close to coming. 

“Don’t stop, my darling little girl, you make your daddy feel so good,” he growls, and those words in that rough gravelly cadence are what tip you over, your peaked nipples abrading roughly on his wool lapels.

You call out as you break, your cunt convulsing hard around his cock, clamping down, making him snarl and bear his teeth as the flames fan around your body, each cell snapping and rearranging, muscles clenching and releasing in waves. You feel his incisors scrape your jugular and then a guttural noise as he stills, then his hips jerking almost violently, his seed blooming hot deep inside you.

You slump onto him, panting from the exertion and quivering from your ecstatic high.

“Good baby girl,” he murmurs, running soothing strokes over your back before pulling you upright slightly off him. “Whose my clever little one?” He cups your face and drops tiny kisses on your lips.

“I am Daddy,” you murmur, smiling satedly as he runs soothing fingers over your flushed cheekbones.

“Yes you are, baby girl, yes you are.”

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau

[leonluvvr]

Pretty when you cry ˙⋆✮

"Don't say you need me when, you leave and you leave again."

Y/N is tired after Leon leaving constantly for expeditions at Raccoon City, this time Y/N is the one making Leon cry.

18+ smut, PWP, 🌽w/o plot, d@cryphili@, hardcore??, 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 idk what else

─────────────────────୨ৎ─────────────────────

"Please spare me, darling." Leon begged as he twirled your hair around his calloused fingers.

Ignoring his pleads, you push his built body to the ground. His eyes widened, like a puppy in fear. All these years Leon's had control over you, ignoring your requests for him to stay; now it's your turn to ignore his begging.

"Beg," you demand.

He whimpered in fear, which sent shivers down your spine.

"P-please, I'm sorry," he says while tugging on your shirt.

Your hand wraps around the back of his hair, pulling his salt and pepper locks back, forcing him to look you in the eyes. His deep blue eyes looked so anguished and full of fear. A tear falls down his right cheek. Ashamed, Leon looks down at the wooden floorboards. Your body heats up, going into euphoria; this was the exact reaction you wanted... You needed.

You grasp his chin, forcing him to keep eye contact with you.

"Cry."

Salty tears glide down his sunkissed skin, painting him into a weeping angel. You lift your hand, slapping him across the face.

"Cry!" you demanded harshly.

Tears poured down like a water fountain, which fuled your excitement even more. As you looked down to check on Leon, you could see that his bulge was growing.

"Enjoying this, I see."

"Not as much as you," he replied.

Leon's hands gripped your waist, pulling you down next to him. His glassy eyes stared into yours before pulling you into a needy kiss. His rough lips hurt like heaven.

You forgot how much you missed his touch.

"Take your pants off, pretty boy," you teased.

In a frenzy, Leon rushed to unbutton his pants, exposing his throbbing member. Restraining yourself, you lit a cigarette whilst unbuttoning the top buttons of your blouse. Your lips met his cheek, while he not so subtly stared down your blouse.

"Baby..." Leon whined

You gently stroked his cock, making sure to take as much time as possible. Slowly rubbing up and down, making sure not to let him come. You could tell Leon was getting agitated, but he deserved it.

"Shh, stay quiet," you replied.

You took the cigarette out of your mouth as you blew smoke into his face. His body twitched. He was pissed, which made you so much more excited for what was going to happen next.

You pressed your cigarette into the inner side of Leon's thigh. As a reflex, Leon's hand flew to his mouth to cover his noises. His muffled whimpers of pain and pleasure made your body purr. His eyes became glassy, but you could tell he was holding back tears as to not give you pleasure.

A small giggle filled the room; oh baby, you'll regret that. You traced small kisses on Leon's leg, starting from his lower kneecap and slowly getting closer to his inner thigh. As you approached the burn, Leon whinced in anticipation. You slowly licked the burn, making sure to apply the right amount pressure. A loud moan filled the room.

Leon grabbed your hands and put them on his cock.

"Please, darling, I need to come."

─────────────────────୨ৎ─────────────────────

comment for part 2!

my first fic I've posted on tumblr pls give me any creative criticism or feedback!

[sacredwrath]

P7. Hot Stuff

This part was supposed to come like directly after the last part. Planned to post em on the same day. But no, apparently, had to rewrite the whole thing. Better late than never i guess

Torture, burning, graphic burns, nausea, vomit mention, stress position, sexual innuendo, implied sexual sadism, taunting almost kinda entering self harm territory.

Sweat soaks Adrian's body, running across his skin in cooling rivulets. He breathes hard, forcing air in and out of straining lungs.

Each breath fights screams.

It's pointless, of course. Everyone screams. Eventually. But he fights it anyway, knowing all too well the helplessness waiting for him on the other side. Once the fight goes out of him, he'll scream. He’ll scream himself hoarse and then into helpless silence. His body will hang limp and lifeless, like the dead thing it is, able to do nothing but take it.

His tormenter paces, heating the knife to a molten glow before pressing the flat of it into Adrian's ribs again.

The blade sizzles and spits. Blood and fat charing to black ash before the man slowly pulls the blade away.

Adrian is sure he can feel each raw nerve tearing. He writhes against his chains, strangling wails, managing to compress them into a single gurgled whimper. Not quite stoic silence, but as good as he can manage

"Had enough yet?" The man asks

"Why? You getting tired?" It'll never be enough.

The man sets his knife and torch down, turning back to him with a raised brow. He moves to undo the tie on Adrian's sweatpants.

"Ooo" He taunts. "This is new, if you wanted to see me naked, you should've taken me to dinner first."

"I brought you dinner." He gestures to the cans strewn across the floor. "You didn't eat it"

"Hey, that was for you buddy. You want vomit all over you? Torture isn't easy on the digestion ya know." He watches the man stiffen slightly at the comment.

Still feeling guilty? He can't quite identify the emotion.

The man doesn't respond, pulling Adrian's sweatpants off over his feet.

He stops, taking in the scarring here too. Adrian fights the urge to recoil as he runs a thumb over a brutally ugly patch spreading up his thigh.

"Another hero did this?"

"Why does that surprise you? You think your knife won't leave scars?" Again, tension crosses the man's face. Too easy.

"I want it to leave scars" He growls

"Of course you do, so did they." He hesitates, "we get off on shit like this, ya know." He watches the man's face, surprise, disgust, anger, revulsion. He grins.

The man doesn't take the bait, instead grabbing his instruments from the floor and flicking the blowtorch on. Adrian let's his eyes drift closed.

For a fraction of a second the knife feels ice cold against his skin, but then the familiar sickening agony flashes up his leg, eating into him. He groans, fighting off sobs.

His rapid breathing drags in the acrid stench of his own burning. No matter how many times he's smelled it, the scent brings with it a bleak animal terror that turns his mind to panicked mush

When the knife pulls away he manages to contain everything but a whimper, vile, pathetic, disgusting-

Stop

"Another beginners mistake." He blurts, stalling, waiting for his head to clear, he opens his eyes, the man is heating the knife again "burning on top of scar tissue," he continues, "less nerve endings there. Doesn't hurt so bad."

"Well you're not exactly a blank canvas are you?"

Fair enough. He watches the blade turning slowly red "I did this to Jesse you know."

The man freezes, lips compressing to a thin line.

"Not very original. Thought you said something about ten times worse? You'll have to step up your game, 'm not even winded."

"Stop saying their name." The man's voice is hard and unamused

"Why?"

"Because I'm the one with the knife."

The metal presses against Adrian's knee and he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.

The man drags the blade across his kneecap and down the front of his shin, leaving seared fleah and pain. He growls, long and low in his throat, he can't keep this up much longer

He doesn't open his eyes, focusing on breathing. He can't watch it coming. Each burn sends waves of fever radiating through him with sick, dizzying intensity. Even his sweat feels hot

The next burn explodes against the side of his knee. Blade digging its point deep into muscle, scraping against bone. His traitorous body finally shrieks, shattering his focus. Threads of panic race up his spine, a spider web of cracks in his control.

The blade twists away viciously, widening the cracks. He tastes the all too familiar ice seeping seeping through, grazing against him.

He waits for his breathing to steady enough to speak, patching over the cracks with random words, "It's these in between parts that's the worst... The anticipation, the fear. Can you feel it?" He opens his eyes, wanting to see the man's reaction. "Can you feel my fear?"

The man is watching him, face contorted in disgust. "I can" he snears, "I love it."

"I bet." Adrian means it as a taunt, but it comes out heavy with resignation

He burns the other knee worse even than the first. Adrian loses track of himself, screaming until he remembers he's trying to stay quiet. The cracks widen and he can taste cold, unreasoning panic waiting patiently on the other side. He fights it.

A long time passes, too long Adrian opens his eyes. The other man is standing back, watching him. He looks almost concerned. Pathetic, disgusting- he needs to kill this man, hurt him-

He licks his lips, "What's wrong baby? Where'd you go? I can last longer than that." He smirks, "come on back, finish me off."

The man's eyebrows shoot up, soothing him. He claws at the sense of control.

"To be honest, your inexperience is adorable. Don't let my screaming stop you we're just gettin to the good part."

"Who said anything about stopping?" The man scans him up and down “you said you did this to Jesse right?

"Ask them to show you their feet sometime." He winks.

"Their feet." The man repeats softly. It makes Adrian's lip curl back

"I made them walk on it." He snears "If they couldn't make it across the cell they'd get another. I kept going till they couldn't get up no matter how many times I-"

Not bothering with the knife the man storms across the cell igniting the torch. He holds it to Adrians knee and he starts screaming.

He loses track of himself again, the cold edges of panic bringing with it memories. Different burning, different pain entirely.

There are hands on him, he can't remember who's.

Something cold and flat pressed against his face, against his whole body, it feels good against the burning. Cold.

Ice.

But then the pain fluxes, twisting with new life

He remembers he can open his eyes,

There's polished wooden planks beneath his hands, dirty cement, white tile, clean cement. He flexes his fingers. Jesse, he's in Jesse's cell, no, Jesse's basement, relief floods him.

"Come on, up you get" and there's an arm around his waist, guiding him to kneel. He wants to cry out at the increased pressure, but bites his tongue.

The man reaches for his cuffed hands and Adrian offers them on instinct. The man raises them over his head then pulls him up so all his weight is resting on his burned knees.

"Fucking shit hell!" Adrian hollers, trying to pull his leg forward to get to his feet. It jerks against something solid. He looks over his shoulder, seeing his feet chained to one of the basement support beams. He groans in understanding.

"How's that for creative?"

Adrian tries not to cry, hoping his painful grimace looks like a defiant grin.

"Nicely done..."

"Wait, not yet. Who said I was done?" He shakes a bag in front of Adrian's face who only barely manages to suppress a sob.

"Thought you'd know what this is." He takes a pinch of the stuff and pops it in his mouth.

"Salt. Rock Salt to be specific. I thought table salt would be too... amature for you."

He dumps some on the floor at Adrian's knees and he closes his eyes to ward off tears.

The man's hand slides beneath his knee and lifts it off the ground, spreading the salt beneath. He lowers it slowly, almost gently and Adrian bites his tongue. The sharp pebbles cut into his open wounds as if kneeling on fresh burns wasn't bad enough. The man repeats the process with his other knee, hands too cautious, too gentle for this work Adrian tastes blood in his mouth.

"Good of you to help me with that." He spits blood. "I would've made them do it themselves."

He can't keep tears from welling in his eyes, so he squeezes them shut. He's been through worse, he reminds himself, but the thought does nothing to numb the pain.

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Tag list: @whumpacabra @turn-the-tables-on-them @kiichu @whatwhump

[sasageyoarmin]

stained bedsheets and pancakes

•••

content : levi x fem!reader (or afab bc of talk of periods) , mentions of periods , period blood , etc.

a/n : hi everyone !!! i just wanted to write this little piece of levi fluff to start the week off , hopefully everyone is having a great start to their week !!!

also , i have gotten a lot of requests recently and i promise i am getting to them but it may take a little while , so i hope you can understand :)

please let me know if you enjoy this little fluff post and if you would like more !!!

•••

tears streamed down your face as you glanced down at the crime scene on the bed, cursing yourself out for not being prepared this month.

to your right was levi, your little insomniac, finally sound asleep in the white linen sheets for the first time this week.

just your luck, you had to stain the sheets of the one person who hates messes the most.

the amount of guilt you felt right now was consuming you whole, along with the cramps that seemed to be obliterating your abdomen. you desperately didn’t want levi to know, especially because he was known for keeping everything clean and tidy, and a mess would upset him. however, you knew that you couldn’t wash the sheets with his body laying on the bed, so you decided it was time to rip the band-aid off.

“levi,” your voice sounded desperate as you slightly shook him awake. “levi, please wake up.”

he moaned softly, slightly gaining consciousness before groggily looking over at your tear-stained face. “angel? what’s going on, are you okay?”

his sleep-deprived voice made you sniffle a bit more as you realized just how much of a deep sleep he was in. you felt horrible waking him up, especially when he never slept this well on a normal night.

“levi, i’m so sorry. please don’t be mad at me, i didn’t mean to do it..” your voice broke and trembled as you sobbed into your palms.

levi’s brows furrowed as he sat up and cupped your face, using his thumbs to wipe away the tears pooling under your eyes.

“y/n, baby, what happened? i need you to calm down and speak to me.” his tone was harsh, yet not in a demanding way. he just wanted you to be safe and the fact that you were currently crying beside him didn’t make it any better.

levi handed you a tissue and you blew into it before wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. you shakily pulled away the comforter to reveal a large red mark stained on the sheets.

“oh.” he breathed out before wrapping you into his chest. you sniffled and cried into his shoulder, staining yet another one of his items, yet this time it was with your tears.

“i’m sorry, you’re probably furious right now because i know you hate messes and it’s bloody and not clean and-“

“hey.” his stern voice caught your attention as your lip quivered, feeling guilt surge throughout your body. “i’m not mad at you. i could never be mad at you for something like this.”

you curled up and clutched your stomach as a vicious cramp took over your lower region, balling your fists in the process.

levi brushed your hair and sighed, feeling terrible that you were in pain. “hold on baby, i’ll go get you some painkillers.” he started to get up before you grasped his wrist to pull him back down.

“what about the sheets? i can pay for new ones, or wash these ones, or-”

“no, no honey. i’ll wash them, don’t worry.” he rubbed your kneecap, attempting to soothe your cries. “do you want to take a shower? i know those can sometimes make you feel better during this time of the month.”

you nodded as he helped you stand up to the bathroom, even though you weren’t in need of assistance. you covered your face with your palms. “i’m so embarrassed.”

“baby, don’t be embarrassed, i’ve heard it’s normal. don’t stress over it.” he kissed the top of your head, flashing a rare smile as he smelled traces of the floral shampoo he loved so much.

you looked down to examine the crime scene, eyeing the blood that had stained your sleep shorts and inner thighs. “but it’s so gross and messy! it’s all over!”

“sweetheart, you should know me at this point. there’s almost nothing in this world that can’t be cleaned, if i’m being honest.” he guided you to the bathroom before grabbing the bottle of pills and a few feminine products out of the cabinet. “now, i’ll leave you in here while i go start the laundry, just call if you need anything.” he kissed your head again before closing the door, instructing you to leave your stained clothes outside.

•••

after taking a nice, hot shower and putting on the comfy clothes levi had gotten for you on the toilet lid, you made your way out of the bathroom only to be greeted by a delicious smell coming from the kitchen downstairs. your stomach growled at the fact that you hadn’t eaten anything in hours.

levi was dressed in a simple cotton tank and sweats as he used a spatula to flip over a beautiful golden-brown pancake. slightly startling him, you wrapped your arms around his torso and sighed out loud.

“how was the shower, angel?” he asked as you moved around his body before attempting to sit up on the counter.

he hoisted you up, holding onto your thigh with one hand and grasping the pan handle with the other.

“it was good.” you said with a smile. “i feel much better.”

“i’m glad.” he sighed. “now, i’m no chef, but i tried making your favorite pancakes. can’t promise that they aren’t poisoned but hopefully they’ll be alright.” he shrugged playfully, doubting his cooking skills.

you squealed in happiness before taking a big whiff of the lovely scent surrounding the kitchen. “levi, how did i ever find someone like you?”

“pshhh, i should be asking myself that question.”

“seriously, thank you for everything.” you motioned him over as he leaned into the counter, allowing you to wrap your arms around his waist. “i just felt terrible because it wasn’t supposed to start today and i wasn’t prepared and i’ve never bled onto the sheets before-”

“hey, hey. that’s okay, i don’t care.” he stroked your thigh up and down. “‘might sound crazy coming from me, i know, but i just want you to be comfortable, is all. and hopefully,” he paused while putting a few pancakes on a plate for you, “these will make you feel a little bit better.”

“thank you, love.” you accepted the plate graciously before levi picked you up off of the counter and began to walk over to the breakfast nook, you following suit.

“i love you, darling.” levi kissed your soft lips and rubbed your back in comfort.

“i love you too, levi.”

•••

[mah-t-wordblog]

Imagine that Giyuu on some mission has a bad move and ends up with a tendon in his knee, I feel that Shinobu will also have experience as a physiotherapist and helps him, although when he has already done it she tickles him with the excuse that he has to check it. , the massage worked and look for other places that also hurt.

I feel that Giyuu is more ticklish on his ribs, feet, calves or thighs and knees and I feel that he would not react so badly or laugh as I feel that he sees Kocho as Makomo (According to what many say and what I understood, Makomo Sabito and Giyuu were friends)

Giyuu's laughter is serious like that of a small child, he squeals, covers his face out of embarrassment and kicks lightly but doesn't try to escape.

Medical exam

Lee: Gyuu Tomioka

Ler: Shinobu Kochou

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

Ships: Shinobu X Gyuu

Warnings: This is a tickle fic, if you don’t like it, just scroll down

This fanfic is originally in Portuguese, my English is translated using an automatic translator, if there are any big errors you can tell me so I can fix them

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

“Fuck” Gyuu said, limping to walk

Him knee was hurting a lot

Walking two meters was harrowing

He entered a specific room in the butterfly mansion, where he knew Shinobu would be.

“Tomioka!” She came to meet him, putting him in her arms and helping him to stand up “your crow warned me, what happened?”

She helped him lie down on the bed

“It hurts like hell”

"Where?"

He pointed to his own knee

"How did this happen?"

“The Oni turned my knee backwards” Gyuu was in a cold sweat, it hurts a lot

“Oh my God, poor thing” Shinobu preached medicine and put them in the man’s mouth “take these medicines, you’ll get better”

She started to run her hands over the man's kneecaps, he groaned.

“I'm sorry, but I need to check. Does it hurt here?” She pressed it lower

"No"

"And here?"

Gyuu held her hand “it hurts”

“I’m sorry, what about here?” She pressed it tightly on top of her knee

Gyuu let out a scream and covered his mouth, turning red.

"What? It hurts a lot?"

He looked away “no…”

“What was it then?” She squeezed again

Gyuu jumped and held her hands

Their eyes met

Shinobu understood everything, she started to smile

“What is it?~”

“Just- no-“ he continued

“But I need to check if everything is ok” she pressed again, several times in a row

"No! Nohohohoho- KOHOHOHOCHO” he shouted

“What is that, Tomioka? I don't think it hurts, does it? I think it’s something else~”

Gyuu shook his head, there's no point in holding back the laughter, she's already started with his weak point

“What about the other knee? Does it hurt too?” She changed her hands “you laugh like a little child”

Gyuu jumped a little because the other knee tickled more, as he didn't feel any pain along with it.

“KOHOHOCHO!”

“Oh my God, poor thing, it must be really hurting for you to be having these reactions, and did he hurt something here…?”

She quickly moved her hands to Gyuu's ribs, the man threw his head back.

“HEHEHEHEHEHE DIHIHIHIDN’T”

“But I have to check!”

Shinobu changed her hands all the time, Gyuu tried to grab them but he didn't come close to being able to.

“Your laugh is cute! I'm almost done, don't worry” she said smiling “I just refuse to see if your whole leg is ok”

She ran her hands down his leg, which wasn't even injured, from his thigh to his foot.

Gyuu tried his best not to kick her in the face

“PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE”

He tried to reach the hands that were on his foot

“Hm… I think it’s okay”

Shinobu raised her hands, letting Gyuu lie on the bed peacefully.

"Are you feeling better?" She said, Gyuu realized that she was really worried

“Yes” he said getting up and coming closer “thank you”

The two looked at each other, and the man pulled her in for a kiss.

When they stopped, they both blushed

“I-I’m going to get some medicine” the woman said getting up

“O-o-ok” he covered his red face

Gyuu was alone in the room, smiling like a fool

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

Thanks for reading