#THEY INVADING MY BRAIN BUT I DON'T FEEL LIKE DRAWING | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

willowser · 1 year ago

Text

you had only to look at me—

part one.

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 7.4k+

tags: nsfw (18+), childhood best friend bakugou, oral (f!receiving), m!masturbation, lots of "first time" talk, more angst, more virgin bakugou.

even before i was touched, i belonged to you; you had only to look at me. — the burning heart, louise glück.

this is a repost.

you and bakugou avoid each other just like you did in middle school, only it's a little too easy this time around.

he's terrible at texting back in general, and because you're not initiating any conversations on your own — or sending funny memes or bringing up all might in some capacity — the radio silence draws ever on and on.

the closest you come to interacting with him is getting a snapchat from his mom, his figure in the background at their kitchen table. all you can see is the floof of his hair and the outline of his shoulders, but you're so bothered by the fact that he's home and didn't tell you that you don't even respond.

it officiates things in a bad way; he's really, actually not speaking to you.

and it's — fucking annoying.

at least in the past the distance was mutually and wordlessly agreed upon; you didn't talk because you were busy or didn't have time or anything new to say, but whenever he's come home — because he so rarely does — bakugou has always made his usual, god-honest attempt to irritate you.

and he still is, but this time he's doing it all wrong.

you go through the five stages of grief rather quickly, jumping from denial to anger overnight. several times, you type out something to text him, each message different than the last:

i know you were at your mom's jackass ☠️

it's really not a big deal and i think we should just forget about it, if that's what you wanna do ?

if i crossed some kind of boundary with you then i'm sorry and i won't say that again so you better call me before i put your baby pictures on the internet. i'm serious.

you're my best friend and i don't think it's weird that it happened. if you're being dumb because you're embarrassed, then don't be because i thought it was really hot

unsurprisingly, you don't send any of these and instead just stew in your own aggravation. lunch with him after the whole thing had been just as empty and awkward, and you think he chose the place near your apartment just so you could walk home and he didn't have to spend another second with you.

three months go by, which isn't long compared to other stints you've spent not talking to one another, but this one drags. like a lot. the only good that comes from it is that you graduate from anger to acceptance, finalizing a future without him in it.

except for the few times he invades your brain like a little parasite, red-faced and shuddering, gripping you like a lifeline, and then your stomach flips so hard that you feel sick and it takes genuine effort to check out of that daydream and back into a bakugou-less reality.

and then he shows up at your apartment, uninvited.

his mom hosts a sunday dinner that you don't go to, for several potential reasons. one would be that you'll have to see bakugou and pretend like nothing's happened even though you're still a little peeved; two is that you'll both ignore each other, and that'll reverse all your progress because he's been ignoring you already.

three is that he might not show up, and then you'll have to pretend that it doesn't bother you all night long.

none of that sounds better than watching trash television and falling asleep on your couch, so you tell mitsuki that you're very sick and very sorry, and that you'll make it up to her later.

because of this, the first thing bakugou says to you after you swing the front door open is, "you're supposed to be fuckin' dead."

suffice to say, you're surprised to see him; still outfitted in his hero costume, mask shoved up his forehead so that his hair is wilder than usual. there's kohl smudged around his eyes, messy, and they look brighter and harsher because of it.

there's also a family-mart plastic bag in his right hand.

"what?"

he just grunts, eyes snapping over your figure, dressed down in a too-large sweater and athletic shorts meant for running even though you've never done so in them.

in his hands — still gloved — the plastic crinkles obnoxiously as he holds it out. "old hag told me to bring this to you."

a can of low sodium soup, two apples, gatorade, and something over-the-counter for nausea. there's something else at the very bottom that you don't get the chance to inspect before he interrupts with his big, fat mouth.

"y'look fine to me, so why the hell didn't you go?"

you frown at him and — don't know what to say. clearly, it seems he's going the pretend-it-never-happened route, which is infuriating because he could just as well have done that months ago. even still, he won't hardly meet your gaze, staring for only a moment before rolling his eyes and huffing, sticking them anywhere else. if you peek close, real close, you'd say his ears are a little red, but maybe you're just looking for — something.

you shrug. "didn't feel like it."

he shakes his head like that's the stupidest thing he's ever heard, eyebrow arched. "why the hell not?"

"because, bakugou, i just didn't feel like going, i don't know what else to tell you." you huff, shrugging again when he doesn't say anything. "thanks for the stuff. is that it?"

his lips twist as he thinks, giving you another once-over before sighing. under his tank-top, you watch how his chest expands, the grimace that ripples over his face as he reaches a hand to lightly feel at his right side. "need your help with somethin'."

now you're just being petulant; you snort, raising your eyebrows as his eyes narrow at the sound. "me? are you joking? you need my help with—"

he groans loud enough to drown you out. "y'gonna let me in or y'just gonna run your mouth?" and so you step aside to wave him in wordlessly.

the backpack on his shoulder dumps to the ground by the door and he strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place, despite the fact that he's never been here before. you've lived in the unit for a year, but meetups are so infrequent and showing it off to him was never considered — until now; watching him shuffle through the bag on the counter, your nerves spike at the reality check.

alone together, again. in your apartment. well after dark.

that image of him is so — invasive, sweeping in at the worst times: between your legs, face as red as his eyes, the little moan he kept trying to swallow. how embarrassed he seemed when you asked if he felt good, if you felt good, and the fact that he still admitted it despite everything.

your entire body blazes like a flame to gasoline, and you try to focus on what else he's taking out of the bag, oblivious.

does he think about it at all? the way you have? at the root of the situation, that's what has been most bothersome: is he grossed out? simply embarrassed? does he feel taken advantage of? did he enjoy it and just doesn't know how to say it? the not knowing is driving you insane.

"i got—" bakugou awkwardly angles his body, gently touching at his side again. in his hands is a simple pack of first-aid supplies, like a wound wash and bandages and medical tape. "need you to change this shit for me."

"oh?" is all you can manage to say, still distracted, and whatever is obvious in your voice has his eyes snapping to you from across the kitchen, adam's apple bobbing. you clear your throat, struggling for normalcy. "the hell did you do?"

he's — going to take his shirt off. clearly, by the way he stretches out his shoulders and then slowly reaches behind himself to grab the material by the back, carefully pulling it up over his head with a low, stinging hiss.

bakugou's always been a lean kid — guy — but pulled so taut like that, after years of working out muscles you didn't even know he had, he looks — stupidly shredded, and the slow reveal of his tight stomach is not helping you to focus.

you just never realized how hot it was, because you never looked at him like that. until recently.

his mask comes off with his shirt and he tosses both onto the kitchen counter — again, as if he pays the bills here — and his hair is a mess and he usually doesn't care, but he runs a hand through it several times before finally looking back at you, eyes outlined in black.

"y'gonna help me or...?" he shrugs, trying to appear impassive — but it's too obvious; something's shifted, for the both of you.

you don't trust your voice anymore, so you just shuffle over to him, frowning at the dirty, worn bandage that's already unsticking from his skin. with his teeth, he pulls off his gloves and it's a wonder why he even wears them, really, because his hands are filthy underneath, covered in soot and black-stained grease.

standing like he is, arm slightly raised, you can see all his sweat, muscles shifting under his skin as he breathes, and his hairy armpit is staring you in the face and you don't know when he stopped being 12 and started being 20 and when he became such a man. it's not fair, that he should suddenly be so — attractive.

"you're disgusting," you tell him — and mean it — and it's met with such hot and irritated surprise that you have to keep talking before he explodes. "you should probably take a shower before putting on a new bandage."

it's road-rash up his right side, still shiny and wet and blood red. still raw. just looking at it is enough to make you cringe.

bakugou huffs, exasperated. "okay, gimme a towel then."

"i didn't mean take a shower here!" you squawk, taking a step back as if to further yourself from the suggestion.

detonation imminent; bakugou curls his hands into fists and the same muffled warning you've been getting your whole life crackles. "okay," he says, voice thin and razor sharp. "you're coming back to mine then?"

your whole life flashes before your eyes — or at least the few minutes it took for him to lose his shit between your legs. "what? no, why would i?"

"i need your help with this, dip-shit!"

"you're saying there's no one else that can—"

"if you want me to fuck off, just say so!"

things go silent, startlingly so. totally still, except for the rising flush across his face, one that you used to read as annoyance but are now translating into something else you never could have expected from him: embarrassment. it's starting to give you whiplash, how much you're discovering despite knowing him all your life.

"closet is at the end of hall," you say in surrender. "bathroom will be on your left."

bakugou mutters a quiet, angry little "jesus" before stalking back to the front door to get his bag, and then he's disappearing into the dark of your apartment.

you slump down on your couch and — struggle. watching the tv and absorbing nothing; it's a rerun anyway. the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry washes over you as the shower spray sounds in the background, followed by a low-timbered swear and the clatter of several bottles against the tub.

it's easy to butt heads with bakugou. you don't think there is any other way to interact with him, really, because he's so argumentative and that used to be okay, but now things are — off. you don't know what he's doing, what he wants, why he's here and in your shower when he could be at home or getting patched up at his agency. all the conclusions you can come to are frightening, a little, and they're hard to fathom; is he — does he want more?

is this just because he's a guy that got some action and is looking for a second round, or is this because it's you?

this stupid situation has only added an unnecessary amount of drama to your life, and you think maybe the pretend-it-never-happened route is the smartest path, even if you can't stop thinking about him and the strength coiled in his biceps, in his shoulders, and how tall he's become and — when did he lose most of the baby fat in his face, and when did he get such a sharp jawline?

how much is he working out, to get his body like that? he used to be a skinny, scrappy little thing and now — he can probably lift a truck over his head. must run all the time, though he's always been active, and you've never looked before, but you wonder how nice his ass is.

what he looks like under the shower, soapy and wet.

furiously, you blink out of your daydream, feeling like a foreign body in your own skin; if someone would have told you only a handful of months ago that you'd be having weird, sensual thoughts about your best friend, you would have laughed so hard you'd cried. or puked.

but if anyone else stands in that picture with him, your heart squeezes painfully. traitorously. already, you've shared so many memories with him; the start of elementary school, learning how to swim, giving each other equally bruised faces, staying up all night to study for important exams, tackling middle school graduation side-by-side, him making himself at home in your first apartment, just as you had done in his.

the devil on your shoulder asks: what's a few more firsts?

it seems like the shower stops in record time, but when you hone back in on the tv, the episode has changed and new drama is settling in. distantly, the rattle of the doorknob is more aggressive than it needs to be and when the echo of a swung-open door trails down the hallway, your heart suspends in your throat. never have you had to think this much just to be around him, and it's bothersome.

clean and relaxed, he's — softer; you spare a quick glance at him when he comes to stand beside the couch, distracted by the show on screen, and his hair is damp, starting to stick out again the more it dries. his muscles aren't made of marble anymore; still there and rippling, but he breathes calmly and his skin is baby smooth, tender. you eye his tummy and the line of fine hair running down into the waistband of his sweats, and do your best to ignore the sudden desire to kiss right above his belly-button.

"since when are they talking again?"

just as he looks at you, your gaze shoots back to the screen, eyes narrowing as you try to rapidly remember what's happening in the day-to-day for stay-at-home, pro-hero wives.

"uh," you blink, distracted — and he notices, "what do you mean? they've been hanging out, like, all season."

bakugou watches the tv in silence, occasionally glancing down to the bandage in his hands as he carefully spreads it out, as he dampens the towel with the antiseptic and dabs at his wounds.

"even after she hit on whatshername's husband?"

"yeah, that was a misunderstanding," you frown at him but he doesn't see it. "remember when they went to that dinner party and all hell broke loose because—"

his flat look serves for a rude interruption. "they go to a lot of fuckin' dinner parties."

"i know, but," you scoff, annoyed, "have you even watched this season?"

bakugou scoffs, mocking and over-dramatic, "yeah, as if i've got all day to sit on my ass and watch your stupid girly—"

"you're watching it right now."

"because you've got it on!" he huffs when you sink into the couch, resolutely trying to ignore him. “start it over then, if you’re gonna cry about it.”

you gape up at him, going as far as to pause the show so that maybe he’ll acknowledge you and all your annoyance; he doesn’t. “start it over? this is, like, episode 26!”

“so? got a hot date or what?”

he’s not at all interested in the answer and that’s obvious when he spins around and holds out the bandage expectantly, staring down at the scrape — glowing red and angry, a mirrored wound you can feel scabbing across your own skin; itchy and irritating.

finally he looks at you properly, frowning softly and — you see him then, can feel the tension lining his body as you carefully tape on his bandage. trying to hide how uncomfortable he is, though you he’s never had to do so with you in all of — forever. it’s nauseating, and again you're struck by the image of him, only now it's of the horror that had been on his face afterwards, at what you’d done.

it pushes everything over the edge; quietly, so that your voice doesn’t expose anything, you say, “you haven’t spoken to me in three months.”

silence weighs in the air immediately, heavy, and you watch him try to appear unbothered, shrugging as he stares back at the unmoving tv, jaw tight. “phone works both ways.”

“yeah, but,” your hands drop as he steps away to pull on a loose shirt, and you curl your fists into your own. just as he has. “i’m always the one having to reach out—”

“so why didn’t you?”

“what?” frustrated, you massage your temples, trying to soothe the nuclear headache threatening to incinerate you. “are you seriously trying to—”

“what’s the big deal?” he huffs, slumping down into the far corner of the couch before cringing, swearing as he gently touches at his bandage. “you’ve gone longer than that without talkin’ to me, so…”

the tone of his voice is infuriating, as if this is somehow all your fault — and maybe it is, because you shouldn’t have crossed such a boundary with him, but — he can be such a dick.

“it’s not just me bakugou, you could have just as easily picked up the phone, too!” your teeth grind when he shrugs again, leaning his head against his fist as he looks anywhere else. it almost looks like guilt that's dragging his expression down, but you know better than to assume he could feel such a thing. “you always—”

“jesus, if i always do this—”

“shut up for a second, damn!” and then because you can’t stand the stupid look on his face, you kick him in the thigh for good measure; it garners a warning glare, his teeth bared.

he easily catches you by the ankle when you try to kick him again. "tell me what the big fuckin' deal is."

"the big deal? oh, you mean besides the fact that you totally came in your pants?"

it stuns him for a second, eyes wide and face pale, before he's yanking you across the couch, narrowly avoiding the knee aimed for his gut. "you—fucking—!" a smack lands across the back of his head when he ducks and he plants a heavy hand over your face, forcing you to close your eyes and turn away.

"you're gonna blow my head off!"

"if i wanted you dead, you—" he intercepts the hand you blindly reach up with, crossing it awkwardly over your chest so that you're pinned down like a wild animal. "you would be!"

"kiss my ass, katsuki." you snark, and it does something to him, your use of his first name, because he's still for a moment before sitting back and collecting your wrists correctly, to hold against the couch arm above your head.

"you're such a fucking—" he swoops in so low that his nose almost brushes yours and he grabs the front of your sweater with his free hand, like he's gonna shake you down for some lunch money. "fuck, i could just—" and then he groans long and loud, so annoyed he can't find the words.

"yeah, well—"

"shut up," he lightly knocks his forehead into your cheekbone with another dissatisfied sound, letting out a heavy sigh as he sinks his face down into your neck.

all your muscles tighten on instinct, waiting for the sharp bite that's due any second — but his fingers only uncurl from the material of your sweater, slowly slipping around to tangle into the hair at the nape of your neck. his pull there is a little tight, enough for you to know he's got you, but not so much that you're head is aching; you can't imagine you have a sensitive scalp, anyway, after growing up around him.

you want to say something — which is an annoying realization because now you feel like too much of a talker — but you just focus on the heave of his chest over yours, the breath that moves through him. the minute jostle of his hips as he settles further into the space between your legs, almost comfortable. the slight swell of something unfamiliar against your inner thigh.

bakugou presses his face a little further into you, warm, and the tip of his nose drags along the column of your throat. successfully sedating you, distracted by the feel of his parted lips against your skin.

your body is hot all over, very suddenly; the sweater now feels like a death trap and hopefully you don't smell weird, though it's never been a worry before, not around him, and your adrenaline is rushing and you're kinda tired of acting like you don't know why that is.

fuck pretend-it-never-happened. it's been a long three months.

he's almost entirely pressed against you, but there is a small gap of space that closes when you open your legs a little wider, hitching them around his waist as his breath stutters against your neck.

it's happened so quick, so effortlessly yet again; you give a purposeful roll of your hips upward and are lost in him all over.

only — it's different than it was before because straddling his lap hadn't done much for you, but now the weighted outline of him is right against your center and the pressure that drags across you sends tingles up your spine and has your toes curling in your socks. when you let out a tiny gasp at the stomach-flipping sensation, tension coils in every curve of his body and the grip around your wrists and in your hair only tightens.

you can't help it; you let out a "katsuki" in the same heady tone as you did in his apartment and it has him falling easily into the slow grind you've been unable to stop thinking about. what shifts across his face is obvious, against your throat, like the scrunch of his brow and the slow drop of his mouth. he tries to muffle his breathy "oh" into your skin, but it echoes throughout your entire body, has an ache beginning between your thighs that he's already soothing.

the nip comes then, teeth sinking gently into your neck as you weakly cry out in surprise, but it's only for a moment before his tongue — wet and heavy and wide — is tasting over your jugular, lips closing around your skin as he sucks experimentally. you let out a proper moan then, squirming against his hands and up into him so that the pressure doubles for the both of you.

katsuki finally relinquishes your wrists, carding his hand down your body before coming to squeeze your hip, your thigh, locking your leg tight around his waist. "yeah," he rasps, voice deeper than you've ever heard it as he presses his forehead into yours. "how do you fuckin' like it?"

being bitten, he means, vengefully, but you're spread open beneath him and he's rutting the hard length of himself against you roughly, eagerly, and panting open-mouthed and you tighten up at the aggression in his tone and in his hands and his very being and —

"fuck," you gasp, loud and wanton, "fuck, katsuki—"

and then you are kissing your best friend.

the boy from down the street that always ruined your hair and taught you where to place your thumb if you were gonna throw a punch. that used his empty pen cartridge to blow spitballs at you and mocked you for losing crane games, even though he ended up giving you the stupid stuffed animal anyway. that had to be king of the castle, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield. that demanded you be his queen, weeds he picked for you woven carefully into your hair by his hands.

katsuki kisses like he's shy — another term you've never thought of in relation to him and all his fire and brimstone; it's slow and a little delayed in comparison to what his hips are doing, as if he's in his head too much and is trying to figure how to move his lips and when. tentative and chaste, until you run your tongue along the seam of his mouth and pry him open a little more.

it's making you hungry; that possessiveness from before is creeping back in, eager to have him in ways nobody else has. you arch into him, biting at his lips and sighing into his mouth as goosebumps break out across his skin.

with a slant of his head, he deepens the kiss and you can feel his nostrils flaring, the fingernails scratching against your scalp, the bruises he's probably leaving on your thigh. he lets up only to breathe, panting into your ear when he begins to bite and suck on your skin again; your earlobe and neck and even the cut of your jaw. like maybe he's hungry, too.

you fist a hand into his shirt just to tug it up his body, feeling the strong contract of his stomach when your fingers ghost against him. katsuki gets the hint quickly, rising up to his knees to tear the material off — much more harshly than he did before, which has you eying his crinkled bandage — and you move fast to take advantage of the new space.

it gives him pause when you yank down your shorts, pulling your legs back to slip them off and fling them somewhere across the room. his face goes red again, and his heaving chest, too, and his eyelids flutter as he takes in the sight of your flimsy, damp cotton underwear. you start to pull the sweater up your stomach, but he's watching so intently — so ravenous — that you get shy, without a bra underneath the too-hot fabric.

in any other situation, katsuki would have grabbed onto this moment, your hesitation, and held it over your head to come back and poke at. cataloged this little weak spot for future arguments, but now —

not once has he ever been gentle with you in anything; it's enough of a surprise that that's even a possibility for him, for the two of you, but he presses his body back into yours and kisses you deep, calloused fingers tracing over the new skin exposed to him. he doesn't try to push the sweater up any further, but one hand slips up your back, to splay between your shoulder-blades like it had before, and he's so close and you've never known him to be this — careful. with anything.

"y'r so—" katsuki rolls his hips again and groans, whispering against your lips. "fuckin' soft."

his sweatpants are still on and you don't know why, but when you reach down to help tug them off, he grabs your wrist before they can go too far.

he presses the heat from his cheeks into your own, like he wants to share it. "you done this before?"

"have you?"

he frowns at your non-answer. "i asked first."

you have. three times, technically, though a phantom pain echoes in your stomach at the memories, and you feel an odd emptiness in your chest that makes you really glad to have the sweater still on. your answer leaves you a little ashamed, under his gaze, and you purposely turn from it. "would...that bother you?"

before, you wouldn't have cared, didn't care, nor were you even thinking of him when it happened. wherever he must have been; u.a, probably, getting ready to make his lifelong dreams a reality while you trusted a boy that didn't look at you the way katsuki is now. that didn't hold you and touch you and kiss you the way your best friend has.

he scoffs, though it doesn't sound as careless as it usually does and he squeezes his eyes shut so you can't read them. the truth that's hidden there. "no," he lies, "why would—" but he doesn't finish, just sighs.

"it was awful anyway," you tell him, offering a small smile when he peeks down at you. he doesn't say anything, so you kiss him once, twice, until his tension is melting away. "should have been you."

the grip on your thigh turns almost painful and he grinds into you so roughly that you both gasp, loud in the tight, barely-there space between you. "yeah," he rasps, sucking another bruise into the hollow of your throat. "fuckin' should have."

you try to imagine it; eighteen and nervous, naked in front of him for the first time since you were seven and got into paint from his mom's workshop, when she made you both strip down in the same room, furious. how different he might have been with you then, how much more unsure. kinder than your ex, without a doubt, even for katsuki, and he probably wouldn't have even gone through with the whole thing, considering how uncomfortable the first time is.

or maybe it wouldn't have been, with him; maybe he would have looked into it, taken the time to wind you up the same way he is now so that you were eager and wet and ready. looking down at you with his wide, almost-black eyes in the dim light of a table lamp. another first to share.

"if i'd have just," he huffs, allowing his sweats to slip down past his hips. shoulders trembling when he makes you moan out his name again. "fuckin'—grown a pair 'n told you—"

the weight of him becomes more obvious, the straining bulge he's rocking into your core, and seeing it is — really getting to you; wearing such tight boxers, you can tell just how close the pink tip of him is to his waistband, nearly peeking out from just how hard he is.

it takes a shrug to get him out of your shoulder, so you can press your lips back to his. "can still be you, katsuki," you breathe, biting on his bottom lip until his tiny frown is gone. "if you want, it can still be you."

for a minute, he indulges himself in the greedy kiss you're giving him, testing strokes of his tongue against your own as his hips stutter out of rhythm — but it's when your fingers brush through the hair at the base of his stomach, trying to slip a hand into his boxers, that he's gasping into your mouth and pushing his body up and away.

determination settles over his face then — along with his vibrant flush — and he doesn't say anything as he grabs you like it's nothing and scoots you up the couch so that your back is pressed to the arm, propped up. once he settles between your thighs, he just rests his face into the plush of your stomach — which is humiliating and has you squirming, but the firmness returns to his hands; holding your hips so that you'll still, so that he can kiss right above your belly button, just as you wanted to do to him.

heat flares in your own cheeks — and down your chest and in your ears and searing on the back of your neck — when you feel the first puff of his warm breath against your underwear, where you're sensitive and slick and aching.

this is completely new to you; your ex-boyfriend probably never considered tasting you here, certainly not with the same desire that's painted across katsuki's face. you have to slap your hands over your eyes and bite your lip, embarrassed, suddenly, at how desperate the simple press of his mouth to your underwear makes you.

"hey, hey," katsuki grunts, pinching at your hips until you peek at him through your fingers. the highlights of his cheeks are crimson and his eyes are black, glaring with an intensity that makes you shiver. "it's my fuckin' turn."

to make you fall apart, he means, just as he had.

at the first hot drag of his tongue against the material, you squirm, leaning your head back so that your expression is hidden. another grunt comes from him, you think in dissatisfaction, but he continues, laving until your mouth is falling open and the fabric between you is drenched.

he's gone just long enough to be replaced by the ghost of his thumb, touching you much too-gently. hunger has you stealing another look at him, watching behind your hands as he stares, blatantly, at the mess he's already made of you, stroking the pad of his finger against the sodden material in interest.

discovering; a curious swipe over where you're aching has you sighing and trembling and his eyes jump back up to your covered face, open mouth curling into the faintest smirk as he does it again and again and again. it's bullshit — how quickly he's figured you out, almost as if your body was meant to be unraveled by his hands — but then again, it didn't take you long either, did it?

"katsuki," you hiss, digging a hand into the hair at the crown of his head, tugging on it until his smile is dropping and his eyes are lidding. your body is on fire and your legs are trying to close around his head, hips squirming as he toys with you, like the little brat he is.

deadly serious, he grabs your underwear and holds it tightly in his fist so that you can wiggle one leg free, and then he's tugging it out of his way and devouring you whole.

it's sloppy, the mixture of spit and slick as runs his tongue through you, wet and wide, and you're so sensitive that you squeak out in surprise, fingers tightening. a groan punches from deep in his chest and your hips buck at the vibration of it, drawn so tight already.

"oh my—" you gasp, dropping your other hand from your face to grip the couch; eyes closed, you're somewhere else entirely, lost in the clumsy swirl of pleasure between your thighs.

katsuki raises his head to breathe, reaffirming your grip in his hair by wrapping his fingers tight over your own. at the shiny sight of his mouth, you can't help but to whimper with a needy roll of your hips, until he's simply sticking out his tongue and allowing you to ride it, to use it as you need to. it's embarrassing, how desperate you are, but his eyes are knife-sharp and trained on you and you've never experienced anything like this.

he moves then, slipping one hand further up under your sweater, cupping your breast carefully as his lids flutter — and the other is shoved between his hips and where they're pressed into the couch. you tighten up at just the idea of him rutting into his hand while kissing your messy slit, moaning openly, head falling back as your eyes start to roll.

this is — fuck — you've never been so turned on in all your life and it's driving you crazy; at one point in time, the thought of bakugou like this would have grossed you out, but now you think it's only like this because of him. anyone else wasn't right, not the way he is, and he's maybe a little impatient and unwieldy, but it's katsuki. between your legs with his mouth on you — something he wanted — and his fingers are brushing over your nipple and the other is down his pants, wrist flexing and —

"fuck, oh fuck, i—" you try to sit up, chasing blindly after the high, but he forces you back down. a long groan is muffled by your skin and when he lifts his chin just a little, a glob of spit falls off his lips and the sight makes your toes curl before he presses back into you and sucks.

everything goes blank as you free-fall into him and you cum quietly, muscles so taut in your body that your voice can't even squeeze out of your throat. the minute you're able to breathe, he's biting a mark into your thigh and yanking you back down under him, lips slick against yours.

tasting yourself on his tongue has you coming out of the heady haze, ravenous; katsuki helps you to shove his boxers down, though he can only gasp tightly when he grinds against you, coating himself.

"'m not—" his soft hair tickles your face when he shakes his head, arms trembling beside your head. "i won't be able to—"

"keep going," you breathe, smearing your mess over the tip of him and down his length as he groans. "i don't care, keep going."

he smashes his lips to yours, though he's only able to meet the pump of your hand a few times before dropping his forehead to your shoulder, spine curling, fingers digging into your hair. katsuki swears long and low, eventually letting out a soft sound you wouldn't have expected from him as his entire body tenses and he spills onto your stomach.

"goddamn it," he moans into the fabric of your sweater, weary, after a long moment. "now 'm fuckin' tired."

and for some reason that makes you laugh, though the lust is dissipating and your nerves are trembling at the memory of how this ended last time. katsuki pulls away suddenly, making your stomach drop, and he doesn't look at you as he detangles himself, awkwardly shuffling away from the couch and out of sight.

you frown down at the mess on your stomach, the way it's pooling in your belly-button — and you'll be damned to let him leave you like this, but just as you finishing reciting over and over what you want to say, he appears, towel in hand.

it's still damp from his shower and you tense on instinct, waiting for him to start twirling it with that stupid grin on his face, but katsuki only arranges your legs so that he can sit between them, carefully wiping you off as his cheeks burn. and you just watch him, the way he runs a hand over your skin to make sure he got it all before helping to finagle your underwear back on properly.

then he just looks at the tv, unmoving. if he's trying to appear casual at all, it's a piss-poor job — but he's never been able to keep his fat mouth shut for long.

the look he gives you lacks its usual heat, though you can't tell if that's just because he's drained or if he's withdrawn for another reason. "what now? six months, a year before you talk to me again?"

and you're annoyed all over again.

"what?" you return his weak glare, sitting up properly so that you're right in his face. "are you kidding me? you didn't talk to me either."

"the hell did you want me to say?" he scoffs and — you could slap him, for ruining everything so quickly. wipe that stupid look off his face with your fist. "'sorry i busted a nut, you free for dinner?'"

"yeah!" the shrill tone of your voice makes his eyes widen, and you throw your hands up in the air, incensed. "that sounds wonderful in comparison to coming home and avoiding me."

"i didn't avoid you," he mutters, though his eyes drift back to the tv. "just didn't have shit to say."

"bakugou," you slap your hands over your face for the second time, though this one is much worse than the last. "how is that fucking fair? what did you want me to say?"

and now — his eyes are full and furious, mouth curling down into an ugly frown that you've so rarely had the pleasure of seeing on his face; every time his mother made you go home and when you told him you weren't gonna try to test into u.a. when he overheard your girl friends teasing you for liking an older boy in your school.

when he was losing you, you realize.

"'m not doin' this shit with you," he mutters, definitive, before swiping his shirt up off the floor and standing. "not doin' this bakugou shit."

"oh my god," you groan, rising, too, because your stomach is twisting at the thought of him leaving again, no matter how angry he's making you. "what does that even mean?"

you trail him as he stomps into your kitchen to grab his work shirt and mask from the counter, trying to interrupt him at every turn, and the scowl on his face only grows when you shoot to stand in front of the door, just as he reaches for his bag.

"you can't—"

"this," he seethes, gesturing to you and then himself before gritting his teeth so hard that they should shatter. "this is why i didn't wanna fuckin' talk to you."

you knew he didn't. the minute lunch ended and when you made out his shape in mitsuki's snapchat: you knew. but hearing it from his mouth is as much of a confirmation as it is a kick in the gut.

there's more he's struggling to say, mouth shifting as he chews on the words and the skin of his lips. his gaze jumps from you to the door to something on the counter before he's swallowing again, staring down at you with brand new eyes.

the light in the kitchen makes them shine, angry and sad. "i can't—" he sighs, nostrils flaring like he's mad at himself for struggling. "go back to bakugou, not after—" a vague hand waves toward the couch. "maybe this is just, i don't know, whatever to you, but i — fuckin' can't."

tell me what the big fuckin' deal is; earlier, he'd demanded it of you, why the silence mattered so much this time when it didn't seem to matter before. in the midst of your anger, you didn't think twice about his wording but now —

he wanted you to say it. katsuki wanted to hear you say that it hurt to be without him for so long, and he kept his distance because he was afraid that you wouldn't.

"you're so stupid," you mutter it quietly, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, enraged, but before he can get another dumb word out, you loop your arms around his neck and just — kiss him.

not crazy or wild or lust-driven, just your lips to his, slowly working him out of the shell he's tried to hide behind.

the bag in his hand hits the ground with a soft thud and then his arm is wrapping around your back, tugging you to him as he finally breathes and opens his mouth — and lets you in.

when you cup the sides of his neck, katsuki inhales sharply through his nose, pulse jumping under your fingers, and his lashes flutter against your cheeks as he opens his eyes. he pulls back enough so that you can stare at each other and you realize that eyeliner is still clinging to his lids, making him seem sharper than usual.

you're a little stunned, then, at how beautiful he is.

"i can't go back to bakugou either, dumbass." gently, you knock your forehead into his, smiling at the pout on his face. "you've totally screwed that up for me."

"yeah, well," he huffs, "about time. only took you all my goddamn life."

"sorry i'm late."

"what else is new?" he rolls his eyes and you squeak, indignant, before sticking your tongue out at him, patience worn thin already.

you expect a bite or a pinch to the cheek or another rough violence that falls along the lines that have made up your relationship thus far — but instead there is only something soft that reflects in his eyes and the shy kiss he presses to your lips, something that he's kept safe just for you, guarded, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield.

#narrator voice: willow did not have the spoons to extend the ending #whoopsie #okie okie part 2 #✿ willow writes #✿ one shot: bakugou

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hvlcy0n · 4 months ago

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EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER CUT, ONLY 18+

writing this and immediately posting it no i refuse to come back to edit this

idk about the rest of yall but that one interaction between hiragi and banjo in chapter 130 snatched me up by my throat. plus hiragi with his hair down??? manga hiragi????? listen. stay with me now.

hiragi just oozes authority. STAY WITH ME. he possessed great leadership skills and commanded respect as a member of bofurin's four kings, and such attributes would draw you to him like a moth to flame even as he ages and consequently graduates from the high school. he exudes a casual dominance that makes your heart flutter, and you can't help but feel your brain go all mushy when he tosses his jacket over your shoulders to protect you from unwanted attention or when he nonchalantly drops to one knee to fix the strap on your sandals because you're wearing a dress or short skirt or when he offhandedly points out things that he'd like to see you in but "it's cool if you don't like it."

he takes such good care of you, he makes you want to suck him dry on the DAILY simply because you can. he isn't super well-versed in relationships and may be clumsy with certain situations, but he does his best, and you appreciate the effort. you crave his attention in a way that's almost embarrassing if you think about it for too long, but it's not your fault that almost everything he does leaves your skin flushed with heat and a dull ache throbbing between your thighs.

he may be a strong man, but he's not nearly strong enough to stay focused when you seek him out and invade his personal space, tempting him into your grasp with an alluring sparkle in your eyes and a soft plea for his assistance. sometimes, he may be able to resist for a while, but eventually, you'll get your way, even if you have to pull out all the stops to reach that point. the only exceptions are when you're intentionally acting out or there are pressing matters he must attend to, but that's a conversation for a different time. you're his sweet girl, how could he not deliver?

but, if you're going to demand his attention so often, you should be able to take what he gives you, right? it's only fair.

he's very much the type to crowd you against the wall and finger you until you're creaming all over his hand. his presence swallows you up, engulfing you so completely that it's nearly overwhelming; there's nowhere you can turn where he isn't already. the scent of his cologne wafting off his neck is dizzying, and the only thing grounding you is the low sound of his voice as you drift in and out of awareness. his free hand is braced next to your head for leverage, and you can't help but let your head loll weakly against it as you try to conserve enough energy to prevent your wobbly legs from collapsing under you.

you can't even remember how many orgasms he's pulled out of you with his fingers alone, nor do you care. the sticky squelch of his fingers as he curves them to bully your g-spot for the umpteenth time is obscene and makes your thighs tremble. you whine at the onslaught of stimulation and feebly try to rise up on your tiptoes to escape, but his touch simply follows you.

"nuh-uh, you don't get to suddenly decide to run. i'm not done." his voice, verging on a growl, vibrates in his chest. "i was gone for two hours, and i didn't even have time to take my fuckin' jacket off before you were all over me wantin' more. this is what you wanted, right?"

you nod, tongue too cumbersome and uncooperative to speak. you gasp sharply when the heel of his palm grinds against your clit, lidded eyes popping open attentively. "eyes open. answer me, sweetheart." his voice is firm but not unkind, searching for some type of verbal confirmation or denial that you're still with him.

"it . . . is," you can barely thread together the words. "feels s' good, toma . . . one more, pl--ease." your inner thighs are sticky, but you can't tell whether it's sweat or your own slick that's trickling down your skin. "jus' one."

"damn near insatiable," he grumbles, but regardless, his fingers sink back into you without hesitation.

he can't deny you. but, when he feels his cock twitch in his jeans when you lift your head to gaze at him with those hazy, adoring eyes and sweetly ask him for a kiss, he begins to wonder if he's just as bad as you.

#windbreaker x reader #windbreaker smut #hiragi x reader #hiragi smut #toma hiragi x reader #toma hiragi smut #hiragi toma #windbreaker x you #satoru nii

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gffa · 1 year ago

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If the batfamily were in the gffa, which ones of them do you think would have been jedis? How quickly do you think they would have joined the nascent rebellion?

Absolutely NONE of them would have been Jedi, I say with all fondness towards the Batfam, but they are emotional hot messes, every single one of them, and to be a Jedi you literally have to have your emotional shit together, that's straight up how the Force works. You cannot act out of anger or fear without slinking towards the dark side, the Force will throw all that right back in your face, and I don't think there's a single Batfam member that doesn't consistently act out of a place of anger. Bruce - My guy can't even keep it together without a psychic energy field in his brain that resonates with his emotional well-being, he would fall to the dark side inside a month. I love him, but he already thinks he has things under control in his brain that he very much does not, he is the definition of being created by fear of loss and the anger that results from it. Dick - My Blorbo may be the definition of hope and light in the DC universe, the most trusted hero right after Superman, but he absolutely has anger issues that he just kind of ignores. Psychics in the DC universe have tried to invade his mind and come out like, "Jesus fuck why is that guy's mind so terrifying!?" because, while Dick chooses kindness and love, he was also forged in anger at the injustices in the world. Jason - Sweet babygirl doesn't even know what he wants, I tend to see Jason as often times deeply contradictory because I'm not sure he knows how he feels about things, does he want to be part of his family or does he want to walk away from them, he wants their love, but he can't tolerate their love, he thinks everyone expects the worst from him and is angry ahead of time, because he's so deeply insecure about his place in the world and in his family, and the injustices of his life are ones that still haunt him, the Joker killing him and still getting to run around would drive him into anger, fear, and despair just as much as anyone. Tim - My guy is ready to tell anyone and everyone to fuck the fuck off at the drop of a hat, that he's often times the one trying to pull everyone back together, but he also is still haunted by the death of his parents, he's still unsure of his relationship with Bruce at times, when things get back and he loses a little too much in his life, he starts pushing people away, he pushed Dick and Steph away while Bruce was dead, he obsessed over bringing Kon back as a way to cope, rather than actually letting go of his hurts, that guy seems fairly even keel sometimes, but, no, he's a hot mess who would have the Force throwing all that back in his face, too. Damian - Baby bat is so insecure in a lot of ways, because he doesn't always know how to relate to his father, he doesn't know how to be a complement to Bruce the way the other Robins did, they're both brooders, they're both the kind who wear their anger on their sleeves, and have a core fear of loss that would have the dark side hissing in their ears. Barbara - In some ways, Babs is more emotionally stable than the others, but in other ways, she is JUST as unhinged as they are, her fury at the Joker is still lingering all around her heart, she still explodes in anger when something pisses her off, she's still a little afraid of commitment because she's scared to open herself up, she still has to deal with her spinal implant not being perfect, Babs probably has a stronger sense of what her problems are, but it's not like she does anything about them half the time. Cassandra - I think she still feels too much guilt about her past, even if none of it was her fault, but that she can't let go of that pain, and it's not just "bad" anger/fear that draws you to the dark side, it's also "good" anger/fear that lures you there, too. And Cass deals with a lot of that and, while I think she'd probably have the best chance of any of them at making it as a Jedi, she does still have a lot of issues that the Force would be throwing back in her face.

Stephanie - I'd give her the second best chance, she at least sometimes recognizes her fears and says, yeah, I'm afraid, I'm just not going to let it stop me. Steph has as much anger and need to punch the world as any of them do, but I think she might have a chance at changing up her thought patterns enough to make it. Duke - Hmm, I'm not sure I've read enough with Duke yet to tell what his underlying issues are and how much he's dealt with them. He seems fairly stable and willing to back off when he needs to, but in general, if you're a Bat, you've probably got some real anger to work on. Kate - Everything I've read of Kate is definitely "wants to punch things in the face" or "feels torn up about her relationships with people" and that she's not really interested in not being those things. Alfred - It depends on how you view him, I guess. If you see him as someone who has made peace with the lives his family has chosen and willing to understand that they are who they are, then I could see Alfred as a Jedi. But if you lean into the idea of a British Stiff Upper Lip where he just doesn't talk about the anguish he goes through seeing his family get hurt night after night, knowing he can't stop them, then no he would be a terrible Jedi. In short: THEY WOULD ALL SUCK AS JEDI, but they would definitely have started their own Rebel cell even before Bail and Mon and Leia started connecting the various individual groups together!

#lumi.txt #dc #batfam #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #barbara gordon #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #duke thomas #alfred pennyworth

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ochrearia · 2 months ago

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"Some Fuckin' Specimen"

I think I have a limit on how many BFs I can handle writing in 1 drabble before all of their characterizations start bleeding together in my head. It's bad. Please don't feel bad if I don't write your BF it's probably just because I don't know enough about them to feel comfortable not to get it wrong :diesbadly:

BFs in this drabble: PoPr!BF (Biff, mine), cs!BF (Beefer, mine), wyd!BF (Beef, Karl's), fc!BF (Boyf, Keyy's), sfa!BF (Peacock, Shed's), S2!BF (Bee, Isaac's), Yourself (YS)

Random days where you planned to be spontaneous were arguably the funniest days. A busy group chat when most of the collective partners were busy was already fun, but then Biff suggested they all invade Yourself’s apartment for the hell of it. Hanging out was an incentive too, but mainly to be obnoxious for fun.

Well, that was the idea until Biff got there first and realized they all had to be quiet. One by one they all showed up, enamored by the idea of being mischievous, only to find that their target of annoyance was incapacitated. Asleep, all curled up and buried so deep under his blanket that only the top half of his face was even visible.

“So much for that plan.” Beef sighed with a shrug. “We probably shouldn’t wake him up, I swear I’ve only seen that guy sleep one time and it was because we forced him with the indignancy pile.”

“He could’ve moved even with a bunch of us on him, I just think he didn’t want to.” Boyf responded using his text-to-speech.

“Anyone else not really wanting to leave either?” Peacock asked. “We’re already here…”

“Oooh, getting sentimental in here. Dumb band of BFs want to keep the sleeping lonely man company?” Biff teased. “Yeah, me too. Let’s stay.”

“Bro??? What the hell are you doing?” Beefer hissed, watching Biff climb onto the bed and also completely on top of the sleeping counterpart. “You’re gonna wake him up you idiot!”

“Nah, I got this, trust me.” Biff whispered back with a grin. “He’s only a light sleeper when he has a goal in mind. Or if you try to draw on his face with a fucking sharpie.”

“That was one time and I’m still pissed I didn’t even get to do anything.” Beef grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

“My point, he’s not gonna wake up from this. He’s in a very serious and committed relationship with this weighted blanket. I know he loves this thing. You know what else he loves? Being warm. Contact. How do I know this? It gets obvious when anyone with a brain would still choose to give our dumbasses hugs when we don’t deserve them. That’s probably why he gives good hugs. Because he wants them just as much as he wants to offer comfort.” Biff said matter-of-factly, carefully shifting around and settling on top of YS. “Look. I’m just an extra weighted blanket for him!”

“I really hope he shifts and sends you flying.” Boyf typed, grinning at the mock offense it drew from him.

“You seem to know a lot about YS.” Started Peacock, also keeping his voice low. “More than the rest of us combined it seems.”

“Known him longest.” Biff shrugged. “Fought him. Didn’t really want to but when some freaky, tall as fuck copy of yourself shows up out of a mirror by smacking you in the face with a microphone, your first thought isn’t going to be ‘maybe this guy just wants to talk’. Glad we did end up talking instead after. I mean… I wasn’t very nice to him at the beginning either. We just get along so well now sometimes I forget I was kinda a dick at the start. Guess we’re all kinda prone to that.”

“Doesn’t look like he gives a shit about that now.” Beef waved a hand between them. “You apparently know him so well to be comfortable risking waking him up while the rest of us are sitting here all awkward and shit.”

“Are you guys afraid of trying to be close, or are you just not sure how to convey that? Or both?” Biff wondered aloud. “Do you think he’d like… reject you trying or something? Guys. YS literally sought you all out. He did. He came to us. Well, originally to me, I’m not entirely sure what made him decide to start reaching out to more but I’m glad he did! I like knowing more mes, it’s fun. But he wouldn’t have reached out if he didn’t want connections. It’s all in the similarities!”

“We haven’t known him as long as you have.” Bee mumbled. “It’s one thing to put up a front and be confident and outgoing when we have to, but vulnerability with someone we’ve more or less just met? I’m not sure we can just skip over to your level when Peacock and I’ve had a week at best, and those three having a few weeks or a month where you’ve had multiple months.”

“You have an advantage man.” Beefer complained, tail swishing back and forth. “It’s weird, meeting him was like having an identity crisis but now that I know he’s not a threat I’m jealous I’m clearly not as close as you.”

Biff frowned, eyes sweeping over the other five. He was right, they really were all kind of awkwardly standing around. He recognized that body language, it was nervous and hesitant like they didn’t deserve to reach out in the way they wanted to. Usually showing up when he personally had a fight with Cherry or Pico. Did they feel guilty? Or just out of place?

“Why don’t we all try something, then?” Biff said instead, deciding a deeper conversation was probably better to have when the subject of it was awake. “He’s asleep. He’s gonna stay asleep, probably for a while. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he doesn’t sleep a lot so when he does he’s gonna be a while. That, and we’re all heavy sleepers. I think. Similarities thing, it can be wrong but usually we’re all similar. How about you all take turns offering this big ol’ idiot some comfort? Practice affection while he’s not able to tease you for it.”

The group exchanged looks, seemingly only half convinced. Biff rolled his eyes, the stubbornness of five of his selves all at once proving to be a nightmare. How YS put up with all six of them was a miracle. “Guys, come on. He’s not gonna kill you. Fuck it, Beef, come here, you can go first. Just offer him something, doesn’t have to be a big ass grand gesture or something. Think, what would you like the most when you want to be comforted?”

“Me?!” Beef hissed. “Why me first?!”

“Oh my god, fine, someone else then? You’re all overreacting, this is the same guy we are and we’re nothing but sweethearts really.”

“I’ll go first.” Bee volunteered, stepping closer with a tilted head to assess his move. “I can’t lie, I am really curious about him. It’s also kinda really funny to see this tall, lanky motherfucker curl up like a pillbug.” He snorted, reaching his hand out and burying it gently in the sleeping one’s exposed hair.

Somewhere along the line YS’s hat had slid off, falling behind his back. They noticed his phone left abandoned near his pillow, like he’d been doing something and had fallen asleep before putting it away. It was subtle, but his head shifted up slightly, moving to push unconsciously closer to Bee’s hand as he petted through his hair softly.

“Did he just-?” Tone full of disbelief, Bee stared between YS and Biff, who was grinning.

“Told you.”

“What just happened? Did I miss something?” Confused, Peacock crowded a little closer, followed by Beef, and then the rest.

“He moved into my hand. He’s asleep but he can still feel that?”

“Holy shit this is so funny. Everyone’s crowding him like he’s some fuckin’ specimen.” Biff snickered. “Well, I mean, he is. It’s still funny though. See? He likes affection. He’s just emotionally constipated and won’t say that out loud. Remind any of you of someone?”

“Is he just a Pico-fied BF?” Beefer asked. “I mean, I guess there would have to be one in the face of what, infinite universes?”

“Maybe.” Seemed likely to the others.

“Maybe he’s all three. Said himself once, to prove a point.” Biff pointed out. “Though he won’t tell me much of anything about the magic side of him. Aside from having magic like a GF. Maybe that’s why he calls himself ‘Yourself’. Because he’s a pretentious prick.”

“I think I’m getting whiplash from how sweet you talk about him one second and call him swears the next.”

“It’s funny!”

“Can I go next?” Beefer asked. “I don’t really have much to offer but, you know. I just… want to.”

No one made any protest, so the Dinaurian crept ahead. Thinking about what he would want in comfort, he managed to maneuver over Biff and the sleeping YS to get himself in a corner near the both of them. The way YS’s bed was placed relative to the room was a bit odd, off center but not in a corner, meaning that whichever side he slept on meant his back was turned and exposed somewhere. That’s where Beefer planted himself- Guarding the exposed side. Comfort from protection.

“Don’t know about you guys, but sometimes it makes me uncomfortable when I can’t keep an eye out on every side. There’s no danger here, and it might just be because of my new instincts. But I like the idea of being protective.” Beefer explained quietly.

“Nothing wrong with that. That’s a nice idea.” Bee supplied helpfully.

“Man, I don’t think I can do the thing I want to do.” Peacock grumbled, putting a hand on YS’s shoulder- or where it probably was under the blanket. “You all keep talking about hugs. I like hugs, I’d probably say that would be my first choice. But I can’t hug the big guy like this.”

“Could just be nearby instead. Indignancy pile part two?”

“Yeah, good enough.”

Biff didn’t move from his ‘blanket activities’ while the rest started piling around the bed wherever they could manage. Being nearby, random little bits of contact that they could derive even though there was a thick blanket already covering the guy. And how was he not burning up with heat at this point? Guess he wasn’t joking about liking being warm.

“We should do this more.” Beef said, rubbing comforting patterns against YS’s back. “I mean, maybe not every time he’s sleeping, fuck- I meant like, hang out, I made it weird-” He paused suddenly, and the others just thought it was out of embarrassment.

In reality, the boy was incredibly confused at the weird bumps on YS’s back his hand grazed over.

He didn’t get to linger on that thought though, because the longer that he gave his comfort, the more YS unconsciously shifted. Going to bed alone, only to be given warmth and affection while he slept. No waking inhibitions to keep himself composed, which was probably why his body was moving without his brain to uncurl and straighten out. Back pressing just a little into where Beef was rubbing, head continuing to tilt slightly into Bee’s hand. If there was comfort, he was chasing it.

“He’s gonna kill us when he wakes up isn’t he?” Peacock asked with a snicker, keeping his hand on his shoulder. “The big guy is rather insistent to pretend he’s mysterious and scary and now we’re here seeing him absolutely vulnerable. He’s going to get mad.”

“He can bitch and complain all he wants, not going to fool anyone.” Biff rolled his eyes. “That’s what we all do. We’re softies that don’t want to admit we’re softies. He is so insistent to believe he’s not allowed to be comforted and I don’t know why. But I can tell he’s the only person in this room that believes that.”

They all quieted when YS seemed to stir, stretching considerably for a few moments. Biff bit his lip, not wanting him to wake up yet. “Bee, quick, pet him more.”

Ah yes, because if there was ever going to be a similarity they all shared, it was the placating power of having their hair played with. Bee did as he was told, and YS quickly fell still again. The shift caused his blanket to have moved, no longer completely obscuring the bottom half of his face. The rest were rewarded with the sight of a small smile gracing his lips.

“Aww, look, that’s not a forced smile either.” Boyf typed gleefully, having situated himself between Beef and Beefer, leaning gently against YS’s lower back. “Oh he’s absolutely going to kill us later.”

“Well if he really is so keen to not be cared for then he should consider not being so loveable.” Beefer huffed.

“You know, when I said I wanted you guys to practice self-love this was not exactly what I had in mind.”

Everyone froze when YS’s gruff voice cut into the quiet atmosphere, tone even more raspy with sleep. None of them had noticed that his shadowed eyes were cracked slightly open, sleepy, but also like he’d just caught them all with a collective hand in the cookie jar.

“Told you he was gonna wake up.” Beefer snarked at Biff, who stuck out his tongue in response.

“Party’s over! Everyone scatter!” Peacock joked, not no one really made any attempts to move.

“Not sure when the hell you idiots got here but I’m not really surprised. Though I do have one thing to say. Debating on if I should say it.” YS yawned, a slight frown on his face now.

“Are we in trouble?”

“Nah.” Yourself said, though his eyes trailed over to look at Bee, who’d pulled his hand away out of nervousness. “Just one thing. I didn’t… say to stop.”

#rgbfverse #dumb corner for dumbers learning how to be affectionate

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white-poppie · 2 years ago

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Stay with me

Character: Gojo x Gn! reader Genre: ANGST to comfort Warnings: Self-Starvation*, toxic relations (kinda), wounds, PTSD*, Gojo being an ENTP 😧 WC: 1.3k+ Writer:@white-poppie

A/n: I was already feeling sad and this fic made my eyes water.

~ Synopsis: Gojo is a pathetic man. he never sees anything beyond his inflated ego, not even your cry for help. It takes him quite long, to realize how incredibly wrong he has been all this time.

Cw: This is a very triggering fic, it has heavy topics such as depression, abuse, ptsd, anger issues

The first time Gojo noticed something was wrong, before you actually told him, was a week before.

There are days when you can't find the strength to leave the bed, let alone clean the room. When Gojo came home after exorcising a particularly annoying curse, his agitated mood turned into fury seeing the state of the room.

"' Toru please try to understand, I am trying my hardest," you whimper out at his scrutinizing expression towards your messy room.

"Yeah? I can't see you 'trying', sweetheart," he scoffed, a deep frown on his face.

"I can't get myself to leave the bed, everything seems so grey and exhausting to me, I am sorry," you buried your face in your palms, refusing to meet his cerulean eyes.

He scoffed and a loud clattering was heard, he was stuffing the dirty clothes in the laundry, "I don't know sweets," he grumbled, 'seems to me yer' just being lazy."

"You can't say that, 'Toru," you forced yourself up and looked at him with a miserable face.

His frown only washed for a second when he saw you forcing yourself to pick up the junk in the room.

He is not sure what's wrong, but he seems to have sprinkled salt on the wound.

After all, Gojo is oblivious. He seems insincere, loud-mouthed and nonchalant. He seems as if he only cares about himself, but you know that more than anyone that it is completely untrue.

Gojo is a caring man, but his ego blinds him.

He sees only the larger picture. Ignoring the details, the sufferings and the emotions. Gojo has a habit of arriving at the end moment, sweeping everyone off their feet and saving the day. Why the hassle?

He doesn't worry, he doesn't have to. After all he is the strongest. His saviour complex acts at the rightest times and boy does he love the praise. He only knows how to save people from physical danger and is completely oblivious to emotional and mental pain.

Sometimes it seems as if he chooses it to be this way. He prefers to ignore the 'weak people' who can't even control their own turmoil.

And right now even the biggest canvas screams that something is terribly wrong.

Gojo thinks it might just be a momentary blue, giving you a little space before realizing how further away from reality you had started drifting.

You toy with the food on your plate, and the dark circles sink deep into your skin, like a pathogen invading your marrow.

Satoru frowns as he taps on the table, drawing you away from the haze.

"What is going on with you these days," he booms, his voice hitting that one nerve in your brain that webbed its way to your ears, pounding and static-- the sheer feel of the blood that follows through the peripheral makes you dizzy.

" 'M not hungry," you say while sucking a deep breath, eyeing the expensive liquor in front of you. Satoru's jaw clenches as he runs a hand through his jelled hair.

"You could've said so already instead of making me book the most expensive restaurant in the city," he says deeply with a growl, making this uncomfortable coldness run down your spine. The back of your eyes burns as you realise they are getting glossier.

"So moody," he grumbles under his breath.

"Sorry," you squeak out and he scoffs, biting back the vitriol about to drip from the tip of his tongue.

Satoru sighs and calls the waiter, fetching money from the wallet in his inner coat pocket and keeping a good amount of cash on the table alongside the tip.

Your heart seems to have ceased beating, plummeting to your stomach you felt as if you were going to get physically sick.

Gojo walks out of the restaurant and opened the car door harshly.

"Sit," he orders and you complied, if the void in your heart didn't kill you, Gojo's anger would definitely.

You put on the seatbelt as soon as you do that, Gojo speeds through the road with his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white.

"Toru' stop!" you cry out, gripping the dashboard for your dear life.

This calms him down, and he slows down until he stops the car in your house's parking lot. Removing the seatbelt from himself and you, he takes a deep breath and turns his head to your side.

"'Sorry for getting angry like that sweets," he reaches out his hand towards you, nimble fingers running down the crevice of your cheek like sin.

"'ssokay," you whimper, leaning towards the warmth of his hand.

A smile breaks on his face as he removes his glasses and keeps them on the dash.

"What's going on with you these days, Y/N?"

You bite your lips and looks down at the leather seat, “I’m sorry. We were supposed to have fun today.”

Gojo stays silent, his eyes scanning your features, urging you to continue.

“This is stupid--I’m stupid.” you cry out, the tears you had been holding for so long finally escaping.

Gojo pulls you in his embrace, hand running on the small of your back, shushing your hiccuping sobs, "you are not stupid, sweets." He says so but he is frozen cold, he can never get used to people crying, let alone you.

Satoru didn't know what to do when he pulled away and sees that self-destructive hurricane swirling in your eyes.

"You know Satoru, my childhood hasn't been the best one," you sniff out, "my guardian was emotionally abusive and that affected me a lot growing up."

Satoru's breath hitches when he hears the rumble of emotions that floods you.

"The things they said..." you choke and he rubs circles on your palm, "they keep coming back like a Tsunami. I feel so pathetic and worthless 'Toru, I don't know what to do anymore."

Satoru gulps and closes his eyes for a moment. He feels like the scummiest human to have existed on the planet, even more than your abuser.

You were right there, waiting for your silent cries to be heard, to have someone pull you out from the web of darkness that even the strongest sorcerer couldn't have overcome if he were you. He was a shitty husband to you.

"And as I grow older, I realize they weren't exactly wrong," you bite your lips till you feel a tangy and metallic nectar in your mouth.

"They weren't wrong when they said I am 'lazy', 'useless' , 'high-maintanance'," you aggressively wipe your tears.

Gojo feels his heart drop as if the circulatory system in his body had shut down.

"That's not true!" he proclaims, wrapping you in a breath-stealing hug, " 'm so sorry baby, I am the most stupid person, acted blind when my sweets needed me."

He kissed your knuckles gently, "y'know even though I have acted like an ass until now, only caring about myself, I hate it when you cry or feel sad."

After all, Gojo is oblivious. He seems insincere, loud-mouthed and nonchalant. He seems as if he only cares about himself, but you know that more than anyone that it is completely untrue.

Gojo is a caring man, but his ego blinds him.

It takes you hanging onto the darkest ebb for him to realize that people aren't weak. they cry when they have been strong for too long.

"I'll be there for you now Y/N," he whispers, kissing your temple. His lips brushing past your skin, ignite a warmth, deep within your heart.

"Let it out love, I know I can't change what those nasty people said to you, but right now I know you need a catharsis," he says, "Scream, scream as loud as you want, scream at the stars, scream at the clouds, just scream until you feel better,"

Your sobs turn into soft hiccups as you look at him with pearl-filled eyes.

"And once you are done, I'll be here to tell you how incredibly wrong those people were and how you are so much more than your bad memories."

♠︎ 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜

⤷‧₊˚ Jujutsu Kaisen (呪術廻戦)

🥀 BYI/DNI ♡⌇ Request Rules 𓏸 🗝️ ₊﹒ 《 Join my Taglist •

Tags: @renster05 @innerpurple, @akumicchi, @rintaroubby, @nanaseishiro, @denkis111, @jazzylove, @kristaline2dmensimp, @futuristicallykawaiiturtle

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anjelicawrites · 2 years ago

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Soft II

Paring: Osferth x reader

Synopsis: soft smut between reader and Osferth. Set in the poly relationship universe

Warnings: cockwarming, smut. 18+ only.

Part I

The only reason you are home to welcome Osferth, is that all parents canceled their meetings with you. It’s a rare occasion and you use it to doll yourself up for no reason but to try the new body wash you’ve bought and a new hairstyle, while listening to your favorite podcasts.

You have just finished the pizza dough when you hear the front door open and by the way your Great Dane - Irish Wolfhound mix scampers to the hallway, you know Osferth is back.

“Babe?” you call.

Osferth doesn’t answer, you hear the sound of his booths falling on the floor and the jiggle of his keys hitting the wood of the hallway table, his tired voice telling Ciarán to heel as he walks with heavy gait to the kitchen.

He stares at you with a surprised glance and you see that he is trying to school his expression, to hide the heaviness of his heart, but you’ve known and loved him for so long, that you can see how dimmed the light in his eyes is, how small the smile he gives you and the redness around his eyes telling you he has cried.

You are immediately alarmed.

“What happened?” - you don’t care that your hands still have leftover dough in them and your apron is covered in flour, cupping his face comes to you as easy as breathing - tell me my love”.

You see the struggle on his features, the control slipping through the fingers of his stubbornness, his instinct is to keep you safe, always. He breaks the moment your thumbs start caressing his cheekbones, your caring touch strips him of his defenses and he crumbles, his arms curl around you in a tight embrace, his face hides against your shoulder and he starts crying, the sobs wreaking his lean frame. You hug him back and start carding your hands through his short hair, sweet nothings leave your lips to console him and he cries even more, moved by your softness and raw acceptance of his feelings. How had he managed for so long without you?

When his tears subside you follow his body has he folds on the floor, face still hidden

“Was it really bad?” your voice is a balm for his frayed nerves

“Yes”.

He doesn’t have the strength to continue; sometimes having to deal with the filth of this earth takes a toll on him, his defenses destroyed. Thank God you are here, reminding him why he works his job.

“I was so much in my head, I didn’t even notice your car”.

Today must have been horrendous, then. Osferth has pretty good space awareness; he might not be at Uhtred's level, but he wouldn't miss your old jeep, if he had, it's because his brain is still focused somewhere else, somewhere bad. You need to act now.

“Come with me, my love” you say, your hands finding his

“Where to?” he’d follow you into Hell, if only you asked

“You deserve to be taken care of”

“You do it, always”

“You need it more, today”.

The “I love you” that leaves his lips is as strong as a mountain and as deep as the sea: accidents might happen, storms might ruin the tranquility, but his feelings will never go away and only God knows the extent of his need for you. Not sexual, just your proximity and care, the knowledge that if he falls, you'll be there to catch him: you are his pillar of strength, he'd be lost without you.

You draw him a bath in between long, sloppy kisses and you remove his clothes, until he is naked, his cock already half hard under your sight.

He sighs when the warm water envelopes his tired body, he lets his head loll back against the rim of the tube, eyes closed to listen better to your movements. He hears you fumbling with one of the bottles, the snap of the cap opening and a soft, lavender scent invades his nose

"I love how your hair smell like when you use this one"

"I know. Lift your head, I have to wet yours"

"Use mine, don't waste yours"

"It's not a waste. I like when you smell like me".

The possessiveness in your tone goes directly to his cock: both he and Aemond adore when you wear their stuff, it's only right that the feeling is mutual: he wants to parade around and people to know to whom he belongs.

With care you help him bend his head back to wet his hair and pour your shampoo directly on it to work a lather, massaging his scalp as he relaxes under your fingers, soft moans leaving his lips. You rinse his hair and repeat, focusing on the back of his head, where you feel stiffness; he is putty by the time you put a bit of conditioner and comb his short strands.

Before you grab the body wash, you remove your shirt and throw it in the general direction of the hamper; Osferth opens his eyes, a dreamy "Boobies" leaves his lips. He loves your breasts so much, they are the perfect size for his hands to hold and their softness is just right; he had spent hours just kissing them and smothering his face against their softness.

"Sit up - you murmur in his ear - I need to wash your back properly"

"May I touch the girls?"

"Yes, you may. But you have to behave"

"Yes miss".

And he just lets his face fall against your breasts, breathing in your scent as you wash his nape and his back to the point your arms can reach.

He mumbles a bit when you remove his face from your chest and stops when you let his hands hold your breast as you lather his front and arms

"I like this bra"

"And there I thought you liked my breasts"

"I do - his voice is slurred, his thumbs caressing your nipples through the material - I love how it shapes them".

He mumbles again when you ask him to stand so that you can wash his lower half, he wants to keep touching your breasts and you tell him he can do that later.

You lather his long legs and make a play of ignoring his cock, hard and red, and concentrate on his thighs, the loofah just brushes lightly against his manhood every time you clean the junction of his groin and leg. A long shudder runs through him when you wash his cock with soft movements, not wanting to hurt him, he is so hard; you can see the muscles of his abdomen clench, his face stoic as he tries to reign in his orgasm.

If he has a thing for your breasts, you have one for his ass, you massage the firm globes until his face is the right shade of red, his breath short.

Delicately you pull on his arms and he sits back into the water

"Close your eyes, I need to rinse your hair".

He follows your command without a second thought, bending his head backwards and you steal a kiss on his pulse point, he laughs breathlessly.

Once you are done with his hair, you stand up and tell him to remain in the water, you are not done with him.

"What is that?" his eyes are half lidded when they stare at your returning form

"Exfoliant. You are going to like it".

He doesn't look too convinced at the small tube in your hands. He knows it's one of these things you and Aemond do and that are absolutely baffling to him; he has been blessed with low maintenance skin and hair, he doesn't need to follow a routine like you two, he just needs whatever soap and shampoo he can put his hands on to be happy with the results.

"It will remove the layers of dead skin on your face"

"I have none" he says, offended

"Everyone has. Even you. Trust me and close your eyes".

He does but he shrieks in surprise when you start rubbing his face, he doesn't expect it to be raspy.

"How do you think it's supposed to remove dead skin, if not like this?".

He doesn't respond, relaxing under your skilled fingers once again. It's unexpectedly good, being pampered like this; he keens when you stop and wash his face.

You grab his bathrobe and help him wear it once he is out of the tub. His erection hasn't faded but the desire he feels is warm in his loins, he is in no hurry to sink inside of you, happy with being taken care of by you. With long brushes you dry his skin and hair, peppering kisses on his face, before rubbing a light layer of cream on his reddened skin.

"You smell like me everywhere now" your voice possessive, your nose scienting the crook of his neck

"I like that. Everyone should know to whom I belong".

His voice is soft, with an undercurrent of possessives you know all too well.

With his head bent a bit forward, he stares up at you from under his lashes, a coy smile on his face while his hand goes to your pants, his fingers hooking there before sliding them down your legs, along with your panties. The skin of his shoulders is soft under your touch, you use his frame for balance to kick your clothes away. With practice he unhooks your bra, letting your breasts free, at once, his hands mold around the soft globes as he sighs tiredly, the warmth of the bath and your ministrations are taking their toll on him.

“We can take a nap, if you want” both his thumbs worry your nipples and your voice comes out breathier than you expected

“It’s not a nap that I need, my beautiful lady”.

His hands take yours and he slowly makes his way to the bedroom, he keeps staring at you from under his lashes, coyness and need in his beautiful eyes.

He wonders if you know the extent of his love for you, if you can understand how deep his feelings run for you: almost three years together and he feels the same way he did the moment he saw you, when he knew that he wouldn't want anyone else.

Osferth knows there are two turning points in his life: when he met you and when Aemond became part of your relationship, his two before and after moments.

His big hands frame your face and he loses himself in your eyes, wishing to know how to put into words how he feels and he can't, the only thing he can do is kiss you, pour all of himself in the act, burning you in the flames of his feelings. You can't help but grab his neck for support, overwhelmed by the forcefulness of his hands crushing your body to his, one hand in your hair, the other on your hip, his tongue on your mouth. You are the vessel for his feelings, ready to receive whatever he needs to give you, to burn for him if necessary.

When your mouths part for air, your legs bobble, his strong body the only thing keeping you up

"Osferth?"

You seek his eyes, the clear blue almost gone, devoured by his enlarged pupils.

His words desert him, he can only help you lie on the bed to attack your body with his lips, kissing all over your face and neck before relenting to stare at you, one big hand caressing your face, his frame obscuring everything else.

"My love, are you all right?"

Like a cat he brushes his face against your hand, needing the soft contact in his bones

"Have me" he murmurs, his forehead against yours

"In any way you want me to".

He kisses you again, softer this time and the way you lose yourself in him is even deeper than before, the care of his lips and hands on your body helps you forget yourself in his earthy scent.

You don't even notice when he turns your entwined bodies until you straddle him.

You stare into his eyes and ground your hips against his cock, once, twice, until hands grab your hips

"Don't tease, I can't, not now" his voice is broken by need.

Taking the reins from him comes to you as natural as breathing, bending forward you kiss him again, slowly, exploring his mouth with your tongue and he lets you with a moan, his body boneless under yours.

"Sit up against the headboard, I want you to be comfortable" you murmur against his mouth.

Osferth scuttles backwards, his eyes hooded and cock painfully engorged. His legs splay for you and you crawl to him, pinning him with the heath in your eyes. A part of him wants to rush you, it's easily overwhelmed by his desire to be taken care of by you, to let go and be yours, he needs this so much it almost hurts.

He lets you straddle his hips and grab his cock to align it with your pussy; his moans of pleasure are drowned by your kisses as you sink on him until he bottoms out.

Your warmth flatlines his brain, he can only moan as you adjust yourself as his arms encircle your lower back and your forehead finds his. You don't do anything else, just letting him feel you tight against him until his face finds your chest and he abandons himself against you with a happy sigh.

You don't know for how long you stay like this, breathing each other in, your arms cradling Osferth's tired head against your bosom. You delicately rock against him and his fingers grab the meat of your hips, his lips kiss the soft skin of your chest in between long moans when you massage his scalp. Without your control your walls curl around his cock and shudders rock his body every time; you don't really want to make this go anywhere, not until he tells you: you know that's the closeness that he needs, not an orgasm and you are happy to give him this for however long he desires this. Being inside of you is his safe place, you will never deny him this feeling.

With a long sigh, he lifts his head from your chest; his eyes are glossy and crystal blue, the planes of his face relaxed, he looks younger than his years and you want to protect him from everything and everyone.

"My love - his voice is broken and small - I need you"

"How do you need me?"

"Ride me, please".

Your hands find his shoulders for purchase as he grabs your ass, your lips are against his, not really kissing but exchanging breaths.

Gently you lift yourself, not all the way and slowly you envelope him again, Osferth's hands grab at the sweaty skin of your back, a moan passes from his lips to yours as you repeat your movements, nice and slow, making him feel every crevice of your cunt, forcing him to bottom out every single time, your breasts sliding easily against his sweaty chest and he moans again and again, one hand sneaking into your hair to keep your lips where they are, his tongue licking at your mouth. He needs you faster but he doesn't want you to stop, he wants to come so much, at the same time his desire is to stay rooted inside your cunt forever, where he knows he is safe.

Your breathing becomes more broken the more you ride him, his cock pushing perfectly against your g spot; you don't want to orgasm just yet, he needs more of you, but his cock is perfect inside your walls, igniting your nerves with each stroke, again and again, his hands moving your body to his leisure. You are not going to last long, you bite down your own lower lip, the pain does nothing to stop your orgasm to crest and crest until his blue eyes find yours and he tells you to come. You clamp around him, forcing his orgasm from him, his hands grabbing uselessly at your skin as you two fall against the headboard, breathless.

When Aemond arrives home, you are on the couch, ebook reader in hand, Osferth snoring softly over you, huddled in a thick sweater and fleece blanket. Aemond recognises the sweater and stares at you with worry in his eyes: Osferth wears that only after a nasty day

"He is fine now, I made sure of that".

Aemond releases the breath he was holding and crouches near the sofa to kiss your mouth and then Osferth's forehead, the latter mumbles something in his sleep and curls his arms tighter around your frame.

It's Aemond who finishes to bake the pizza and you feed it to Osferth, once he is awake.

Taglist: @notyour-valentine

#aemond targaryen x reader x osferth #aemond targaryen x y/n x osferth #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen #osferth x reader #osferth x y/n #osferth

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badass-queer-couples-battle · 1 year ago

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Gay wrongs tournament, round 1 of the minor bracket

Propaganda:

For Lord Hater and Commander Peepers :

Lord Hater is the self-proclaimed "universe's awesomest evil-doer", an immature, attention-seeking manchild with electric powers and a short temper. He rules the Hater Empire with Commander Peepers as his second-in-command (technically third, after his beloved pet spider-xenomorph, but who's counting), however it soon becomes *very* clear that the cunning, remorseless, hardworking Peepers is the *real* brains behind the empire. Peepers might be frustrated at Hater's incompetence at times and isn't above manipulating him to reach an end goal, but he'd never dream of usurping him because, well, he's really gay and in love with him (as much as he can be in an early-10s Disney cartoon, anyways). Hater might take Peepers for granted a lot of times, but as his oldest friend and closest confidante he's the one who Hater is closest to. Whether it's invading other planets or kicking puppies for fun, these two are *delightfully* terrible jerks and the epitome of gay wrongs.

Commander Peepers is both Lord Hater's right hand man in villainy AND his jilted stay-at-home-wife-guy (Also in villainy. Hater is really good at getting distracted from productive and efficient villaining.) Lord Hater was the greatest villain in the galaxy thanks to how well he and Commander Peepers worked as an evil team to run the Hater Empire!

Lord Hater conquers planets and is such an edgy bastard. Peepers is the actual brains behind the operation. Peepers is often pushed aside by Hater, they are besties and yet Peepers is always pining for this guy who will never notice. Peepers is so horribly gay for him if you watch the show he wants his stupid boss so bad. Peepers is so scared of him season 1 but then starts yelling BACK in season 2 and has to deal with him like a babysitter or something and yet STILL idolizes him and that’s just such a fun dynamic. His password is H8RNP33PRS43VR (Hater and Peepers forever). They are so evil and everyone fears them and they are villains and they are gay and the side of the fandom that draws them as a married couple that needs counseling is absolutely correct. The fanart of Hater openly liking him back is wonderful but I swear you don’t even need that. They are so gay and villain you have to love them they are

Villains that conquer planets and do evil stuff, my favourite characters, not really canon but they are the best :)

For Basil and Sunny :

OK SO. I want to share this because Sunny and Basil are the literal definition of "be gay do crimes but taken a bit extreme" but in order to do so I would have to share explicit material. So. WARNING(s): HUGEEE spoilers for the game OMORI, mentions of manslaughter, staged s//cide, and PTSD. Sunny and Basil were friends, best friends in fact. While they were not canonically a couple nor did they have CANON feelings for each other it is very much homoerotic (LOTS of handholding, the creator also made a tweet that just said "omg basil x sunny already", etc.). But one day Sunny got into a huge fight with his older sister Mari and then accidentally pushed her down the stairs, accidentally killing her. He did not know what to do. He just killed his sister whom he loved very much and he doesn't know what to do. Then Basil somehow comes into the picture, and helps him cover the manslaughter by staging Mari's death as s//cide (they hanged her body with a skipping rope on a tree in Sunny's backyard). By the way I forgot to mention both of them were literally twelve years old at the time. I don't know WHY Basil decided to help him stage the murder like THAT but ok?? Anyway.. Basil tried comforting him, telling him "Everything is going to be okay...", and Basil just wanted to stay with Sunny, to go through all the trauma together, to push through. Both of them felt extreme guilt and stuff. But then, Sunny, instead of going through the trauma became a hikikomori (a person who's severely socially withdrawn) and decided to isolate himself for four years and create a fake dream world where everything is fine, Mari is alive and no one can die. This made Basil extremely traumatized even further because not only did he just commit a huge crime but also his best friend and probable crush just abandoned him and everyone else during these hard times. By the way I forgot to mention Basil has abandonment issues caused by his parents that are never there for him. Ok I definitely went off topic.... Uh basically to summarize: Mari's sister died, Basil and sunny covered the murder (together!!), And then sunny left basil. Definition of be gay do crimes. But they were twelve and traumatized :( (and kinda gay tbh)

hahahahahahshshshaha the never did anything wrong in heir life whatre u taking about everything is fine

#minor bracket round 1 #omori #wander over yonder #basil omori #omori sunny #lord hater #commander peepers

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gggoldfinch · 1 year ago

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Hatchetknife

Richard B. Riddick x OFC (or reader)

(disclaimer: photo found on pinterest ^ )

A/N: I’ve been gripped by the most manic and inexplicable riddick brainrot ever and needed to get this out of my system or I’d deadass explode ‼️I usually don't write oneshots like this so it was a nice breath of fresh air actually. Hopefully now this sexy bald bitch will leave my poor brain alone so I can do something else other than binge watching vin diesel movies

warnings: original female character (descriptions vague enough to be reader insert), possibly a little ooc, very brief discussion of SA (in a non-threatening manner), minor violence & injury, explicit language, forced proximity, only one bed, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, light choking, biting, pet names. MINORS DNI

word count: 12,114

{AO3 Link}

summary: A low-profile merc masquerading as a man has her ship (and life) invaded by an unlikely guest. She gets found out, and things progress interestingly.

***

There's a ship that's been sitting idle in the upper-east Storage B-Port for weeks now; Riddick knows this. He also knows he hasn't been this incapacitated in a while. It's a hard thing to admit to himself, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. He hasn't slept in over 72 hours, and has been fighting and running for most of that time. He's out of his element— stuck in the heart of a congested city-planet rather than out in the wilderness of some uninhabited backwater planet. He's bleeding from somewhere— his side, maybe. His nose is broken, too, and there must be some sort of nerve damage too, because he can't scent who's coming after him anymore. He lost his goggles somewhere during this most recent scuffle, too, so all the neon signs are like miniature suns searing his retinas.

There's an idle ship gathering dust in Storage B-Port. He recalls it looking like a good model, some custom parts. It'll be easy to hijack. It'll be easy to leave this planet and his merc pursuers in the dust.

———————————————————————

Everyone has their own way of surviving in this nightmare of a universe. Some kill, some are killed. That's just something each and every person has to come to terms with while they draw breath. While not exactly thriving, this one particular individual has found their own way to survive. Some may call her a mercenary, and they wouldn't necessarily be wrong— but she prefers to call herself a mere gun for hire. It's easy to make a living when you have a thick head and nothing to lose, going from one job to another with little in the way of possessions and even less in the way of social relationships. She goes where the proverbial wind takes her, planet-hopping and working odd jobs. Sometimes the jobs entail hunting dangerous quarry, but more often than not she's hired for non-violent jobs running security for personnel protection or transport. Honestly, the only jobs she turns down outright are those having anything remotely to do with the Necromongers. Sure it isn't ideal, but it's better than living in the slums of the over-crowded metroplanet where she'd grown up.

It's a risky job, no doubt, made no less difficult by her deliberate choice to fly solo. Solo is safe. Solo, she don't have to worry about crewmates stealing or betraying her, or worse, taking advantage of her. Barely an adult when she'd begun her life hopping between merc crews, she'd learned early that being on her own is better, safer. No— she keeps to herself with nothing but the ship's computer system for company. And, when the occasion rises where she does have to venture out into civilization again—to find a job or stock up on supplies—she takes heavy precautions.

Strong from years of fighting and labor, her body can shoulder the burdensome weight of armor; broad shoulders and sturdy bones make her intimidating and capable. Years worth of mismatched armor plates make up her regular uniform, both metal alloys and plastic prints. Some pieces were taken off fallen quarry—or former crewmates—some purchased responsibly. Each plate has a little story she can recall, fondly or not. When worn all together, her form is virtually unrecognizable, and more importantly, masculine. The crown mantle is her helmet: sturdy, sleek, black, with a visor capable of internal screen display. The vocal distorter programmed into it deepens her voice to a disguised pitch. The suit of armor isn't entirely comfortable, but it's a requirement for her safety.

"Hatchet!"

She swivels her helmeted head, looking in the direction from which she hears her codename. She hadn't been calling herself anything when she'd assumed this masculine persona. Her various employers just began calling her a shortened version of her ship's name—the Hatchetknife—and it just ended up sticking within the merc circle she floats in. No one knows her true identity, as far as she's aware. If they do, no problems have arisen from it yet.

A man approaches her, stocky and shorter than her. He's been her employer for the past several weeks, paying her to be a glorified bodyguard for his uppity son, on probation for yatta yatta yatta. She'd tuned out the rest once she'd heard the price of the paycheck. 350 thousand units just to babysit an alcoholic man-child for a month while he's on probation. She couldn't pass it up.

Her employer holds out a datapad, the blue screen alight with money transfer information. She's about to receive her payment and get the fuck off this stuffed metroplanet. Maybe she can finally replace some of the older parts on the Hatchetknife with this payment.

"Don't be a stranger, now," the man says amicably once the digital paperwork has been filled. She receives a notification ping on the screen of her visor, indicating the payment has gone through successfully.

She inclines her concealed head, thanks him for the business, and turns tail to leg it back to the ship. The thing has been docked in storage for nearly a full month cycle now— long enough for the ticket expense to be a bit of a blow to her newly acquired units. It doesn't matter; this planet will be long behind her in only a matter of a few short hours. She's been idle, been on this polluted and overpopulated planet for too long.

And she'll be damned if a little blood on the exterior hatchpad of her ship is going to deter her from getting out of dodge in a timely manner. It's a handprint, maybe a couple, smeared all along the white panelling of the cargo bay door's control console. The cargo bay door is locked up tight though, so she's not particularly worried that any ne'er-do-wells have tried breaking into her sturdy old ship. It's a good model, she tells herself. It has a security system that would alert her of suspicious activity through the link between her helmet and the ship's mainframe. Sure, someone clearly tried to get in, but there's no sign the bay door had been opened recently.

She pays her exorbitantly priced docking ticket and opens the bay door herself. She remains completely oblivious to the other trail of blood, smeared up the side of the ship and leading to the secondary hatch. She doesn't notice the cut wires either, spraying pathetic little sparks instead of warning signals to her security system. To be fair, she doesn't notice much of anything—doesn't even remove her armor or helmet—in her haste to take off. She just charges through the cargo bay, vaults the ladder to the upper deck, and wedges herself behind the control console.

It feels like home, being behind the console. More of a home than she's ever really had, at least. She exhales against the interior of her helmet. Her reflection gleams in the bare windshield, the sleek black glass and metal of her high-tech helmet staring back. Gloved fingers press buttons and flip switches, igniting holoscreens and a rainbow of lights. Meters and regulators all seem to be in check despite the ship's extended idleness, and the hyperdrive kickstarts with a comforting purr. She has to take the ship up and out of the atmosphere before kicking it into warp speed, lest the planet's nasty police force pick a fight with her. Fog and flames lick the nose of the Hatchetknife as it accelerates upward, breaking through the upper atmosphere at a smooth 15 kilometers per second, and an even 75 degree angle. Only then does she crank the hyperdrive and watch as the countless stars warp around the nose of the ship.

She plots an aimless course, avoiding setting a firm destination until she can get her hands on another potential job lead. Upon throwing it into autopilot, the ship's automated computer system welcomes her back on board. Hatchet, it calls her. Not even her own ship uses her true name anymore.

Her boots are heavy as they tramp out of the cockpit. Reinforced steel and acid-resistant soles, these boots are. They're her favorites. They make a robust thump thump as she walks into the narrow hallway of the Hatchetknife. Here resides her bunk, and across from that is the kitchenette and table where she eats and works and sometimes sleeps. It's barely wide enough to fit two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. She's used to close-quarters; it's almost comforting, like a womb. The hatch and ladder down to the cargo bay gapes at the end of the hall, and this is what she beelines for once acclimating herself with the interior of her ship again. Her bunk looks awfully inviting, but first on the agenda is to shuck off all the armor.

Boots bracketed on either side of the ladder and gloved hands holding tight to the side-rails, she slides down until landing on the grate panels of the cargo bay floor. This area is vastly larger than her living quarters— it has to be, in the event she has to transport sizable goods or heavy machinery. A armory case for her weapons and uniform sits bolted against the side wall, its grate doors barely revealing the contents. She opens the thing up, removing the machine gun strapped to her back to place it on its rightful hooks.

She hooks her thumbs under the seal of her helmet and disables the suctioned airlock. Just as she's preparing to lift the burdensome thing from her head, something collides with her right side, knocking her clean off her feet. It takes only a few frantic moments to realize it's a human being— a male attacker. Her deactivated helmet collides with the metal flooring at an odd angle, instantly disabling the visor's screen as a result of some internal damage. The force of the tackle and impact against the floor has the breath drawn from her lungs in a violent, rattling wheeze. The muscles over her ribs convulse and tighten, sending a shock of panic and pain and adrenaline through her system. With little time to think, no weapon handy, and no opportunity to scan the stranger, she starts thrashing. Amidst the scuffle and blow to her head, she can't quite see clearly, only able to make out a blur of squirting blood. The blood isn't her own— she's sure she would feel it if she'd been shanked in any of her armor's vulnerable spots.

She thrusts a gauntleted arm upwards in the direction she thinks the intruder's head is. Her metal-sheathed wrist collides with something and the oppressive weight above her slumps over to the side.

Hatchet scrambles up to her knees and tears the nearest gun from off the rack. She spins, points the weapon at the stranger's head, and... doesn't shoot.

Sprawled on the cold metal floor is a man. A large man. Bald-headed and covered in blood she knows she hadn't drawn from him herself. It's old blood, old wounds— maybe hours, maybe days. Despite the vaguely stunned look about him from being hit in the head, he wears a wry little smile upon his full mouth, lips and nose bloody from what looks like a previous beating. His eyes glint in a peculiar fashion, almost like feline eyeshine, silvery and shifting.

He holds his hands out by his head placatingly, palms facing upward. Then, he grins. "Okay, okay. You got me." His voice is deep and smooth like rolling thunder. It's almost startlingly in its intensity.

"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing on my ship!? What do you want?" she barks into the voice modulator, keeping the hardy submachine gun trained on him.

"Got a pretty nice ship here, don't you think?" he rumbles out.

"Fuck you!"

He chuckles at that, although the action looks like it pains him. The blood, she realizes, is oozing from a substantial stab wound on his left flank, just below the contour of his shapely pectoral muscle. She swallows thickly, choking down the apprehensive lump in her throat. Still a little off-kilter from the blow to her helmet, she shakily rises to her feet, steady finger not leaving the trigger once. The man clenches his silvery eyes shut, sucking in a substantial breath only to groan it all out again. One broad, tan hand shifts to press against the wound on his side, the other remaining innocently idle.

Without prompting, Hatchet's line of sight raises to the secondary hatch within the cargo hold. There it is: a smear of blood and sparking wires. That's where he'd gotten in. Must be a determined fella—let alone smart—to have hacked the ship's security system to override the locking mechanism and find which wires would send out a warning signal before they even had the chance to. She looks back to him, curiously tilting her head to the side in observation of him.

"What the fuck do you think is supposed to happen now?" she grits out. The voice modulator gives it an extra bit of bite.

The man laughs, blood staining his straight teeth. "I dunno. Thought you might hand over your ship."

"Hand over my— Do you have a fucking head injury?"

He laughs again and she kicks his calf roughly.

"What about this is funny? Please, illuminate it for me. Because all I see some fucking stowaway who has a gun to his head and a nasty stab in his side. You're not getting my ship, pal. You'll be lucky if I let you see tomorrow."

"Bad timing," he murmurs, voice thick with strain and sardonic amusement. His expression slackens, the crease between his thin brows flattening out gradually.

"What?"

She kicks his leg again; he's unresponsive. Unconscious, actually, judging by the sudden lack of tension in his face and limbs. She drops the gun-wielding hand to her side and lets out a high-pitched wail of frustration.

She's not a cold blooded murderer. Sure, she's had to take a life or two throughout her days, but then again, who hasn't in this line of work. Those times were different— kill or be killed. This is... this is an injured, apparently unarmed guy on her cargo bay floor. Yes, he'd broken in, but maybe he has a valid excuse. She's had to break into places to survive before, it's really not that unusual. And despite all the shit she's been through, deep down Hatchet has a bleeding heart. She'd be pressed to admit it, of course. The sight of the stranger, wounded and unconscious, male as he may be, pulls at her tender and guarded heartstrings.

Fucking hell. She can only hope that someday in the future, if she's ever in time of need, that some stranger will treat her with kindness.

The man is heavy. Not deceptively so, as his height and build imply a great amount of mass, but hell if she's not winded by the time she drags him over to the cargo lift. The small elevator is usually for objects and not people, but it's the only way she can get his dead-weight ass to the upper level where the only cot and good light source are. She hasn't taken her armor off, and at this point she doesn't think she's going to. Certainly not with a strange man aboard, unconscious or not.

Upon both arriving at the upper level, it takes a great amount of effort to haul the man over to the bunk. The space is barely big enough to comfortably hold Hatchet, and she's nowhere near the size of this beast of a man. The cot creaks as she lowers him onto it, his boots scraping the wall as she crams him into the broom closet sized space. Flicking on the overhead light, it illuminates him with white fluorescence. It's only then does she realize he's not entirely unconscious; somewhere in there, he's aware enough to wince at the light coming on. She squints at him for a long moment, scrutinizing the situation. He doesn't show any other sign of cognizance besides for that averse reaction to the bright light beating down on his eyelids. When she decides it had only been some sort of odd reflex, she goes to retrieve the medical supplies from an aptly labeled storage cabinet.

Modesty be damned, she has to remove his shirt. It's barely holding itself together, anyway, and she has replacements to dress him in after she's patched him up. She feels hot under all her armor and layers, nervous as she stares down at the stranger's bare chest. Christ, he's build like a tank. It's intimidating, actually, once she chokes down the insidious feeling of attraction that prickles her skin and bubbles in her abdomen. Anyway— upon closer inspection, the wound on his side is largely superficial. The extensive bruising along his ribs, however, indicates some unknown level of internal damage. It may only be deep-tissue bruising, or his ribs could be broken. She can't be too sure either way, and makes sure to properly bandage up his torso regardless, though only after disinfecting and stitching up the gash.

His nose is broken, that much is obvious. However, it looks as though it's already been set, so all she has to do is clean the blood, disinfect the small cut on the bridge, and properly bandage it. He has a nice face, apart from the bandaged nose. She can't really describe his features. Harsh, but soft at the same time. She huffs against the interior of the helmet at the thought, crossing her arms and leaning back.

She has stationed herself at the table across from the bunk, cautiously watching over the stranger through the deactivated visor of her mask. Hot and stuffy and heavy as the armor may be, she won't risk taking it off just yet. She doesn't quite have a plan yet as to how this is going to unfold. She'd chosen to spare his life, yes, but that isn't to say she won't protect herself to the nth degree if the need arises going forward. She doesn't want him out of her sight—especially considering her unprofessional lack of manacles—which means she can't program a route into the ship right now. The task would've been made simple if he hadn't gone and broken the screen display mechanism in her helmet. She can't even scan him in this state, to gather his identity or vitals status. She hadn't realized how dependent she'd grown on the visor display until now, having worn the damn thing for weeks straight at this point.

It takes a couple of hours by her count for the stranger to rouse again. He's disoriented at first, but soon grows aware of her shielded gaze burning into him from the other side of the narrow living area. He shifts in the cot, turning onto his wounded side to better assess the situation. He doesn't seem threatened—or particularly threatening—at the moment.

"Rise and shine," Hatchet speaks into the voice modulator.

She kicks a boot up onto the edge of the cot from where she sits barely three feet away. She tells herself it's a show of dominance, to plant her boot right beside the stranger's head, but in reality she probably just looks stupid. The man just looks at her with those silvery eyes, squinting under the bright overhead light. She doesn't shut it off.

"Now here's the deal—"

"How many people you got on this ship?" He cuts her off, tone both aloof and detached despite the situation. He breaks into an odd little grin, then twists his head to scent the pillow. "You hiding a lady somewhere? Fella like you sure wouldn't smell this sweet."

Hatchet's face crumples under the cover of secrecy. She has to school her perturbed reaction for the sake of her anonymity. What the hell kind of guy is she dealing with here, exactly? Not only must she refrain from showing any physical reaction, she shouldn't verbally address it, either.

"Now here's the deal," she repeats. "I spared you once— even did you the favor of patching you up. But, it's not gonna happen again if you try something funny."

The man tucks his chin to his chest to look down at the bandaged wounds, holding a curious hand to his side. She can't quite interpret his expression perfectly, but she thinks he seems vaguely impressed by her medical treatment of him.

"I'm going to take you to the nearest inhabited planet and dump your freeloading ass off at the first dock I come across. You aren't going to resist or complain. I'm doing you this favor— clearly you were on the run from someone dangerous, and I got you out of dodge. I don't expect payment, but I'd be mighty grateful if you didn't do anything violent or stupid." Hatchet kicks the bunk when his eyes slip shut again. "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

He does appear to fall unconscious again, but she can't be totally sure he isn't just fucking with her. Irritated, she sucks her teeth and curses him out, kicking off the bunk to stomp off into the cockpit. Forget keeping him in sight, he can suffocate for all she cares. There's a shotgun under the control console, anyway.

She seals the cockpit door shut behind her. Only then does she feel safe to remove her helmet. Once again she's greeted by her reflection in the windshield, though this time it's her own face that stares back. It's a tired and sweaty face, with hair matted flat to the scalp from the tight interior of the helmet. She needs a nice long shower—that much is obvious—but now isn't the time. Finally breathing fresh, unfiltered air again, she gulps it down greedily and deposits herself in the pilot's seat. The autopilot had taken itself out of hyperdrive some time ago, and now the Hatchetknife careens at a steady pace through open space. The stars are magnificent, as always. The endless, unfathomable sight almost makes her forget her burdensome stowaway.

Hatchet pulls coordinates for the nearest inhabited planet. She expands the view on the holoscreen projected across the console. The information, illuminated in a fluorescent blue, scrawls across the screen just fast enough for her to barely be able to read it in time. Her eagerness to be rid of the stowaway slowly melts into a nauseating apprehension. Apparently, according to the data, the nearest planet for several lightyears just happens to be crawling with Necromongers. Fucking Necromongers. If there's anything Hatchet hates, it's violent religious cults that double as armies. She avoids well-paying jobs on the off-chance that those psychos might catch a whiff of her— she's sure as hell not landing her ship in a hive of those wasps.

"Fucking shit!" She kicks the console.

There goes the plan to drop this motherfucker off. It'll take days at the very least to make it to the next viable planet. She tosses her head back and groans loud, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until they come away leaving splotches in her vision. Venting her frustration, she kicks her heel against the console twice more.

———————————————————————

If Hatchet learns anything during her time in close proximity with the man, it's that, 1. he's a shockingly fast healer; 2. he doesn't like bright lights; and 3. he's quite sharp-witted despite the meathead look about him. In the few days that follow the unexpected detour, she avoids him as best she can in such cramped quarters. They only interact on the occasions when she checks up on his wounds or gives him MRE meals throughout the day— always outfitted in her armor, of course. He only takes power-naps, never a full sleep, and reacts tensely to loud and sudden noises. He's smug and facetious when he speaks, and brooding when he doesn't. He's like a storm in every aspect of the description: thunderous voice, eyes like lightning, and a stormy personality to match. Despite Hatchet's aloofness, the man has found a way to wheedle himself under her skin. Once he was stable enough to stand on his own, nothing could stop him from getting up and wandering around the ship, hiding in the shadowed areas like a predator stalking its prey, much to Hatchet's chagrin. He makes little quips and witty comments in that deep voice when she's least prepared for them, and he stares at her with those glimmering eyes like he can see right through her disguise. Sometimes, she worries he does. He's like a fucking ghost the way he soundlessly moves around the small ship. That's more unnerving than his appearance, she thinks.

It's all getting rather frustrating. At first she'd been pissed that a man had the audacity to impose himself upon her time, energy, and ship. Now, she can't help but feel a strange tug of loneliness when they aren't in the same room. It's upsetting how the mind perceives human connection. She doesn't even know his name, yet the thought of being on her own again seems... well, lonely.

It does help that he's easy on the eyes, too. She finds herself locked away in the cockpit more and more frequently, brooding long and hard over the increasingly frequent thoughts of how fucking fine the man is. That soft yet masculine face, those thick arms and sturdy torso. The deep, intense tenor of his voice alone is enough to make her weak in the knees. And those eerie, glowing eyes, which watch her every movement like a hawk. Oh, for fucksake...

Hell, in all honesty she might as well be swimming in her armor with the way she sweats when he stands close and talks real smooth. She's afraid she's making it a little too obvious, actually. That carefully crafted persona is slipping through her fingers and all because she's a little hot under the collar about this stowaway she'd sworn to dump like a box of rocks come first chance. It came to a point approximately three simulated days into their time together when she couldn't stand the sight of him shirtless anymore; she ended up handing over one of her spare XL tanks, which still managed to look small on his burly frame. There's a sort of undeniable animal magnetism about him which is almost a little distressing in its intensity. What a fickle thing her trust in others is— and how tragically simple it was for her to get comfortable with the situation.

She doesn't insist on taking her bunk back from the healing man. While he rests his battered body on the cot, she kicks back at the well-worn table every night cycle, sprawled across the bench seat with a flimsy pillow beneath her helmeted head. This way she can keep the stowaway within her line of sight. Once his intimidating nature is overlooked, he is surprisingly amicable and seems rather appreciative of all her efforts. He hasn't tried to attack her, or otherwise threaten her person, which she takes as a sign he'd heard and accepted her deal before passing out on that very first day. In fact, he only ever deliberately menaces her when standing over her shoulder, or appearing out of nowhere. Or when he belligerently thumps his fist over wall panels to deactivate overhead lights he finds irksome.

Hatchet, though she herself is nameless to an extent, finds his lack of proffered identity a little frazzling. Though she's come to accept his presence as a whole, it would make her a lot more comfortable if she had a name and background to put to the face. Which brings her to the locked cockpit, wherein she works tediously to repair the screen and scanning mechanism in her helmet. With her tongue poked out from between her lips and one boot up on the console, she takes the helm apart and repairs it with a notable proficiency, then puts it all back together again. The screen automatically powers on when she activates the airlock seal, illuminating her field of view with digital notifications and vital statuses.

She catches him unaware, aiming her visor at him for long enough to scan his facial features and biometrics. Identification data scrawls across the screen before her eyes, her blood pressure spikes. Under the guise of piloting the ship, she locks herself in the cockpit again and feverishly scrolls through mugshots and bounty reward data.

Holy shit. She's been harboring the infamous convict Richard B. Riddick.

Her jaw clenches, muscle twitching against the interior padding of the helmet as she absorbs the newfound information. She should've known. She should have known. Those eyes— she'd heard the merc legends about those eyes.

But fuck... for a guy who'd spent half his life in the slam, he's certainly been affable within these restrictive quarters, mingling with a complete stranger, no less. It's hard to reconcile what she reads on the screen with the man she's been interacting with for the past few artificial cycles. She yanks the helmet from over her head, roughly scrubbing her palms over her face.

When she returns from the cockpit, nerves gathered to the extent they can be, she finds the man halfway through shaving his tan scalp. She stands at the mouth of the living area, the girth of her armor nearly taking up the entire doorframe. Richard B. Riddick, her reserved and shockingly mannered stowaway, sits at the metal table with a compact mirror and razor— a feeble weapon which she now knows could be used against her in all sorts of ways if she were to get on his bad side. Does he even have a good side to be on? She hopes he does, and hopes she's on it. Largely without thinking, one of her hands flutters up to her touch throat as images of it being brutally slit flicker through her mind.

She sits down across from him, folding her hands on the tabletop. He doesn't pause his grooming, doesn't even glance up. His eyeshine remains trained on the little mirror as he meticulously scrapes the stubble from his head with help from what looks like motor gel, no doubt nicked from the cargo bay below. Hatchet purses her mouth into a nervous line beneath the safety of her helm. She can't help but silently observe the flex of his muscles as he moves, every innocuous gesture striking a flustered chord within her. She swallows against the tightness constricting her throat.

"How are you feeling?" She hopes the modulator eliminates the shakiness she feels in her voice.

Logically, she has nothing to be afraid of. Unless this guy is prone to switching demeanor on a dime—which she has no reason to believe he does, based on what she's seen so far—why wouldn't this passive companionship continue? If anything, Hatchet is more afraid of how he will react to knowing she knows his identity now. Either he's been assuming she has known this entire time and just doesn't care, or knows she's been blissfully ignorant and has taken advantage of the anonymity.

He finally spares a glance at her across the table. His jaw visibly twitches, then one corner of his mouth quirks upward. He returns to shaving his head.

"Better. Thanks." He sniffs, sounding indifferent.

"You... uh. Want anything to eat?"

"Naw."

Hatchet exhales, both relieved and oddly disappointed. The storage compartment for the MREs is right beside him, meaning she would've had to stand right over him to retrieve anything.

"You got any goggles laying around?" His deep voice brings her out of her mind. "Been looking but..." he sucks his teeth.

Her brows raise confoundedly. "Goggles?"

"Yeah, you know. Goggles."

Fuck, he must think she's an idiot. She fumbles for words. "Uh. I'm not sure, probably not. I usually just wear the helmet when I need to shield my eyes. Why do you need them?"

He snaps the compact mirror shut and sets down the razor, using the bloody tank he's arrived in to wipe the remaining gel from his scalp. It looks like he'd shaved his beard recently, too, if the dark shadow on his jaw has anything to say about it. Setting the tank down, no more than a scrap rag at this point, he inhales deeply and briefly sinks his teeth into his plump lower lip. Hatchet bites her cheek hard enough for it to hurt, deliberately keeping her gaze from his mouth.

"I wouldn't need them if you didn't keep turning on all the lights," he replies. A hint of dry amusement hides within his flat tone.

"I wouldn't have to turn on the lights if you didn't hide in the shadows all the time," she retaliates. Riddick chuckles like deep, rolling thunder. Hatchet's pulse jumps; fear, arousal. "I'll keep it in mind not to turn them all on. I know your eyes are sensitive to light," she continues.

He suddenly pins her with a suspicious, scrupulous glare. She realizes her mistake and backtracks, sweating bullets beneath her armor.

"I mean, you squint a lot. And you make your way around in the dark better than in the light. I shouldn't have assumed." She's babbling. She can't keep a lid on it.

If he suspects what she knows, he doesn't let on. He cocks his head to the side, eyes glimmering as they trace the contours of her hefty armor. His gaze stops on her visor, right where her eyes should be. Somehow, she feels like they're making direct eye contact.

A questioning smile graces his handsome face. "Do you ever take that damn helmet off? Or do you live in the thing."

Hatchet's face falls beneath the shield of the visor. Her pulse thumps in her throat; a part of her thinks he can sense it. Her demeanor becomes prickly, unchecked. "Why do you care? You're a stowaway on my ship— what is it your business how I eat, sleep, shit—"

"Fuck?" He raises a thin brow, tickled by his own addendum. Meanwhile, Hatchet flushes a fiery shade of red beneath the helm in question. Then, he huffs a short little laugh— more a harsh exhale than anything. "I have to say, your little getup had me convinced at first. But, I know you ain't a man."

Hatchet's heart skips a beat. She disguises her anxiety with derision. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest, sweetheart." A white canine glints when he flashes that oddly charming smile.

That combination—a quaint pet name and that devastating smile—has her feeling lightheaded and confined within her suit. Her hands slip from the tabletop to clench into fists in her lap. He appears upsettingly smug about his little revelation.

"How'd you figure it out?"

His nostrils flare; he takes a deep breath. "Thought I smelled a woman my first night in the bunk. My nose was all fucked up, but... eventually I figured out that sweet smell was coming from you and not some phantom scent hanging around. I give you credit, you had me going for a little while."

Her brow twinges. What a strange man.

She's faced with an internal conflict. She could deny the accusation, but something tells her that won't work in the slightest. She could keep the helmet and armor on until they part ways, but really what's the point, seeing as he already knows she's a woman; he looks strong enough to pry the armor right off her body anyway. The most logical choice she can make is to take the discovery in stride and go back to living comfortably, with the addition of a slightly threatening guest who does one-armed push-ups in the hallway and lurks around dark corners. The jig is up. He's just that good. Her choice is practically made up for her.

Hatchet's hands raise, slow and tentative, and she maintains what feels a lot like eye contact with Riddick. Her gloved thumbs hook up under the seal, disabling the airlock and visor screen. Air hisses out from the seam at her throat, loosening the helmet's grip on her head. Somewhat dubiously, she lifts the burdensome metal and glass dome from over her head. It comes to rest in her lap as she shakes out her sweat-dampened hair and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

They look at each other's faces for the first time, unencumbered. The visor distorts perception a tiny bit, so it's almost like seeing him for the first time. A permeable scent of sweat and metal lingers between the both of them, despite both having showered recently in the ship's minuscule wash room. She can also smell the motor gel he'd used to shave his head (so strange— must be a leftover trick from the slam, she thinks). The woman is overcome with a bout of anxiety and shyness upon revealing her true face, and flushes under his heavy gaze. She resists the submissive urge to tuck her chin to her chest and avert real eye contact.

"Well... I guess you know who I am, now." She clears her throat; she hasn't heard her unfiltered voice in ages. Her jig may be up— but she still has something of a trump card on him, too. Sure, he might kill her for it, but this entire conversation is toeing the line of life-threatening risk to begin with. She musters courage to utter her next words; "Just like... how I know who you are now, Richard B. Riddick. Thought I wouldn't do a facial recognition scan?"

Hatchet squares her shoulders and raises her chin by a fraction, feigning confidence. He can probably smell her fear. The man inclines his head, brows raised as a chuckle rolls in like a storm. He almost looks impressed with her mediocre detective work.

He smiles that wolfish smile, showing teeth and smile lines. "So, you think you know who I am now, huh? You afraid of the big bad monster now?"

One corner of Hatchet's mouth quirks downward. "Should I be?"

"If you're smart you would be." He levels her stare with that inhuman eyeshine.

"I only fear true monsters. Men who kill for pleasure and nothing more. I read the files on you. You don't kill unarmed women— children. You don't rape them."

It isn't phrased as a question, but he replies regardless; "Naw."

It's actually kind of relieving that he looks a bit offended by the idea. "Then you aren't a true monster. You do what you have to to survive. We all do out here. I can't fault you for killing people trying to kill you. I won't fault you for anything you had to do in the slam."

There's more she would like to say—to tell him he'd been dealt a really shitty hand—but that feels too intrusive for the context of their relationship. She doesn't want to risk angering him by coming off as pitying.

Riddick narrows his naturally suspicious gaze at the woman. He doesn't touch her previous soapbox comment. "So... that mean you're gonna try to turn me in for a payday?"

"Fucking— Jesus, dude," she guffaws incredulously. "Why the fuck would I turn you in after I did so much to save your ass? You're worth more dead than alive, you know. If I wanted to, I could've."

The big man shrugs. "Who knows. Every other merc would."

"Well I'm not every other merc, am I?" She leans back, crossing her arms over her chestplate.

"Naw, definitely not."

If she'd been any less observant, she may have missed the glimmer of flirtation in his tone and demeanor— in his eyeshine. Stifling heat rises like a kettle boiling, tinting her face a noticeable hue. She can only hope she looks disheveled and sweaty enough for it to pass as an exacerbated flush. Abruptly, she stands from the table, wringing her hands in an uncontrollable combination of nerves and bashfulness. The helmet is dumped onto the tabletop, rolling towards the seated man.

"I'll uh—" Her voice cracks; she clears her throat. "I'll look for those goggles for you."

"Good talk," he calls after her as she hastily turns on her heel.

She pauses her stride, mind running a mile a minute to find a way to gain some sort of traction and authority amidst this interaction. She shifts halfway to turn back and face him.

"Hm. Yes, good talk... Richard."

His uproarious laughter follows her down into the cargo bay where she quickly disappears.

———————————————————————

Riddick is both a complicated human and a very simple man. On one hand, a selfish part of him wants nothing more than to take control of this cramped little vessel and fly it fuck-knows where. It's clear to him that this ship and its pilot are a package deal, which brings him to a sort of moral crossroads. On the other hand, this woman—this merc—has been undeservingly kind to him, more so than anyone he can remember. She has a point, too. He'd been dangerously incapacitated for a short while, in which time she could have easily gone and ghosted him or handed him over to some other scummy mercs. But she hadn't. This lone woman, mistrustful enough of others to go so far as to masquerade as a man, had saved his hide and given him shelter and transport, all out of the kindness of her heart. She isn't threatening or outwardly malicious; he doesn't know how the hell she's survived this long out here. Perhaps her assumed persona has gotten her this far after all, amongst the masses less perceptive than himself.

Fuck. Merc or not, he can't just ghost her now.

And besides— he's a man, and she's a woman. Simple as that.

Even suited up to the jaw in armor and reeking of sweat, her newly revealed face stirs something all-too familiar within him. Hell, her scent alone is enough to get him off. Riddick doesn't even have to know what the rest of her looks like to know he wants to fuck her. And she doesn't seem all too averse to the idea of him, either, based on the subtle changes observable in her posture and scent. His senses are too keen to miss the physical and vocal cues she tries so hard to hide with that modulator and beneath the suit of armor. He knows hot and bothered when he sees it; and it's a fucking ego-boost.

After their little conversation, she'd grown more comfortable— if that's the appropriate word for the scenario. He'd revealed her identity and she responded by completely forgoing the suit of armor. Not that he's curious or anything, but he finds himself asking more about her. She shares that she is called "Hatchet," which he thinks is a little entertaining given her rather docile nature. He also learns that she's been in the mercenary business since her early teenage years, which almost always spells trouble for young women— hence why she'd taken up the persona of a more masculine, faceless merc, rather than be perceived as lesser-than by her professional peers. She's funny too, he pleasantly discovers, when not restrained by that helmet.

He's surprised when she comes up to him a few cycles following their conversation. She's dressed in a tank like his (which he realizes is hers) and a mechanic's jumpsuit, the top of which rests tied around her supple hips. He eyes up her body with a brashness that usually intimidates even the most battle hardened of men. She doesn't even flinch— she grows shy, instead. He stands by his previous statement in which he'd wanted to fuck her without knowing what her body looked like, but he's certainly not complaining now in getting to see her without the bully armor to conceal her curves and soft shape. Even the light musculature of her arms and width of her shoulders is hot.

She holds something as she approaches from the cargo bay ladder, and he quickly deduces it is non-threatening. She sidles up to the table where he has been parking himself at more frequently lately. She wears a sweet expression halfway between anticipatory and nervous— not much different than usual.

"Hey, dollface," Riddick greets.

He cocks his head to the side as he looks up at her, observing her through the purplish hue of his shine-job eyes. He quickly discovered that playfully teasing the young woman almost always earns a flurry of entertaining responses; namely flustered yammering and a red flush which trails all the way down to her full breasts. The pet names come easily, oddly enough. She blushes as expected and leans a hip against the table edge. While toying with the object in her hands, she glances between it and him.

"I uh. I found a pair of goggles, since you'd been asking."

She holds her flat palm out towards him, displaying a set of simple black welding goggles. They're essentially like the pairs he usually sports: midsized circular lenses, held in place by a thick plastic compound. Riddick takes the proffered eyewear and tests the weight in his own palm. The strap is a fabric material rather than a continuation of the flexible plastic, but still appears sturdy. He pulls them over his head, lowering the lenses over his eyes. They block out the Iight sufficiently, subduing the vibrant hue of his altered vision.

He scans the woman through the shades, smiling appreciatively. "Thanks, sweetheart. You're a real peach."

Hatchet releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, sure. No problem... Richard."

She doesn't use fluffy little names on him like he's begun doing for her. When she does refer to him, she only calls him by his first name. Which, given the fact virtually no one else does, feels like a more powerful naming. It's humanization in its rawest form. She shifts to sit down across from him. Neither of them can ignore the way their ankles tangle together beneath the table, hefty boots knocking into one another. Riddick watches her throat bob as she swallows. He raises the goggles and leaves them perched on his knit brow.

"Okay, so, I've been thinking," she begins, somewhat hesitantly. "Here's the deal— I'll take you wherever you want to go, so long as you don't, you know, kill me in my sleep and steal my ride or something. I think that's only fair since I didn't do the same to you when you were incapacitated. Also, I guess it goes without saying that I'm not gonna tell anyone about this encounter or your whereabouts. If you don't trust my good will, just think how negatively it would affect my life if it got out among the wrong crowd that I've been in cahoots with an escaped convict."

Riddick barks out an abrupt laugh. "In cahoots, huh?"

Hatchet blanches, her jaw opening and shutting several times before she gathers her words. "W-Well, I'm willingly harboring a fugitive, aren't I? I haven't booted you out the airlock yet— so yes, we're in cahoots."

The man's laughter tapers into a light chuckle. He perches his chin on his fist in a way that makes Hatchet tense with bashfulness. A muscle in his thick forearm flexes, drawing her curious eye. Lately, she's been daydreaming about those strapping arms. She's been catching herself daydreaming about the rest of him, as well.

Her eyes dart back to his silvery ones, clearing her throat. "Well, what do you think of my deal?"

Riddick tilts his head, unable to resist smiling. "Sounds good."

The woman blinks at him, big doe eyes wide as she picks apart his reaction. "Ah... uh. Okay, cool." She drums the tabletop with both hands, fidgeting under his heavy stare.

She pushes to her feet suddenly, and Riddick launches up after her. Instantly he crowds her in the tight space, his large frame taking up a majority of her vision. She startles, automatically pressing her hands flat to his built chest. This draws a rumbling chuckle from him as he gazes down at the flustered woman.

Hatchet's heart rate quickens, the muscle thumping wildly in her chest. That pulse begins its mortifying throb between her thighs, too— a desperate, hot desire which boils up without her expressed permission. It's not an entirely unwelcome feeling, but it's certainly indicative of her poor self-control given the situation. She has no clue if this dangerous convict is about to crush her head like a clump of dirt, or if he's going to make a move on her. Those are the only two explanations for his startling proximity to her.

Nervously, her eyes raise to meet his. She finds his head bowed towards her.

"Uh."

"Why don't you ever sleep in your bunk?" he asks, derailing her frazzled train of thought. "Don't you need your beauty rest, sweetheart?"

"O-Oh? Where are you supposed to go if I take back my bunk?"

He hums and sways his shaven head. "We can share."

Brain unable to catch up with what he's offering, she defaults to thinking in a blunt, literal sense. "W-We can't both fit. It's too narrow."

He steps forward and she steps back, only to realize he's effectively backed her against a wall. One of his beefy arms rises, forearm and fist resting on the wall beside her head. He leans further into her space, smiling as he takes a deep breath of her scent. Fuzzy butterflies explode in her abdomen; she goes weak in the knees.

"Oh really? 'Cuz I got a few positions in mind that we can fit into," he purrs. Hatchet lets out a surprised little noise and he ducks closer. "Aw, don't get all shy on me now, babygirl."

"I'm— I—" she stammers.

Her eyes flick between his own and his lips. That now-familiar eyeshine glimmers with heated desire as he carefully observes her. He leans in real slow— torturously slow. The tip of his nose brushes against hers and she shudders. Riddick's breath is hot as is fans across her face. She finds herself panting heavy through parted lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his steady one. Her chin ducks low, shyly averting his advance to where he has to chase her lips.

His full lips are shockingly soft when they do finally graze hers— his mouth gentle and curious at first while he tentatively pecks her. The few kisses he lavishes upon her lips are short and teasing, serving only to rile her up further. The heartbeat at her core prompts her thighs to clench; the action doesn't go unnoticed. One of his broad hands clamps over her upper arm, effectively pinning her in place against the wall. The shared kiss grows more frenetic with each passing second. His other hand slides rather possessively up the length of her back, coming to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull. He uses it as leverage to tilt her head back— a move which earns a quiet gasp and unintentional whimper through her parted lips. With a small self-satisfied grin, Riddick takes the invitation to claim her open mouth, exploring teeth and tongue with his own.

Hatchet can barely catch her breath— especially not when Riddick slips his tongue past her lips. The pulse between her thighs grows increasingly unbearable and she squirms desperately in his tight hold. That hand holding her arm in a vise grip shifts instead to press against her shoulder blade, pinning her to his broad chest. Her own hands find the courage to come up, fingers taking liberty to slip beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt. His tanned skin is warm and pulled taut over an ample amount of muscle. Her hands are cold—they always are while in space—which results in a string of tangible shivers as she drags her fingers up his sides. The thin fabric of the grey tank bunches up around her wrists as her hands continue their exploration upward. Her right hand is careful to avoid irritating the stitched wound over his left-side ribs. Instead it glides to his smooth chest, squeezing a generous handful of his pec.

He chuckles into her mouth and she swallows the deep noise with fervor. Without warning, he crouches and drops his large hands to her ass, hoisting her up with ease. Her legs clamp around his waist on instinct, canting her hips to shamelessly grind her throbbing core against his hard stomach. Her hands continue to grope his muscled chest and arms, appreciative of his powerful physique. All the while, mouths slot together in feverish kisses.

Riddick pivots on his heel and effortlessly pitches forward at the waist, dropping the woman clinging to him down onto the cot. There's little give to the canvas fabric bunk, but it's certainly more comfortable than a metal tabletop. Not that Riddick particularly cares; he's already swimming in visions of bending her over the table, anyway. Only when he deposits her on the bunk and crouches over her does Hatchet release him from her clinging grasp. Her hands barely leave his chest long enough to yank the tank up over his head, relying on his aptitude to fully rid himself of the thing while she continues her impromptu anatomy lesson. While she latches her mouth onto the pulse point of his throat, he plucks the goggles from his brow and flings them aside. They clatter down somewhere unimportant.

Wordlessly, there lingers between them a mutual agreement that this is consensual. This is needed. This has been building up for a while now.

Riddick's broad hands engulf Hatchet's soft waist, squeezing her affectionately. His fingers push upward, skirting along the hem of her own shirt. She parts her mouth from his neck only long enough to allow him to tug the garment up over her head, hastily followed by the discarding of her sports bra, too. His palms are rough with calluses against her sensitive flesh, and unrelenting when they come up to squeeze her bared breasts. The topless woman licks up the column of his throat to just below his right ear, tasting sweat and skin as she suckles the sweet spot. Her fingers dig into his biceps, keeping him in place as she straddles him. She smiles against his hot skin when he groans. His weathered hands explore her torso, sliding from her chest to her back, then down to grasp her waist tightly.

"Fuck, come on," Riddick grunts into her hair. His hands slip lower to her ass, yanking impatiently at the fabric of her jumpsuit bottoms. "Pants."

It takes no effort for him to lift and flip her onto her back again, taking pride in the surprised expression she wears. Her limbs and eyelids feel heavy as she undoes the tied sleeves around her hips, helping him shuffle off her slate grey jumpsuit. She doesn't even realize he's also slipped off her underwear until she feels the cool air of the ship against her bare core. Fuck, all her constant worrying over her appearance, and in the moment she isn't even concerned. She just needs to feel good with him.

Despite this minor revelation, Hatchet briefly feels a tad in over her head as the burly man holds her down by the hips and leans over her. He eclipses the dim overhead light, his eyes shining magnificently. Those nocturnal eyes are growing on her at a frightening rate.

"Richard," she whispers. One hand reaches up to touch his face, petting his cheek before skating over the stubbly crown of his head. "Fuck, Rich."

He drops his head and growls against her hot, bare skin. The sound rumbles beneath her palm where it presses over his heart. That's a new one— Rich. He's never been called that before. He doesn’t dislike it, mainly because it comes from her.

Riddick leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck and across her chest. His fingers press into her supple flesh of her hips hard enough for it to dimple under the force. He continues downward, laving his hot tongue over her pebbled nipples, teasing his teeth against her delicate skin. With her head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, she remains ignorant to the garland of lovebites he leaves across her skin, decorating her chest with the constellations of the open universe. His lips follow the line of fine hair down the middle of her stomach, until finally stopping just above the curly thatch at her mons. He shifts his attention, choosing to nip at the skin of her inner thighs. He kneels on the floor and roughly yanks her to the end of the cot for better leverage, earning a surprised yelp from the woman. In the same moment, he tucks his thumbs around the underside of her knees and hoists her legs over his broad shoulders. Her ankles automatically lock overtop his shoulder blades.

Hatchet shudders with delicious anticipation. Her big eyes shoot open and head cranes, meeting his silver gaze from where he has positioned himself between her thick thighs. Without much civility or warning, the man stuffs his shaven head into the tight crevice of her thighs. She is suddenly relieved that he'd taken the bandage off his nose almost immediately after gathering his bearings all those days ago, because now he puts the prominent feature to good use against her swollen clit.

A wanton moan claws out from Hatchet's throat as she throws her head back against the rigid cot. Riddick's breath is hot against her cunt, tongue skilled as he works it into her most sensitive area. Two fingers pry her labia apart to get at a more effective angle. Her hands dart to clamp down on either side of his head, her nails digging crescents into his nude scalp. Panting and squirming, she uses her iron grip on his head to grind up against his big nose. He groans low against her core, the vibrations on his tongue adding to her pleasure. Her thighs squeeze against his flushed ears, and for a moment the thought she may suffocate him flashes through her mind. That worry is ejected out into space when his tanned hands come around to grip her where her thighs meet her hips, dragging her even more securely against him.

Her eyes roll back, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms as Riddick brings her increasingly closer to her peak. His nose is replaced by a skillful thumb, rubbing firm circles around her clit. He continues lapping at her cunt, groaning and taking intermittent gasps for air. Just as she feels that hot coil tightening in her lower abdomen, sees white light flickering beneath her lids, he does the unthinkable. He pulls away. Hatchet whines at the sudden neglect and desperately claws at his head in an attempt for him to continue, leaving red stripes on his stubbly scalp.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" he asks lowly, smugness dripping from his tongue. That isn't the only thing dripping from his tongue; his nose, mouth, and chin are coated in her arousal.

Hatchet laughs breathlessly. "Fuck off."

She welcomes him with open arms when he crawls up over her again, accepting his lips as he presses down to kiss her. She can taste her own wetness on his mouth, but is largely distracted by his hips slotting between hers and grinding down.

He pulls back for a moment, leveling her with an entertained but mildly miffed eyebrow raise. "You got protection?"

Hatchet has to take a moment to catch her breath in order to answer. "Don't worry, I got that fancy implant. Unless you're riddled with some horrible penitentiary disease?" She smiles brightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with playfulness.

Her hands cup his face when he returns a dazzling smile. "Me? Who do you take me for? A convict?"

She curls against him when he ducks his face to the crook of her neck, warm and blushing as they both laugh. Unabashed, laughing together. It feels bizarrely intimate, and so completely foreign to the both of them. When the brief chuckles taper off and the weight of the scenario sinks back in, Hatchet wriggles her hips against his, attempting to stimulate some friction. The rough fabric of his cargo pants sparks a little something, but nothing spectacular. Catching on to her renewed desperation, Riddick presses weight against her hips, teasing her with his clothed erection. She mewls softly, grinding up against him.

A calloused hand slides up the length of her body to her neck, first two fingers and thumb pressing lightly against either pulse-point. He squeezes just hard enough for her to squirm with an intoxicating faintness, but light enough for it not to harm her. She swallows hard, feeling the pressure of his palm against her larynx. It would be child's play for him to fully wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze the life out of her. This flirtation with death is not only exhilarating, but it's something she'd never considered as enjoyable before now.

She's too busy with panting against the hand around her throat to realize he'd slipped his other one down towards the apex of her thighs. That is, not until there comes a delicious and unexpected pressure against her swollen clit. She jolts from the sudden stimulation. The moan that slips unbidden from her lips is loud and breathy, and she arches up into his devilish touch. His thumb rubs concentrated circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, the middle finger sliding lower to tease her slit. Meanwhile, he drops his head to press against her temple, lips leaving sloppy kisses on her cheek.

Riddick groans, rutting against her soft thigh. He drags his lips against her cheek, bottom teeth scraping her skin. A tingly shudder ripples through her body.

"You want it, babygirl?" he growls in her ear. "Tell me you want it."

Hatchet whines when his thick finger breaches her entrance, sliding in easily with the wetness of her arousal. Her toes curl and back arches when that searching finger strokes that hidden sweet spot, her entire body overcome with a delicious shudder.

"Fuck," she pants, "Please. I want it."

The hand at her throat inches upward to clasp her jaw, angling her head for him to effectively whisper in her ear. "Want what, sweetheart? Use your words."

Another finger is stuffed into her pussy; she pants and squeezes around them. An embarrassed flush heats her chest and face at being made to speak her desire aloud. In some little act of defiance, she merely continues huffing and rutting against his hand. Punishment for her disobedience comes swift however, arriving in the form of the ceased stimulation. Riddick sucks his teeth and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"So stubborn," he tsks.

Fuck— that rich, buttery voice sends a desperate throb straight to her neglected clit. She sobs out a pathetic whine, making a futile attempt to force his hand to continue its work.

"Please. Okay, okay. Please, please. I want you, I need you. Fuck me, please, Richard," she begs, voice coming out ragged.

He brings his lips to the corner of her mouth and smiles into the kiss he places there. "Good girl," he purrs.

Hatchet squirms under him, clit pulsing with an immediate flush of blood at the praise. "Say that again," she pants, sliding her hand over the back of his thick neck. "Please, please, Rich. Say that again. I'm— Hah."

She can feel the fond chuckle under her palm as it rumbles in his chest. He wrestles with the button and zipper of his cargo pants while keeping himself aloft with one arm. "My girl. Good girl."

Each kiss steals her breath away, dizzying her with butterflies and anticipation. It takes a hurried moment of effort, but Riddick manages to shuck his trousers and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor with the rest of their discarded clothes. Perched on his knees between the woman's spread thighs, he greedily admires the sight of her laid out before him. There's something particularly special about this woman. She's managed to weasel her way into his frigid heart, and he can't find it in himself to complain. She's sweet, and kind, and sure fucking hot. She too watches him greedily as muscles flex in his arms. He plants his hands on her bent knees, dragging them down the length of her soft thighs. Fingers sink into the fat of her hips, dragging her closer.

One glance at his proud erection is enough to draw a flustered whimper from Hatchet's lips; his dick is thick, befitting of the rest of him. She thrusts an arm up over her face, if only to hide the embarrassed blush which splotches her skin. The big man lowers himself over her once more and gently pushes her arm away, murmuring about her shyness. The weight of his cock resting on her belly makes her squirm, which he seems to enjoy greatly, much to her impatient desperation. He slots his plush lips with hers while his left hand slips around her right thigh, encouraging it up. Her knee brushes the bruised wound over his ribs, but he doesn't seem to care all that much as he pins the long limb tightly against him.

In the space between them, he fists his dick and pumps once, twice. He holds Hatchet's lidded gaze with those intense eyes of his, drinking in the dazed sight of her. He drags the cockhead through the wetness of her arousal, teasing her swollen clit before aligning himself properly. His throaty groan mingles with her gasped noises as he slowly presses into her, sheathing himself within her hot cunt. It's a snug fit, lax as she may be. He bottoms out painfully slow, taking his sweet time in stuffing her full of himself. That hand returns to her throat and gently squeezes while he holds himself aloft with the other arm.

Hatchet sucks her teeth against the slight sting of his size. The discomfort quickly fades into a satisfyingly tense pressure once Riddick gets a steady rhythm going. With her leg hiked up over his side, he continually pulls out almost all the way before plunging back into her, driving her down into the stiff cot with each powerful thrust. She shudders with each drag of his thick cock against her inner walls— with every gentle squeeze of his broad hand around her throat.

"Fuck, babygirl. You feel good," he grunts out. "Such a good girl for me. Real pretty." Riddick groans through clenched teeth when her cunt spasms particularly hard around him. His words are like a match to her gasoline.

The hand at her throat shifts away in an attempt to touch as much of her skin as possible— caressing her breast, tangling in her hair, touching her lips, squeezing her waist and hip. It's almost like a compulsion to feel every part of her warm body, to get lost in her skin and pretty noises. Hatchet's hands perform their own exploration; she can't get enough of wrapping her fingers around his biceps and broad shoulders, her breath panting hard against his collarbones as she clings to him. The middle two fingers of his wandering hand come down on her clit again, sparking electric spasms throughout her writhing body. Those fingers rub circles against her sensitive bud, and every so often slip lower to stroke around the spot where they join together.

An especially rough drag and thrust has the tip of cock kissing that sweet spot within her. She cries out and he repeats the motion with an exact precision. He continues hammering into her at that perfect angle, grunting and shuddering with each of her clenches and moans. Light blooms beneath Hatchet's eyelids, that hot pressure coiling up in her belly once more. The combination of internal and external stimulation is enough for her to see stars and arch into the man like her life depends on it.

Nearly animalistic in his frenzy, Riddick can't control himself when his teeth sink into the woman's shoulder. It feels right.

Hatchet cries out at the sharp feeling of his bite, shock mixing with odd delight. He doesn't use enough force to break the skin, but his teeth leave a sting nonetheless. In retaliation, her nails sink into his muscular back and drag downward to his sides, leaving crisscrossing stripes across his tan skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes that she may have torn one of his stitches, but he doesn't make any indication of it bothering him. That delicious tension deep in her belly increases almost unbearably; she bucks up into his fingers on her clit, grinding against the hilt of his cock stuffed in her. His mouth latches onto the slope of her neck and bites again, licking the minimal damage each time he retracts his pearly teeth.

Her orgasm comes suddenly, like fireworks. She spasms around him as she comes, back arching up against his hard front as she cries out. Riddick continues pounding into her— continues rubbing her clit through her shuddering orgasm. The sounds of their sex seem awfully loud in the quiet confines of her small ship.

"There we go. Good girl," he murmurs into her throat.

He pushes up on his supporting arm, putting a bit of space between himself and the spent woman. She twitches and pants beneath him, cunt contracting around his continued thrusts. Her nails haven't yet retracted from his sides, clinging as though grasping for purchase. Riddick sits upright with her legs slung around his hips. One hand wipes over his head to clear away beads of sweat, before both come down to clutch her hips.

"Fuck... Where do you want it, sweetheart?" He punctuates with a harsh snap of his hips, plunging deep into her.

Hatchet's wrists demurely cross above her head. Her breaths come in short, exhausted puffs as she wriggles against him. Overstimulation is beginning to fray at her edges, but the feeling of being so full of him overrides the discomfort. She can barely think straight enough to give him a proper response— fucked thoroughly out of her mind.

"Richard—" She groans low in her throat. He's practically rearranging her guts. Tears prick at her eyes. "Fuck. Inside. Please, just— ugh, inside."

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Sounds good to me, baby." She doesn't have to open her eyes to know the smug, cocky, sexy bastard is grinning. "Nngh, fuck."

Riddick's head tilts back, shuddering violently. He groans loud and holds her steady with his fingers dug into her hips. She feels his hot release spill into her, coating her insides as he ceases his relentless pounding. She's overly sensitive from the intensity of her own orgasm, so his sudden stillness comes as a relief for her tender parts. His chest heaves, fingers twitching.

After an extended moment of basking in the bliss of his finish, Riddick slumps forward. While he's careful not to crush the woman, he does rest a bit of his weight atop her. Sweat-slicked skin meets sweat-slicked skin as they recover together, lounging in the afterglow. He remains partially sheathed within her, allowing a minimal amount of his seed to trickle out around his length.

Amidst tenderly petting Riddick's back, Hatchet nearly gets lost to the grips of sleep. That is, at least until his rumbling voice stirs her again.

"I think you needed that." He noses her throat, inhaling deeply. She cants her hips without thinking, then grunts softly at the feeling of him still buried within her.

"Oh?" she chuckles quietly, "Is that right?"

She smoothes her palm over the back of his head, then traces her fingertips up and down his neck and shoulders. He hums against her clammy, flushed skin. Sentimentally isn't even remotely his forte, but this intimacy feels surprisingly good. Odd and unfamiliar, but pleasant. He feels safe to relax in her hold, resting a little bit more of his weight against her capable form.

"Yep. You're a little uptight."

Briefly pressing his lips to the bite-shaped bruises on her shoulder, he lifts his head. She cracks an eye open to peer at him, then sighs wistfully. He really does have a beautiful face. She caresses his cheek.

"And hey, would you look at that. We fit." He grins wide and smug and raises a brow, referring back to the conversation which started this whole affair.

Hatchet drops her head to the cot and closes her eyes again, laughing heartily. "Fuck you, Richard."

#second time ever writing smut and I think it melted my brain #this is way too long to read on tumblr just go to ao3 lmao #pitch black 2000 #chronicles of riddick #richard b riddick #richard b riddick x oc #richard b riddick x reader #goldfinch writes

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