#ball guy x reader

[sunsburns]

four or five moments (ii.)

pairing: wade wilson/deadpool x fem!assassin!reader

summary: you're literally just trying to do your job, and it's going great so far, you've killed trask, all you have left is to stop that truck from leaving new york. few problems: deadpool can't stay dead, you're having a moral dilemma and why is that car getting closer? oh shit-!

—or: deadpool literally hits you with a car

word count: 4k+

warnings: fem reader, wade being nasty, flirting, sex jokes, canon violence, there isn't too much plot, blood, strange conversations about morality, wade being annoying, he also breaks the fourth wall a few times, i did not pre-read this pls bare with spelling mistakes

notes: i was peer pressured to write this. it literally strays off from the og plot so bad you get whiplash!!

part one

All you really need is four or five moments.

Four or five moments to prove that you're better than them, that you wouldn't stoop as low, to prove that an eye for an eye will only leave two people blind. No blood will bring mercy. No. But it might get you some peace of mind knowing that they can't hurt you anymore, knowing that there's one less asshole on the earth that's trying to hurt you and the people you care about. It is heartless, you're well aware, but you are not trained to have much of a heart, much less to care.

You remind yourself of that fact as lights blur into neon streaks and speeding vehicles race by. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline sharpening your senses, and the stab wound on your leg becomes a distant throb.

You leap onto a motorcycle conveniently left unattended by a fleeing warehouse worker, hot-wiring it with practiced ease. The engine roars to life, and you peel out onto the road, weaving through traffic. The bike vibrates beneath you, a sleek, powerful beast responding to your every command.

Behind you, Deadpool is a persistent shadow. You catch glimpses of his red suit and mask as he commandeers a car, recklessly swerving through lanes to catch up to you. His determination is infuriating, but you can't afford to be distracted. You grit your teeth, focusing on the chase.

Your earpiece crackles to life, and a familiar voice comes through. "I've got eyes on your tracker," your handler says. "They're heading towards the docks. Be careful; we don't know if it's a set-up."

"Understood," you reply, voice steady despite the chaos.

As you near the docks, the industrial landscape looms ahead, a labyrinth of shipping containers and cranes casting long shadows in the dim light. The truck is just ahead, its taillights glowing like beacons.

You accelerate closer, and with one hand, you grab an energy gun, in a quick movement, you shoot at the truck doors, immediately regaining your grip on the handle afterwards. The doors fly open, revealing giant metal scraps and wooden crates.

You nearly curse, swerving out of the way when a pipe tumbles out from the back of the truck, crashing onto the road. The clang of metal on asphalt echoes in your ears. You slow down by the truck's blind spot, knowing you'd have to stop it, especially now that the cargo was confirmed to be in it.

You stay ready with your gun, pulling it from the holster on your thigh. You wait a beat, then another, and as the truck starts to pick up speed, you make your move and roll up to the driver's window, shooting through the glass. The bullet flies through the driver's head, causing him to slump forward, pressing on the horn. The blaring sound drowns out your second shot, which takes down the man in the passenger seat before he can shoot you.

The truck starts to slow, veering erratically before it crashes into a building with a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. The impact takes down a few light posts and parked cars, sending debris flying. Broken electrical wires dance and crackle around the wreck, their sparks reflected in the spray of a burst fire hydrant.

"Great job," your handler's voice crackles through your comms. "Dispose of the truck. No witnesses—"

The connection cuts off as you are violently hit from the side by a black car. The force of the impact sends you flying off your bike, tumbling across the rough asphalt. Your suit and helmet take most of the fall, tearing and cracking under the friction. Your visor shatters, the protective plastic lining breaking at the base.

You feel the sting and burn of broken skin on your arms and legs, grime and dirt mixing with the blood seeping from your cuts. Your vision is blurred, and a high-pitched ringing fills your ears. Every breath you take is shallow and painful, your ribs protesting with each inhale. Biting the inside of your cheek, you push yourself to pull off your broken helmet, tossing it aside. You blink hard, trying to focus your vision and spot a figure approaching.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, you recognize the distinctive red and black suit. Deadpool. He strides towards you with casual confidence, katana in hand, his eyes hidden behind the mask but undoubtedly filled with a mix of amusement and determination. The streetlights cast eerie shadows on his suit, highlighting the dried blood and grime.

"Please, don't be mad, honeybuns." Deadpool's irritating voice is the first thing you can hear when the ringing stops. He's standing before you, gloved hands out for you to take.

You don't move, heaving, "What the fuck, Wade?"

"Oh, are we on a first-name basis now? I think I like it." Wade Wilson hums, and when you still don't take his hands, he kneels before you. The smell of sweat and gunpowder wafts off him, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. "I know this all seems a little confusing—"

"You hit me with a fucking car, you dick!" you belt out, eyes wide with rage. The pain and exhaustion make your voice hoarse, every word a struggle.

"Well, yes. But it's only fair—"

"Fuck you."

"Listen to me." He says a little desperately, and you're glaring at him through your tears. Wade doesn't let it get to him, instead, he calls out your name, barely above a whisper as he looks at you. "You are getting innocent people killed." He tells you. "Look around. This might not be a cul-de-sac, but there are civilians, and they're hurt. We need to leave. You need to call it."

You glance over his shoulder, tired eyes scanning the area. He was right. Dock workers are running around, shouting and helping people out of the old building the truck had crashed into. It's late at night, but not late enough for the place to be deserted; people are still at work, still trying to get by.

You wince as you watch a pregnant woman being led out of a crashed car by her husband, a gash on her head. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber fills the air, mixing with the acrid scent of smoke from the crashed truck.

"Killing shitty people is one thing," Deadpool tells you, and you hate the way his voice is almost earnest. His tone is different, more serious, a stark contrast to his usual unserious demeanour. "But I'm familiar with your no-witnesses rule. This would just be mass murder if I let you keep going. Not exactly my piece of cake. Just..."

He stops, letting his head hang for a moment as if he were too repulsed to say it. You can see his shoulders slump slightly, a rare show of genuine emotion. "Oh god, I can't believe I'm about to say this," he grumbles, "Four or five moments. That's all it takes. Just stop and think. It's all it takes to be a hero."

You grit your teeth, hating that Wade Wilson is your voice of reason. The biggest asshole in New York, and here he is lecturing you on morality.

Hairs are falling out of your braid and sticking to your forehead, yet you don't care. Sweat mixes with blood, creating a sticky mess on your skin. You can only glare at him. "You're the last fucking person who should be telling me how to be a hero."

Wade sighs, loud and obnoxious, his mask wrinkling around his eyes as he scrunches up his face. "I'm sorry I hit you with a car. You kinda deserved it after killing Trask. He was my last chance at becoming pretty again. Now I have to stalk another crazy scientist." He taps his chin thoughtfully, "I always figured I'd end up chasing a mad scientist again, but not under these circumstances."

It's when you can no longer hold yourself up with your arms that Wade takes in the gravity of your injuries. He winces, watching you crumble to the ground before him. "Oh, wow, that's a lot of blood," he notes, his voice suddenly devoid of humour. The sight of your blood pooling on the asphalt seems to pull him back to reality. "Should I take you to a hospital? How many fingers am I holding up?"

He doesn't give you a chance to answer.

"Three? No. Two? Yikes. It's worse than I thought." Wade stands, and the worry in his voice is poorly masked by his usual sarcasm. "Here we go. Up, up!" When he moves to pick you up, you start turning away, your body protesting every movement.

"Wade, wait—" you rasp, trying to stop him from touching you. Your voice is weak, barely above a whisper.

But it's too late. When he reaches for you, your body phases, a faint white glow surrounding you as his hands and arms fall through your body as if you're a ghost. He recoils, jumping back while a squeamish sound escapes his lips. He stares at you, then his hands, then back at you on the ground as you try to sit up again, confusion and amazement written all over his masked face.

"Oh. My. Motherfucking. Fuckballs." Wade gasped, eyes wide behind his mask. "Did my hand just go through you or is all that cocaine finally kicking in?"

You ignore him, holding onto your side as it throbs with pain. Every movement sends sharp, agonizing waves through your body. "Fuck."

"No way, you're a fucking mutant?" His tone is a mix of awe and excitement, like a kid discovering a new toy.

It's not like you kept it a secret. You used your abilities whenever you needed to, and sure, it was useful at times, especially in your line of work when you needed to get through locked doors and hidden rooms or just for the element of surprise. But it's draining. Leaves you winded after only a matter of seconds. You've always had a hard time controlling it when you're slightly delusional though. You must've hit your head really hard. Maybe that's why you haven't shot Deadpool, yet.

"Shut up, Wade."

"Hey, no need to be ashamed of it." He reassures you while trying to pick you up again. This time, he is more cautious, his movements slower and more deliberate. When he succeeds, you can tell he's grinning like a child underneath the mask.

He carries you back to the same fuckass car he hit you with, holding you with one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. There's a faint skip to his step as if you're not on the verge of losing consciousness. While kicking open the back door, Wade continues his chatter, and you really wish he'd killed you on impact.

"Being a mutant is great! Plus, it's not the early two thousands anymore, or whatever timeline Stewart was in. Man, they sure did hate mutants in that trilogy."

He sets you down in the back seat gently, his hands surprisingly delicate. "You know, I always knew you were different. You hit me harder than regular people. I just figured you really hated me."

"I do." you mutter.

"Oh, my little sweet buns, I'm sure you do." To your annoyance, he pokes your nose playfully. "But you can't hate me too much right now, I'm literally your knight in shining armor. See, I can be nice, especially to my fellow mercs. You'd bleed to death if I left you there."

"Only because you hit me with a fucking car," you snap, the pain and frustration boiling over.

"Good to know you're still harboring great anger towards that. Means you're still conscious. Keep being mean to me, baby, that's how I'll know you're okay." He pauses before shutting the door, looking at you lying on the backseat, bleeding and all the glory that comes from it. "And it also turns me on a little bit. God, I can't believe your suit is torn and not one bit of extra cleavage is exposed. What will it take for a guy to get some rated R nudity over here?"

And with that, he slams the door shut, the car shaking with the force of it. The sound makes the ringing return to your ears, and you bite back the urge to curse him. He takes a seat in the driver's seat, starting the engine and rushing out of the scene before first responders arrive. The car roars to life, and as he speeds away, you feel your consciousness slipping, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming you.

The two of you sit in silence for the most part, only the sounds of the engine running and Wade humming the tune of a song you think is from The Greatest Showman soundtrack. You force yourself to stay awake. Mostly because you don't trust him, but it's also because you fear that if you let your eyes close you won't wake up again. Yeah, it's mostly because you don't trust Wade Wilson.

"Where are you taking me?" you finally ask, and you hate the way your voice sounds weak, barely above a whisper.

"Just a little safe house I know." He tells you, glancing back at you for a quick moment. "Very homey, trust me."

"What about the shipment?" you murmur, your mind struggling to stay focused.

"What?"

"The truck," you repeat, fighting to keep your eyes open.

"Oh, don't worry. That's no longer our problem." He says, "We're about to enter a whole new setting. That truck is forgotten plot."

Wade takes a sharp turn, and you wince as your body shifts uncomfortably in the back seat. The pain is getting worse, each bump in the road sending jolts of agony through your body. You grit your teeth, trying to stay conscious, but it's a losing battle.

After what feels like an eternity, the car finally comes to a stop. Wade gets out and you hear his footsteps crunching on gravel as he walks around to your door. He opens it carefully this time, his usual wiseass demeanour replaced by a rare show of genuine concern. He scoops you up gently, and you're too weak to protest.

The last thing you remember, before everything goes black, is the sight of a grand mansion looming ahead, its imposing silhouette framed by the moonlight. The large iron gates creak open as Wade carries you through them, the gravel path crunching under his boots. The mansion, with its towering spires and Gothic architecture, looks like something out of a fairy tale, a stark contrast to the violence and chaos you just escaped from.

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is the softness of the bed beneath you. The second thing you notice is the smell of lavender and the faint hum of medical equipment. You try to sit up, but a sharp pain in your side makes you gasp.

"Whoa, easy there," a deep, accented voice says from beside you. You turn your head slowly, the motion making your vision swim. A towering, metal-skinned mutant sits by your bed, his imposing figure softened by a look of genuine concern. "You need to rest. You are badly injured."

Your throat feels like sandpaper as you rasp, "Where am I?"

"The X-Mansion," he replies in a soothing tone, the accent heavy but comforting. "Wade brought you here. You’re safe now. I am Colossus."

You try to take in your surroundings, your head feeling heavy as you look around. The room is vast and elegant, with high ceilings that seem to reach the heavens. The walls are adorned with rich tapestries and framed paintings, depicting serene landscapes and grand historical scenes.

Large windows let in the soft, golden glow of morning light, casting gentle shadows that dance across the floor. It’s a far cry from the dingy, rundown places you’re used to, especially that old apartment with its creaky floors and peeling wallpaper.

Your eyes finally land on Wade, who is slouched in a chair in the corner. He’s flipping through a Playboy magazine with exaggerated interest, still in his dirty suit from the night before.

When he sees you stir, he grins and waves a hand in your direction. "Morning, sunshine," he says cheerfully, his voice carrying an unnerving mix of sincerity and teasing. "You gave us quite a scare. But, I've got to say, that hospital gown is doing wonders for your figure. I love the blue. Great contrast to that black you're always wearing."

You roll your eyes, too exhausted to respond properly. The gown feels scratchy against your skin, and every movement sends sharp pangs of pain through your body.

Colossus, noticing your discomfort, shifts slightly. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice deep and steady.

"Like I got hit by a truck," you mutter, sending a glare in Wade's direction.

Colossus chuckles, the sound deep and resonant, like rolling thunder. "Do not worry about him. We will take care of you."

Despite the throbbing pain and overwhelming fatigue, a wave of relief washes over you. For the first time in a long while, you're surrounded by people who genuinely want to help. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the softness of the bed. "Thank you," you whisper, the words feeling strangely comforting. For once, you don’t feel the need to be constantly on guard.

Wade's grin widens as he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out and adjusting his mask. "Anytime, honeybuns. Anytime."

As you drift in and out of consciousness, you feel the cool, soothing touch of a wet cloth on your forehead. The gentle pressure is a welcome contrast to the persistent throbbing pain.

The sound of soft murmurs and quiet footsteps fills the room, creating a cocoon of calm around you. At some point, you notice Colossus's massive hands, surprisingly gentle, as he carefully tends to your wounds, applying bandages with precision.

Eventually, a teenager with short hair and a no-nonsense expression enters the room. You learn her name is Negasonic Teenage Warhead. She carries a phone in one hand, handing Colossus a stack of clean bandages with the other. The faint scent of antiseptic and medicinal herbs fills the air, mixing with the crispness of the freshly laundered bed linens.

Hours pass, or maybe it's days—it's difficult to gauge. When you next wake, the room is dimly lit, the golden light replaced by the softer hues of early evening. The pain has dulled to a manageable throb, and the heaviness in your limbs is slightly alleviated. Wade is still there, his previous outfit swapped for sweatpants and a dark green sweater, though he keeps his red and black mask on. He lounges in the chair beside your bed, now engrossed in an iPad, giggling softly to himself.

"Oh, man. Instagram reels are crazy," he snorts, shaking his head as he scrolls through the screen.

He looks up and hums when he sees you're awake again. "You're tougher than you look," he comments, turning off the iPad with a flick of his wrist. "Most people would have keeled over by now."

"You wish."

"Oh, trust me, I do." Wade nods vigorously, his mask bobbing with the motion. "I tried injecting poison into your IV, but your body rejected it."

"Don't worry. My handler will kill me for you."

Wade groans, dramatically rolling his eyes as he gets up from the chair. "You’re still worried about that? I already told you, the truck and all that shit is past plot. We’re in the sequel now, babe. There are new rules. Who knows, maybe this is your redemption arc where you join the X-Men. Though, I will miss your assassin era. You were so sexy in that suit."

You make a face, "Fuck off."

Just then, the door opens with a soft creak, and Colossus enters with a tray in hand. He’s followed closely by Negasonic, who carries a stack of fresh bandages. Colossus places the tray on a small table beside your bed with practiced ease. The tray is filled with a bowl of steaming soup and a couple of slices of crusty bread, the aroma wafting up and making your stomach rumble.

"How are you feeling?" Colossus asks, his voice calm and reassuring as he sets the tray down.

"Better," you admit, managing a small smile. "Thanks to you guys."

Negasonic shrugs nonchalantly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her usual scowl. "Don’t mention it. Just doing our job."

Wade groans, clearly troubled by the kindness. "Oh great, now you’re all buddy-buddy. What am I, chopped liver?"

Colossus chuckles, the sound of a comforting rumble. "You must eat something. It will help you regain your strength."

You nod gratefully, and with Colossus’s help, you manage to sit up enough to sip the warm, comforting soup. The broth is rich and flavorful, and the bread is soft and fresh. As you eat, you can’t help but feel a strange sense of belonging. Despite the pain and the chaos, you’re surrounded by people who care, and for now, that’s enough.

Wade, not one to be left out, scoots his chair closer, setting it right next to your bed. He stretches out, propping his elbows on his knees as he leans in. "So, what do you think of the X-Mansion? Pretty swanky, right? Lots of rooms, big kitchen, danger room for training... and other things."

Negasonic scoffs, her eyes narrowing. "Gross."

You finish your meal, feeling a bit stronger. As Colossus helps you settle back into the bed, you glance at Wade. "Why did you bring me here?"

Wade’s expression shifts, becoming uncharacteristically serious. He looks at you with sincerity. "Because you’re one of us. And because... well, everyone deserves a second chance."

You blink, surprised by the depth of his words. Before you can respond, he’s back to his usual self, grinning and turning on his iPad. "Plus, it’s not every day I get to play hero. I gotta milk it for all it’s worth. And no, Colossus, I will not join your boy band, thank you very much."

The metal man grunts, waving a hand dismissively before walking out, Negasonic following right behind him. Wade stays seated next to you, his lips curled into a wide, amused grin that seems to stretch just a bit too far was he watches you.

"You're never gonna take that off?" you ask him.

Wade's laughter is a low, rumbling sound that feels almost too bright for the quiet room. "Oh, no fucking way," he says, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m ugly under this. Trust me. You’d be repulsed. Like, horror movie-level repulsed."

You give him a look, your eyebrow arched in disbelief. "I doubt it."

Wade leans in closer, the grin on his face widening. He taps his chin thoughtfully with a gloved finger, the gesture oddly contemplative. "Maybe next time I’ll take it off for you," he says, a taunting tone in his voice as he raises his brows. "Maybe that and a little more."

"There's a next time?"

"I mean, as the famous words of Natasha Bedingfield say: the rest is still underwritten."

"God, you’re fucking ridiculous," you mutter, the words coming out with a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "I can’t wait to get out of here and never see you again."

Wade's shoulders slump, the white eyes of his mask narrow at you, "What, that's it? No steamy sex? No heavy petting? Is this how it ends? Not even a kiss?"

"Fuck no. Get out."

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[dipperscavern]

can I be cheeky and ask for riding jon’s face 🫣🫣🫣

yes… oh yes you absolutely can….. i fell asleep last night to the thought of jon snow canonically being a munch (funny enough) — we’re on the same wavelength anon ! (written w shy!reader in mind)

you’ve heard the talk, heard the different ladies from different statures talk about “the act”, and it’s always a different answer. some say it’s mediocre… others, that it’s their favorite way to feel good, and some, say it’s terrible. you’ve heard stories of men never caring about the woman’s pleasure, and how their only purpose was to give them children. the thought made you shudder.

you, yourself, have never had time. time to freely choose who you trust enough to share that sacred experience with (or even touch yourself). the men at castle black are sworn to celibacy, and even if they would abandon their oath for a night with you, you wouldn’t let them. most of the men at the wall are untrustworthy, and you want more than just a quick fuck. even if these thoughts plague you, you’re too busy with your duties to worry about it. a thing you’ve since long accepted.

until jon snow.

you had been there for jon since his arrival at castle black. never batting an eye at his surname, always trying to make his life a little bit easier. there was also the stolen glances, the soft touches you both passed off as “accidental”, the longing for each other. you both remained as merely “close friends”, until things boiled over and you found solace in each others lips. it didn’t go farther than that, the tentative kiss being soft & exploring, and that was okay with you. you didn’t expect more. until you got more.

sometimes, you hate jon for being so easy to talk to. your shy nature has slowly melted away in his presence, and you find yourself unable to be embarrassed about the questions you ask or answer. your late night talks are what keeps jon sane. he wants to know everything about you, and you both would talk till morning if you could (you have before). the topic often shifts, landing on anything and everything on the planet. even “the act”.

imagine jon’s surprise, when the most beautiful & endearing woman he’s ever met drops her gaze to the floor and bashfully tells him she’s never cum before.

jon short circuits. he asks if you want to. he asks if he can make you. and you say yes.

jon snow is a giver. tasting a woman is a pleasure in itself, and he’d tell you as much if you asked. his mind ran a million miles an hour, thinking about all the ways he could make you feel good. it doesn’t take long before the desire to taste you takes a hold of him, and so he does.

“You’re hovering.”

he’s not wrong. you are. you thought you had heard it all, but the act of sitting on someone’s face has clearly alluded your ears. you’re unsure. you don’t want to hurt him.. suffocating the first man you lay with would have you begging the gods to open the ground and swallow you whole. and it’s not just any man, it’s jon.

the soft glide of jon’s fingers across your thigh bring you out of your head. his hands are cold. they feel nice in contrast to your own skin, nerves lit on fire.

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You won’t.”

“Jon-”

“Do you trust me?”

he’s steadfast in his reassurance. his thumb has been rubbing circles in your hip while you both have been talking. does he do it all on purpose, or is he just this naturally desirable?

“You know I do, but-“

“Good. Sit.”

you still hesitate, and that’s when jon takes matters into his own hands. his hands stop their tracing, and instead grip your thighs, bringing you down himself.

whatever expectations you had are exceeded tenfold. jon eats you out like a man starved. your head spins with the way you can feel his tongue, exploring you and swiping over your clit. it has white hot pleasure shooting up your spine, and your thighs quiver ever so slightly, but jon’s firm grip keeps you in place. he’s confident in his movements, precise and sure in a way that makes you see stars.

jon thinks he’s found the place where he would be content to meet his demise. you taste so good, and the pretty sounds you’re making have blood rushing straight to his cock. jon has always loved the sound of his name on your lips — whether it be small acknowledgments in passing by, or just mentions in mere conversation. but he’s found he much prefers hearing you moan it.

you’re almost embarrassed how quickly he has warmth building up in your belly, pressure building as he gives you the most pleasure you’ve ever had. he’s giving and giving and giving, and you find yourself selfishly taking all of it. he doesn’t slow down, keeping a steady rhythm that makes the cord in your stomach wind impossibly tighter.

“Jon, I’m-!”

you don’t get to finish your sentence, interrupted by the snap of the cord in your stomach that was previously tightening. pleasure overtakes your nerves, flooding your veins and momentarily removing your ability to speak (or think). jon’s tongue doesn’t stop fully, only slowing down to help you ride out your peak.

you catch your breath, feeling jon kiss the inside of your thighs as small aftershocks have you clenching around nothing. you find yourself seeking his touch (as if he hasn’t been constantly on you), your hand running along the surface of your thigh to find his own. he reaches for you, trapping your own smaller hand beneath his own. it’s reassuring, grounding you back to the present after he brought you so far over the edge.

you move to get off, to let him get up & breathe — but he doesn’t release his grip, keeping you in place. you hear him speak.

“Only once?”

[piccoloswifers]

[xarology]

Megatron x Reader 18+ MDNI

is there a fic somewhere where reader is a writer and makes megatron poems… maybe they show it to him sometimes and he’s an avid fan of their work? don’t even get me started on erotic poems!!

Megatron sitting at his throne doing whatever the hell he does on there and then suddenly a message on his datapad! from you! It’s not often you send him messages so this change pulls him out of his boredom real quick

Curiosity peaked, he opens up the large file sent to him. The message contains a variety of poems you wrote throughout the last couple months, dated from the oldest to newest.

He has time to read so why not indulge! The poems are varied in subject and length. Some are often short and sweet, usually inspired by your life on the ship and the cultural differences that come with it.

Some are more lengthier. Your thoughts, ideas, and feelings explored, pieced together more eloquently than you’re able to speak them in person. He cherishes these the most, your feelings reserved for only him to see and that idea makes his spark swell

A subject popping up more frequently in dates, he notices. furious poems about certain bots (starscream) that seem to have it out for you! (he’s storing this information in his processor to bring up the next time he sees starscream)

The last and most recent poem almost makes him slam down his datapad as he begins reading. The first couple words consisting of the filthiest thing he’s ever read—directed at him. Entirely for him.

It’s a lengthy poem too, but never does it have a word without a meaning. It’s an artistic masterpiece and if he wasn’t so inclined to keep you all for himself he would’ve posted of it for all to see (no matter how debaucherous).

The area for his interface paneling hurts, his spike pressurized and pressed against the heating metal. His cooling fans working overtime as he ignores the pop up to open his panel. He wants so badly to pump into his servo and relieve the ache now, but he’d much rather rut you instead.

[h4unted-d4rling]

[wojcheks]

Stuck — Murdoc x F!Reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: NSFW, enemies to fucking, unhealthy relationships, undercover mission gone wrong, reader works for an unspecified organization, sexual tension, rough treatment, tied up, dub!con (?) (reader wants it but physically can't leave), choking, biting, fingering (f!receiving), PIV, unprotected sex, blood, possessiveness, murdoc is his own warning. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.1k 𝐀/𝐍: first smut i've ever posted!! the david dastmalchian obsession finally got me y'all. while looking for fics of his characters i decided to write my own. i only watched two episodes with this man so i'm pretty sure he's incredibly ooc. hope it's enjoyable regardless! ❤

You were told you’d be working with a wild card during this mission.

They assured you it wouldn’t affect the overall difficulty of the job. In fact, your partner had excellent skills in all the areas useful for achieving your objective. Weapons expert, proficient in hand-to-hand combat, knowledgeable, and calculated in his actions. All good things in your line of work.

What you didn't know was that they assigned you Murdoc.

And that was information that one needed to know prior to running face first into the aforementioned man. Especially during a job that would undoubtedly involve violence. For fuck’s sake, you would tear your handler a new one after this was over and done with.

Your first instinct was to put a fist through the hitman’s face.

A fair assumption was that he was here to derail you or, at the very least, complicate things. It wouldn’t be the first time he showed up simply to cause mayhem and be a thorn in your side.

Snarling, you threw his body against the wall and the assassin’s head hit the concrete with a sickening thud. With a forearm over his throat, you pressed down, immobilizing him.

You could admit that you were being a little too aggressive than necessary about it.

His dark eyes sparked with an unsettling light, something so unthreatened and unalterable about him it made your hair raise. He wasn't intimidated, you could tell. He treated you more like a nuisance to wave away, not an equal.

You felt his throat move against your skin when he swallowed, and it made you wanna press down harder.

“Calm down, sweetheart. The night's just getting started,” Murdoc murmured while leering at you from behind a wall of long eyelashes. They were so pronounced you wondered if he was wearing mascara.

His eyes suddenly grew wider in a mockery of fear, tone climbing to a falsetto, "Oh, dear god, what did I ever do to deserve this treatment?"

His voice grated on your nerves on the best of days, and this was a pretty bad one. A scoff rose up in your throat, but you crushed it before it could escape. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

The clear irritation that lowered your tone into a harsh whisper, however, was unmistakable. A small twitch of his cheek indicated that the hitman found your reaction highly amusing. He made a move as if to raise his hands towards you, but you clamped down on his trachea harder, and he stopped. And as the meaning of your words sunk in, you could almost see the gears start turning behind that smug facade of his.

“Murdoc. Stop thinking of ways to make this more difficult for me, and tell me plainly. What’s going on?” 

A shade of disappointment marred his face before disappearing as quickly as it showed. “Come on, agent, you know me. Where would be the fun in that?”

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” the reprimand barely left your mouth before Murdoc’s fingers wrapped around your elbow and painfully bent it at an angle, removing it from his windpipe with a sharp tug. 

Wide-eyed indignation contorted your face as your places suddenly reversed and Murdoc crushed you into the wall, not holding back either.

You weren’t some dainty, fragile damsel in need of rescue–there was hardened muscle hidden under your evening attire. And yet, Murdoc still overpowered you, both in terms of height and sheer strength.

Your nostrils flared in anger, and you threw your body weight against his grip to dislodge it. 

He made a disapproving sound and let his weight fall on the point of contact between the two of you, driving the sharp parts of his slender fingers into the softness of your neck. You tried to suck in a breath and rasped instead.

“Now, now, you’ll either continue to throw your little tantrum, which won't end well, or start being useful by helping me,” as his words caught up to him, a displeased crease appeared between his brows.

“Although, using the term ‘help’ would be a dire exaggeration. I could be finished here long before you pick yourself up off the floor.”

You knew he was aiming to hurt your ego and rile you up, throwing you off balance around him seemed to be the primary goal. If you lost control and started lashing out against his mockery, the man would undoubtedly win.

He usually attempted it when the two of you ran into each other; it was a path well trodden, with various results.

Admitting it never even crossed your mind, but you were aware, deep down, that he was damn good at it. The words he used were one thing, and as cutting and shrewd in his judgements as he was, sometimes all it took for you to lose it was the damned look on his face. Always so superior and above it all. Like he wasn’t even human.

It drove you nuts.

You geared up for another round of verbal sparring before parsing his meaning. You hissed out the next words; the pressure exerted on your throat proved to be a pretty good deterrent from speaking. “Y-you’re the partner, the informant, that I’m... I’m supposed to be working with?”

Something in your face must have betrayed the distaste stirred up by the idea because Murdoc chuckled and then finally let go of your neck to bow with a flourish. 

You coughed loudly, to get rid of the intrusive feeling of somebody being in control of your breathing. You massaged the bruised flesh where Murdoc’s gloves likely left indentation marks in their wake, then rolled your eyes at his theatrics.

“I don’t think letting your guard down around me is a good idea,” you said dryly when he finally straightened up from the exaggerated pose.

“Oh, sure it is,” another wide grin split his mouth, and you gritted your teeth in muted frustration. “And oh so thrilling, I assure you.”

You didn’t grace that with an answer.

Ten minutes and one barely civil conversation with your HQ later, you and Murdoc walked arm in arm into the towering building.

With only a few minutes to spare, you didn’t even find time to touch up your make-up. Or double check your gun. And as luck would have it, what you were infiltrating was a ball. With dancing included.

You'd groan out loud, but you knew your companion had a biting comment prepared if you so much as blinked wrong. Murdoc seemed thoroughly entertained by the whole debacle and made no effort to hide it, strutting along with all the subtlety of a battering ram.

It was supposed to be his strong suit, being a shadow or whatever, but driving you up the wall must haven taken priority.

In fact, there seemed to exist nothing that made him giddier than getting a reaction out of you, for whatever accursed reason.

“Now, wife,” his lip twitched at the word, “how about we get this party started?”

“How about you never call me that again?”

“And blow our cover? I would never do that to you.”

You glanced towards him. He caught you instantly, his dark piercing gaze dedicated to not letting you get away with anything.

Those dilated pupils peering from beneath half-open eyelids were anything but easy to withstand, but you held your ground. That is, until he gave you a slow once-over, complete with a too-long pause focusing on your cleavage.

“You are infuriating,” you snapped and whipped your head away in the other direction, barely managing not to raise your hand to cover the gap in your clothing.

The man only drew closer and raised his own arm towards you in an inviting (taunting, something inside you whispered) gesture.

“I have my charm. Shall we?”

—

“Would you let go of me, you animal?” While you tried to keep the hissing to a minimum, he wasn't making it easy.

And Murdoc’s hold on you didn’t release, obviously, the words entirely ignored. You expected nothing less.

The leather of his gloves was smooth and firm against your skin, colder than expected, artificial feeling. The sensation was unsettling, a barrier between you that you'd normally welcome with open arms, but something felt different tonight. Instead, you wished he’d take them off, bare skin on bare skin.

The visual had its… appeal.

Even if the man it centered on did not.

You stopped pulling away to not attract more attention from the surrounding people. A couple on your left already began to whisper while unsubtly pointing towards you. Making everyone think that they were witnessing a domestic dispute was a terrible way of staying unnoticed, even Murdoc had to know that. 

He didn’t seem to care about it at all. 

He pulled harder until you had no choice but to step closer towards him. Your palm fell on his chest, breath catching in your throat.

You never really noticed just how much he towered over you when in close quarters, and you wished you still hadn't. Sticking out your chin was a childish move, but having no control over your present movements brought that out in you. 

Where you stood wasn’t a ballroom exactly, but the lofty ceilings and ornate columns lining the walls gave a strong impression of one. Grandiose was one word for it. Over-the-top was another.

Massive mirrors adorned the sides, and you caught a glimpse of your silhouette, partially obscured by the imposing shape of the man gripping your side. You shivered and turned away, oblivious to Murdoc's curious gaze following.

You skimmed the crowd in an attempt to locate the person you were after. It wasn't just to distract from the heat that image caused. Obviously.

“Enjoying yourself?” The singsong lilt of Murdoc’s voice coming from above drew your attention. You reluctantly looked up, ready to chastise him for his pestering; there were things at stake here more important than his pathological need to feel superior.

With languid steps, he swirled you softly to the side, and then pressed you into his chest, his grasp the very opposite of gentle. His fingers were demanding, leaving no room for physical distance.

It felt like a display.

Like he was showing you off.

He had to bend over to reach properly, the tips of his fingers running over the gap in your dress, moving the red material to the side, exposing more skin. You grabbed onto a lapel of his coat, feeling shaken from it.

Some strange stupor fell over you. Staring up at the length of Murdoc’s neck, watching him breathe in and out, the rhythm was almost hypnotic.

You had to dispel it, needed to focus. There was a tremor in your voice, one you hoped he'd take for anger.

“Did you forget why we’re here? It isn’t some fun little outing concocted for your amusement–”

“–I’d beg to differ–”

“–but a mission of significant importance to the security of–”

“–I thought this was a date–”

“–individuals invaluable to not only my organization but society as a whole–”

Murdoc abruptly leaned forward, cutting you off. “Do you even listen to yourself anymore? You’re really starting to sound like a talking head for your little agency, sweetheart, and that’s not very attractive.”

Biting down on a “go fuck yourself”, you turned, lips touching his cheek as you answered. “I don’t recall ever asking for your opinion, Murdoc. I think it’s better if you refrain from sharing it in the future.”

He caught your eyes with an empty smile, a shark showing his teeth. “Zero promises.”

—

You didn’t end up dancing for long before everything went to shit. 

Splitting off from your partner for the night gave you some room to breathe. It also provided a unique opportunity for an assailant to knock you out cold in a deserted hallway.

Later you’d curse yourself for making such a rookie mistake—never split up without letting the other person know—but at the time you weren’t thinking clearly, a little preoccupied with things. You weren’t prepared for it, was the point, and you paid for that mistake dearly.

A sharp acute pain in the back of your skull jolted you awake. There was a building pressure behind your eyes and a pounding headache that turned your stomach.

You felt sick, and that wasn’t a good sign.

One failed attempt to open your eyes later, you realized what must have happened. Your previously done up hair was tangled with a makeshift blindfold, the cloth covering your line of sight. A twin piece wedged into your mouth stopped you from screaming for help.

Trying to push it out with your tongue brought only frustration, alongside a coughing fit.

Too much time couldn’t have passed, right?

You truly loathed the idea, but still dearly hoped that Murdoc was on his way to get you.

If someone told you a few hours ago that you’d ever count on Murdoc for back-up however, you would have laughed at them.

But life has a funny way of fucking with people, and this must've been karma for all the times you talked back to your boss. That's what he'd say, at least.

And with your shitty luck, the hitman was already gone, sporting a martini in some luxurious hotel suite, ogling strippers, or whatever men like him did to relax. Shooting innocents for fun was more likely.

That measly hope was dashed when a small groan reached your ears. A familiar chuckle followed, close nearby.

There was a hand wrapping around your wrist and you scrambled backwards, heart-rate skyrocketing. Trying to get away from the touch proved unsuccessful–your hands were connected to a chain, which was connected to a wall, keeping you firmly in place. 

Deep breaths.

Looking for information was your first priority in a crisis, so you moved a hand over the ground, searching for anything to use. It was smooth but with loose gravel in places, like the coating of an underground parking lot, or more likely, a basement. 

Attempting to calm down the thundering beating of your heart, you leaned back against the firmness, letting long fingers caress the inside of your wrist.

“M–uh–rdoc?” Your attempt at words was muffled and barely audible, but distinct enough.

“The one and only,” the assassin's response came back loud and clear–no obstruction in its way, a luxury you weren't afforded.

For a split second, you entertained the idea that he knocked you out cold and dragged your unconscious body down here to do god knows what. It didn't seem beyond him.

Fingers clamped down on your pulse point, forcefully grabbing your attention. "You're tied up, agent, and I can help you with that, but you'll have to push that ego aside for a moment."

A protest rose in your throat.

“Be a good girl and do as I say, got it?”

With a swallow, you stopped. The near silence of the room made it impossible to tell if the assassin noticed your reaction or not.

You weren't sure how close he was. How much attention he was paying. Dealing with this strange thing that's been chasing you all night was the last thing you wanted to do.

Murdoc's voice was calm and in control, a tone that inspired confidence and trust—emotions you were, as a rule, reluctant to feel towards him. But you had no choice. This was the fastest way to get out of your restraints, so, keeping your worries in check, you nodded assent.

Seemingly able to both move around and see, he hummed his acknowledgement.

“Good girl.”

“Now, scoot over to the right, yeah, just like that, use your legs. Keep going until you hit my side, you're almost there,” he directed, clearly aiming for something.

A stream of soft murmurs of apology filled the air at the pained noises you made when dragging your ankle. Someone clearly bent it at a shitty angle when they were attaching the chain, and you weren't sure if it was twisted or fractured. It fucking hurt though.

The pain must've made you delirious, because Murdoc was not the sort of man to know what an apology even was.

“Now put your leg up, the right one, try to sit up and then turn your body around. God, sweetie, it's been a while since I've seen good old-fashioned chains… not even handcuffs, they have us in chains,” Murdoc's voice ended in a high-pitched giggle, disbelief mixing with mirth at the absurdity of it.

You successfully followed directions and suddenly found yourself sitting on his propped up leg, balancing on it; your dress riding up on either side of your hips from the clumsy movements. Goosebumps rose in the cold air's wake.

Your face heated at the image you must have made, all wobbly and sweaty, desperate for guidance, barely covered up by the torn dress. Everything on display for Murdoc.

It became hard to breathe.

“That's right, just scoot closer, so I can reach you,” the tone of his voice was lower now, not quite a whisper, but close enough to make you shiver.

Keeping balance with arms bent behind you and wrists tied together was not easy. More soft pained noises, more maneuvering into position and you slid down, your ass landing directly on the hitman's lap.

Was that a gun in his pocket–?

“That's perfect, baby, just a little bit closer, so I can get rid of that pesky gag,” he grunted, sounding momentarily caught off-guard. “You do look good in it, though, I have to admit.”

Incapable of hitting him square in the jaw, you resigned yourself to leaning forward instead.

Curious fingers ran through your tangled hair, fingernails catching against your skin in exploratory touches, until finally making their way lower, towards the gag. Moments of fiddling later, the gag was gone and you could speak.

So you did. “What the fuck, Murdoc, are your hands free?”

“Shhh, agent, what if they hear us?” The way his voice caught on a snigger, bereft of any actual worry, threw a gallon of gasoline under the low level rage that's been burning in your chest the whole evening.

“Are you fucking kidding me, you fucker?"

It hurt, just how much he didn't care.

“We could die here, in this stupid basement, surrounded by nothing but trash and bound in some medieval ass chains, because you’d rather play around than do something useful for once!” Your voice grew louder and louder, and being unable to see his no doubt self-satisfied expression made it significantly worse.

“I’m asking you to help me, just once, just this one single time, you asshole. To put my well-being over your own, think of someone else but yourself! And take this stupid blindfold off me–Please–” You were on the verge of begging now, voice breaking on a plea.

A long stretch of nothing followed, disturbed only by your heavy breathing. Then, a light trace of fingertips over your cheekbone. “I didn’t know you trusted me so much, agent.”

“What–?” 

Wet lips crashed into yours and Murdoc grabbed a fistful of your hair, pressing you against him. His smell filled your senses, something sharp and spicy, with an undercurrent of leather. The sound that left you was embarassing.

His palm was so big it encircled the back of your head effortlessly, fingers unkind in their urgency. He jostled your wound and you struggled within his grasp, trying to pull away with a distressed whine. Unable to see, unable to move, your body overcompensated for the lack of senses, making it feel like he was pressing into an exposed nerve. "Mu–urdoc–”

The groan made him pull away, sticky red smeared all over his hand now. He looked at it and chuckled. "Ah, they got you good, sweetheart. Let me make it worse.”

He didn't sound apologetic at all, and stuck his mouth to the underside of your jaw, sucking on the sensitive flesh. Tongue lapping up the saltiness of your skin, he let out a satisfied groan, hand wrapping around your neck to keep you from moving.

You let out another stifled whimper, part of you wanting to pull away from his possessive grip. The other part knew it would leave a mark and craved it more than anything.

Head falling back, your chest rose with laboured breaths, small sounds of exhilaration falling from your mouth. “Fucking hell–Ah–”

His other palm grabbed your breast, kneading it forcefully, wringing more gasps out of you. You felt his lips turn up in gratification against your tender flesh.

“Does that feel good?” His usually airy tone was raspy now, the gruff whisper making you shudder against his torso. “Tell me.”

You couldn't stop it; your hips ground down onto his own, dragging against the growing hardness beneath you. The emptiness inside you was infuriating, and you couldn't even reach down to relieve the pressure. You needed him now.

A loud cry left you when Murdoc bit down punishingly on your throat and gripped your chin between his fingers. He pressed his lips against yours before speaking, as if he couldn't stop himself.

“Fucking tell me, agent. Tell me what I should do with you. So powerless, all tied up, mine to control. I could do anything, so what will it be?”

“Murdoc, please–”

“Please what?” Cold air hit your skin as he pulled the dress up and slapped the back of your thigh, then snapped his fingers twice. “Focus, agent, right here, focus on me.”

This was all wrong; the way his gloved hand rubbed the stinging spot afterwards, his demanding tone, just how wet you could feel yourself becoming the more he touched you. The more he made you his.

“Touch me, please,” the words came out as a whisper, and were met with another chuckle.

“No no no no, sweet girl, that's not good enough. You gotta work for it.”

You couldn't escape, so you lowered your head into his shoulder, hoping to somehow disappear.

“Don't hide.” He yanked the blindfold off and threw it to the side, moving your head up so he could catch your gaze.

Despite everything happening between you, the mercenary looked near unbothered. His hand on your face felt steady, his breathing only slightly elevated, an expression on his face that you could only call triumphant.

It made you burn.

Your lipstick was smeared over his mouth, the red streaks physical proof of the way he crushed your lips together. You wanted to sink your teeth into his flesh and tear, a visceral representation of what he made you feel.

If your hands weren't bound, you'd be shoving them against his chest and running your fingernails down, marking him as yours too.

As it was, you only had your words left.

"Just fuck me, Murdoc, or do you need written instructions?"

The smug smile he sent your way was answer enough.

He grabbed the dark red material of your dress and tore the bottom part in half, a sharp exhale leaving your chest at the action. Then he stroked your ass, roughly stretched it and parted your legs, toying with the muscle.

You felt beyond exposed, a butterfly pinned to a board. Hair in disarray, flimsy panties not enough cover against forceful fingers and the hitman’s searing gaze. Naked planes of skin kept growing more and more red from the pleasure he wrung out of you. His hand reached between your thighs, and you closed your eyes.

He openly stared, drinking you in. Sharp canines peeked from behind his lips, mouth half open in captivation, and the black strands of hair fell over his eyes.

"What a sight you are," Murdoc murmured and palmed you over the thin material, fingers gathering moisture that soaked through it already.

You bit down on your lip and moved against his broad fingers, your muscles straining from keeping upright for so long.

He kept looking at your face and cataloging every little expression that passed over it, his eyes ablaze with a frenzy, an expression that in any other situation would make you shudder in fear.

Hell, it still did.

Impatiently, he pulled the material to the side and easily sank two fingers inside you, moving them in and out with a beckoning movement, rubbing against your clit until you let out a sob.

His wrist grew still for a moment, watching you grow frustrated in his lap, twisted satisfaction burning in his gaze. Then he added another finger, plunging all three as deep as they would go.

“Fuck, Murdoc, you shit–!”

He giggled and shushed you, "Stay still."

"Fucking bastard–"

"You telling me you don’t like this? You're not a whore who gets off on getting finger-fucked by her enemy?"

You wailed as he hit a spot inside you. “Shut the f-fuck–up–” 

“Aw, but you don’t want me to, do you?” He shot forward, pressing his face to yours, hot breath hitting your lips as he continued, “I’m gonna make you cum on my fingers, agent, and then I’m gonna force them down your throat. Would you like that?”

Keening growing louder at the words, you moved your hips faster, panting against him, already nodding your head before realizing.

“I thought so,” the thrusting of his fingers grew quicker and you writhed in his lap, unbothered by what you looked like, only chasing your release with a single-minded determination.

Every once in a while your ass moved over Murdoc’s still clothed cock and he let out a pained-sounding hiss, his grip on your throat growing tighter.

You’d feel victorious if you weren’t so out of it.

Murdoc wrenched his fingers out of you and licked the moisture off, closing his eyes in pleasure. "God, you taste so good. How am I ever supposed to let you go?"

The sudden emptiness made you panic, and you caught his mouth in a kiss, urging him to continue. You could taste the slight saltiness from his fingers, your own flavour.

He pulled away from you with a laugh, then hissed again when you licked the side of his throat.

“Patience, agent, patience.” The grip on your neck disappeared and you heard his zipper open, a relieved exhale following.

The flicking of his wrist kept going for a few more seconds before he pulled out and ripped the flimsy fabric of your underwear off entirely. With an arm around your waist, he steadied you, before pressing the head of his cock forward.

At first, there was a dull sensation of resistance, Murdoc being bigger than you expected. But before you could protest, your cunt gave way, and he slipped in, the fullness and drag on your insides making you tighten around him.

The man rocked into you, his arm pressing your bodies so close together you could feel every laboured breath he took. You wanted to rip off the coat he was wearing, taste the naked skin over his ribs on your tongue.

You barely even noticed the changing gravity as you got pushed into the ground, your back painfully dragging against the rubble.

“I wanna spread your legs and eat you out until all you can think of is getting filled up to the brim,” Murdoc sounded almost delirious now, his hips speeding up, “wanna bury myself in you and keep going until you’re screaming–”

You encircled his waist with your legs, the pain of moving your ankle getting lost in the white noise that filled your head. You wanted him closer, you needed him closer.

Every time he pushed back in you squeezed him harder, wanting the stretch, urging him to thrust faster, squirming when he hit that spot inside you. It was almost too much, waves of pleasure twisting your insides, breathing near impossible.

"You'll feel me for days, agent, won't be able to look in the mirror without remembering my cock deep inside you," he groaned loudly, pulling you up into his lap without stopping the movement of his hips.

He bit down on your collarbone, leaving a red imprint of his teeth behind.

"Wanna mark you, scar you, make it so no one will ever touch you again–"

Your fingernails bit into the palm of your hand, his rasping voice pushing you over the edge. Knowing that you made him sound that way, that you brought out something desperate and reckless, a frenzied stream of litanies, from a man like Murdoc.

That was what did it.

Your legs tensed and clamped over his thighs, and you let out a string of curses. “FuckfuCKFUCK! Please–M-Murdoc, I–!” 

He covered your mouth with his own and swallowed the shrill sounds, kisses turning brutal as you trembled in his arms. First his tongue ran over your teeth, then he bit down on your lower lip until the skin broke, a small stream of red immediately smudging between your lips. The sting sent a pulse down to your cunt, sucking Murdoc's cock in deeper.

He kept thrusting even as you stiffened, insides clenching around him like a vice, and with a short bark of your name he spilled himself on your inner walls.

Your exhausted body was pressed against his chest and you were empty for a moment. No worries, no thoughts. The aftershocks wiped your head clean of everything.

Your torn dress fell off your shoulders, but you didn't notice.

When you came to, your wrists were free, and the two of you were laying side by side on the floor.

Murdoc was staring at you like the cat that swallowed the canary; strands of hair were sticking out of place and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face, making his skin look glossy. It made him look so young, but you knew better.

His fingers kept running over the red imprint on your chest, eyes occasionally glancing at your scratched up wrists. He seemed... content. Some of that ever-present frantic energy looked to be gone.

You exhaled softly, the man's lips grabbing your attention. There was a redness there, lipstick or blood, and you weren’t sure which option was more appealing. Either way, you couldn’t take your eyes off it.

With an unsteady hand, you ran a finger through it, captivated by the sight, and the feeling of warm, malleable flesh.

Murdoc almost seemed human like this.

In a deliberately slow move, he ran his tongue over the tip of your finger and licked the ruddiness off. Grinned again.

God, you wanted to punch that smug look off his face, and you wanted to kiss him until he couldn't breathe.

What a fucking day.

[ultimisnikolai]

Modern Warfare Fans stop posting abt MW Nikolai in the Nikolai Belinski Tag Challenge PLEASE

For those of you unaware Nikolai Belinski is NOT the full name of the Modern Warfare Nikolai- It’s the name of the COD Zombies Nikolai (MW Nikolai and the two Nikolai Belinskis in the CODZ universe are completely separate characters). I try to filter out MW tags so I can see things about the zombies Nikolai as best I can but a majority of what I see is still the MW Nikolai and honestly. With no malice intended it is driving me up the wall because I’m seeing a character mistagged in my favorite characters tag to the degree where I see more of the mistagged character than I see the actual one. So please. Modern Warfare fans I BEG YOU. Stop tagging MW Nikolai as Nikolai Belinski. They are completely seperate characters.

[sematarygirls]

꒰ telling sonny you don't like parmesan cheese on your pasta ꒱ 𝅄

  ／ sonny had invited you over for dinner at his place. he wanted to cook you a nice, homemade meal and woo you with his boyish charms—though, you had to admit you were already head over heels for him anyway.

you were so incredibly grateful for his thoughtful gesture that when he brought out a plate of pasta with grated parmasan cheese on top, you couldn't bring yourself to admit that you hated parmesan on your pasta.

you were a little odd and full of contradictions. You loved alfredo sauce, which was mostly parmesan cheese, and other foods that incorporated it into their dishes, but something about eating the cheese in it's pure, non-melted form made your stomach churn.

however, the people pleaser part of you that hated being an inconvenience kept you from just voicing this slightly weird fact about yourself. rationally, you knew it would be easy for him to just get you another plate, but you would feel so guilty for it—despite knowing that it really wasn't a big deal at all.

"and so I told him-" he paused, suddenly zeroing in on the fact that you hadn't touched your food. you were just sort of pushing it around your plate. "is something wrong?" he asked, brows furrowing as his gaze darted from your meal to your face.

"huh?" you asked, your own brows pinching in confusion as you followed his stare. "oh, no, everything is fine," you smiled as it dawned on you what he meant.

"why aren't you eating then?" he asked, concern written all over his face. "are you feeling okay? do you want me to make you something else?" he was quick to try and produce solutions for whatever unknown problem you were facing.

"no, no," you insisted, his attentiveness and care making your heart flutter with affection. "it's... silly. don't worry about it."

"well, if you don't tell me, i'm obviously going to worry about it," he said stubbornly. "c'mon, doll, tell me what's wrong."

"oh, god, i feel so stupid," you groaned, burying your head in your hands. he was so concerned and worried about you, and the only problem was that you had an odd food preference. "i just don't like parmesan on my pasta, and i didn't want to say anything because it sounds silly and is honestly not even that big of a deal and-" you stopped your rant when you looked up and saw the shocked expression on his face.

"you don't like parme- never mind, not important." he shook his head, clearly trying to brush away the italian part of him that was deeply disturbed by this information. "you should have just said something. i would have made you another plate without it," he said incredulously, bewildered that you would just sit there and not eat rather than tell him you didn't like it.

"i know," you said sheepishly. "i just didn't want to bother you after you went through all the trouble to invite me over and make me dinner." it sounded completely insane now that you said it out loud, but nothing about you ever seemed to be sane or rational.

he said your name firmly, rising from his seat to make his way to your side and take your hand. "it's no trouble at all, okay? next time, just tell me. i would never be mad or annoyed at you for telling me how you feel."

"okay, thank you," you smiled at him, nodding. he had a comforting presence and a way with words that always seemed to make you feel at ease.

"and don't thank me for it either," he smiled back brightly at you, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. "but, i honestly can't believe you don't like parmesan," he shook his head in disbelief as he grabbed your plate and headed to the kitchen to make you another one.

[cat-and-fox-hub]

❤꧁ღ⊱Merry Singles Day!⊰ღ꧂❤

Made by Cat, aka Researcher Serif/AW

Ooh la la~! Two elites vying for your fair heart upon this bountiful day of love. Oh, such effort for just you too! How romantic~! Will you choose the recklessly brave yet passionate Cameraman? Mayhaps you prefer the ever pragmatic yet loyal Speakerman? Or.... will you let yourself be shared and taken by both~? Oh, decisions, decisions~

Yeah, these two are perfectly fine, idk what u talkin' bout cuz they're happily living and vying for your affections off screen is all /hj.

Either wae, I do hope you enjoy this. I tried out an experimental style this time with minimal shading and a bit moar effort on the background and props.

This was very indulgent as it also doubles as my birthday gift! If I can't find The Good Juice out there, I'll make it my goddamn self. Have a Merry Valentines Day everyone!

And here's a bonus close up on tiny cupid Dafuq-

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Check out my main blog: @researcher-serif

Here's my NSFW blog if that tickles your fancy: @grandfather-of-sin

[bloodandthestars]

𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏, 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇, 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇.

touchstarved. ais.

wc :: 1.4k

tw: mentions of blood

a/n :: i am going off of 7 hours of demo play and the studio's tumblr so YEAH. loving this game and the people who created it sm that i’ve posted to tumblr for the first time.

You were found where you usually were if asked: the Seaspring. At first, it was a place you searched for a cure when your options seemed fleeting. But it was there where you two met. He wanted your eyes on him and you told him to fuck off. Introductions were as lovely as ever.

At that moment, the man told you the truth. The honest, deranged explanation of the blood pool in front of you both. It was more than you ever expected from a stranger, and if you were completely honest, the rectitude put you at ease of his company. When he wasn’t trying to provoke a reaction, that is. When he wasn’t, being alone with him was never a fearful encounter. It happened once again on the very same day, the moonlight ever potent in the dark alleyways of Eridia. The two of you sat atop wooden crates, shoulders brushing together, speaking in and out of comfortable silence. He told you of the one that rests in his head, with a hand stained with fresh blood and worn knuckles. Even then, you felt safe.

There would be comments that would pique your curiosity about what was underneath the nonchalant demeanor he had given you. Asking if your curse was really that bad made you wonder what he thought of the aliment on your existence. You’ve seen faces twist into madness, your life greeting death on its doorstep countless times because of it. You could think of nothing worse, but with the way his eyes shifted away from you, it seemed he had a few ideas. The Seaspring was a solution, a nontraditional one at that with side effects that could eradicate your very sanity. But there were possible dots to be connected, and you did so with him by your side—with the solace of each other’s company, and neither with anything to lose.

This is what drew you closer to Ais, and how you found yourself frequenting the Seaspring, even when there was nothing to go off of.

You sat on the wooden deck on the side of the crimson spring, while he stayed to the rafters across from you. The soulless remained vigilant after greeting you with nudges of their forms, demanding touch from your bandaged hands. It would be like a flipped switch, from adoring your company to watching the wooden doors of the antique building. You never understood when or why they began to do so. A dog-like one enters the room that you’re all the more familiar with.

He catches the way your eyes light up, turning his gaze away reluctantly. “She’s always looking around for you. Whenever you're not here.”

The information causes you to form a small smile. “Well, of course, she does.”

His thick brow arches, taking a drag of cigarette sitting comfortably between his fingers. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

You roll your eyes. Even with your head turned in Princess’s direction, you have a feeling he somehow caught the action. “Because she likes me, and I’m perhaps her favorite.”

Ais huffs with a trail of smoke escaping his lips. You turn your head in his direction at the sound. “What?”

His lids are low when he looks at you. Without a slight in his balance, the man jumps from the rafters. He lands with a hard thud of his thick boots and the tiny clink of metal from his necklaces. His body rises, leaning his back against one of the wooden pillars. Ais’s voice is straight and teasing in its tone. “She lives with me at the end of the day.”

Your eyes squint as you tilt your head. “Everything is just a competition for you… isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it for you, too?”

You slowly smile, and he’s quick to hide his own in another drag of his cigarette. You put your attention on Princess, who eagerly spots your presence and comes to you. Her head pushes into your palm with eagerness. Your smile grows bigger, happily obliging to the creature’s request for touch. It was there that he stares at you. Again. He did it too often than he’d admit— not like he ever would. At least, not in a way that hints to you of something under the surface.

But the words simply slip off his tongue. “I’m trying so hard to hate you, little sparrow.”

A brief laugh escapes you. You don’t notice how his voice goes serious and remains that way. “Why?”

“Because if I do, it’ll make this bearable.”

A certain word from him causes you to freeze. You turn your head from Princess and arch a brow. “This?”

Silence falls over the Seaspring. Your hands slip from the soulless pet and she imminently wanders elsewhere. You take a deep breath, trying again. “What do you mean by that, Ais?”

You wonder if he’s blinked in these past minutes with the way he looks at you. Nothing was said between you both for a while. There was patience that grew within you ever since the two of you met. He was honest sure, but that didn’t mean some answers came with difficulty. Words constantly made piles against shut teeth and a hardened jaw. It was in his nature to let them out, be as plain as the morning sky— say for the exceptions where the voices in his head plead to interject. Yet you are willing to wait for an answer, however long it took. He wanted to hate that about you too.

You waited in the quiet with bated breath, one that releases the tightness in your chest. Your shoulders begin to relax, easing into turning your thoughts into action.

“Well,” You slowly rise from where you sit with a swallow. “Allow me to guess.”

“A feeling.” The words were spoken as if they were that simple. You step further, and he allows you to do so— evident in how his eyes stay locked on you, despite his body being still against the wooden pillar. Crimson eyes bore into your own, never wavering in the way you come closer. You glance at your bandages, checking for their full coverage before layered fingertips brush against his inked forearm. Even then, he still doesn’t move. His gaze goes to the contact, watching as your touch goes up his arm. Even through pristine cloth, you can feel the surface of his veins, the curve of his muscle. It only makes you wonder what his skin could truly feel like— you’ve never wanted a cure so badly than in this very moment.

But for now, you were content. You reach the beginning of his upper arm when the words fall from your mouth. “An insatiable pull, want turning into need.” Your fingers travel up, slowly feeling the hill of his bicep, a paintbrush to the turquoise color that daubs his skin. Your eyes stayed to your movements, higher and higher they go. Past the texture of his straps, down the valley of his shoulder and jacket lapel to the lithe of his collarbone. “Desire…and yearning.”

It’s here where your gaze goes back up to his face, where you find his eyelids softly shut. His expression was unreadable, but you can tell it wasn’t anything of malice. You step closer, now feeling the heat from his body. The pads of your fingers run against the thick of his neck, hand going to the back of his head. Your digits rest into the locks of his hair, guessing its texture. You got an idea as you shifted closer, its whipped ends tickle the height of your cheeks.

Your words felt ever-present at this moment. And as your breath ghosts over his face, you finish your thought with a tilt of your head and a soft mutter. “Am I wrong?”

Both of you were still in your melted presence. Silence falls over the Seaspring once again. You were completely surrounded by him. Your nostrils were hit with an increase in the smoky scent you knew him so well for. Your eyes are stuck to his eyelids, trying to read anything that could convey his answer. They flicker, once, twice, but remain shut for an awfully long time. He took an inhale, and your heart was cautious about what’d be next. But, there was nothing.

You sigh, fingers loosening from their hold. They leave the maze of his hair, as does your body from his. You felt a lot colder all of a sudden, and a low feeling begins to sink into your stomach. You’re taking a step away but that didn’t last too long, not when a grab of your wrist desperately pulls you back.

[johiro-the-devil]

"Miguel..! Smile for the camera!"

(Dude literally throws me down Miles style-)

My pretty lil princess fr fr. Ugh. 5 months and I'm still a dog-

Extra stuff(without details n shit)

also pspsps, you should follow me on insta/twt,,, My commissions are open,,,

[bigtreefest]

I’m finishing SOMETHING today, so what should that be? (although I know what other polls have indicated, so I’ll probably have to put my Tanya Tucker on loop)

[cinaminrolll]

guys i legit have 35 bug bites right now, johnny would be having a field day 💀

[atomsminecraft]

The one time in Guy’s Magical Acts of Intimacy but it’s better

“If you don’t stand still, you’ll never be finished.” The maid that was helping me get ready said. The harsh pulling of my hair made me harshly lean back to keep my neck from being pulled back and hoping my hair doesn’t get pulled back. When she finishes, I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair was made into a fancy but old fashioned bun meanwhile I’m wearing some cheep old fashion dress. This definitely isn’t like a dress that Sherry has let me borrow and even more isn’t like those fancy ballgowns I’ve seen at parties at the academy. The plotchy makeup doesn’t make it look any better either. I coughed as the maid sprayed strong perfume on me and tears slightly pricked from the corner of my eyes from the smell.

“There!” The maid proclaimed.

“Uh… What’s up with the dress?”

“This is an official courtly dress of the kingdom of Avari.”

“From what century? 100 years ago?” I laugh at my own joke, she doesn’t seem to find it so funny however.

“Honestly, you young people know nothing of these traditions now a-days!” I continue staring at myself in the mirror. The red frills from my sleeves are itchy and the blotchy makeup is all I can focus on.

I stay silent for a moment, my eyes still on the mirror. Still looking at the mirror my eyes meet with hers and she shifts from one foot to the other. “Do you honestly think I’m stupid?” Her eyes widen as if surprised by my comment.

“I- Whatever could you mean?” I can hear the shakiness in her voice. So she really does.

I turn towards her and walk a few steps closer to her. “I asked if you think I’m stupid. Did you really think I would fall for this? The hair I could have likely fallen for, but the dress and makeup? The horrible perfume? Do I really look so ignorant as to not notice the clear motive of trying to embarrass me?” The maid tries to speak but all I can hear is stuttering and her trying to pull stupid excuses from her ass. I walk closer to her and I put my hand on her shoulder. “You have ten minutes to find me a dress or I will drag you by the ear into that ballroom to not only publicly apologize to me but to Guy. Me for trying to blatantly humiliate me, and Guy for almost embarrassing him and insulting his choice in paramour. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’m sorry! Please forgive me! I’ll bring a new dress right away!” She bows then quickly runs out of the room.

I sign and look back at the mirror. I grab some wipes and the Saligian equivalent of makeup remover and take off all the makeup and as much of the scent of the perfume that I can. I then grab my own makeup that I brought and do my own makeup. It obviously looks much better then the makeup the maid had done. I also took out the bun from my hair and started brushing it.

By the time I’m done I hear a hurried knock on the door. I tell whoever is at the door, likely the maid, to come in and of course I’m right. She comes in with a beautiful red and black dress and I smile to myself. I let her help me into the new dress and when I look at the mirror I finally don’t look like a child wearing a cheep dress and as if I found my mom’s makeup.

“Thank you, you may leave now.” The maid doesn’t say a word and bows before leaving. I take out a perfume Sherry has gifted me once before and spray some on me and look at myself in the mirror once again before walking out of my room and to the ballroom.

The doors open and everyone is quiet as I walk in. I do a quick sweep of the room until I see Guy and walk up to him. He smiles at me and I of course smile back. “When you’re done may we talk alone in private?”

“You may speak of it now. No one will stop you.”

“Prince Guy.” I look over to see a man walk up to us.

“Leos.” Guy gives the man a scornful glare. I look behind the man to see a woman behind him.

“I have brought my sister with me this evening in hopes of introducing the two of you, Your Highness.” His sister? I don’t mean to be rude but he looks a lot older to be having a sister that could be young enough to be close to Guy. “This is she. Swilyn.”

“Swilyn Vingard at your service, Your Highness. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Swilyn curtsies, her dress is beautiful and it flows unlike that previous crunchy dress I was wearing before.

I don’t quite pay as much attention to what happens afterwards anymore as it is a bore. However I did notice Rahm’s annoyed expression which made me almost laugh aloud as I realized she was likely the one who planned on trying to embarrass me with that horrible dress. Some time however passes and Guy and I can finally speak in private.

“Continue with what you were about to say before we were rudely interrupted.”

“Right. I just wanted to let you know that the maid that was suppose to help me get ready put me in some old dress and made me look like a child found her way through her mother’s makeup and tried to make her own ‘exotic’ hairstyle.” Guy signs before speaking.

“I shall deal with her for you. I will not allow anyone to humiliate you.” Guy states.

“I don’t think she will try that again,” I smile at him. He looks at me and I continue, “I told her that I would drag her by the ear to the ballroom to publicly apologize if she didn’t find me a better dress.” Guy smirks at me.

Guy grabs my waist and brings me closer to him. “Good. I’ll still deal with her on my own. Anyone who embarrasses you will be dealt with harshly.”

“I normally would be opposed to something like that but this time I think whatever you’ll do will be well deserved.”

The rest of the party goes by without a hitch. By the morning, I get another apology from the maid that ‘helped’ me last night and a gift from Guy as compensation for dealing with the tediousness that was last night. I wear the bracelet he gave me with pride during the rest of my stay here in Avari.

——————————

AND THIS WAS WRITEN IN ONE SITTING THAT’S WHAT’S UP

I wrote this in like 10-30 minutes because the urge to write this was so strong that I literally couldn’t stop thinking about it

Sorry if this is bad I swear I could probably do better 💀🙏

[charcadett]

i’m totallyyyyy not here to spread more cofagrigus propaganda. definitely not. trust me (lying) also ik this is like my third time requesting but i can’t help it!! i love ur work sm <3 ^_^

ok so for the request, reader has a cofagrigus (ofc) and they’re friends with ryme!! they talk about ghost types n all that fun stuff and ryme decides to show the reader her gholdengo. ik she doesn’t have one on her team but. whatevs she has one anyways and its just her Silly Buddy that likes to chill instead of battle. oh and extra detail! reader isn’t familiar with paldean ghost types bc they’re from unova :3

anyway, reader has their team meet ryme’s and ryme looks at their cofagrigus and goes “hey.. your cofagrigus is staring pretty hard at gholdengo isn’t it..” basically neither of them realize that cofagrigus is feelin a lil hungry for some gold hehe…

so pretty much, just some headcanons of reader and ryme’s friendship and reaction to cofagrigus trying to eat gholdengo ^_^

HIIIII! I am always always happy to help you spread your Cofagrigus propaganda, I adore that little guy. I got very happy when I saw your request! Not only was I like OOOH COFAGRIGUS ANON HI but yes yes Ryme!!! Her Gholdengo in this is a new evolution she’s been working on. Will she add it to her main team? Maybe! She’s leaving the final decision to Gholdengo.

Your Cofagrigus Wants To Eat Ryme’s Gholdengo (Friendship)

- You and Ryme have been friends for more than a decade, though a majority of that was spent long distance. Back when she was younger, she visited Unova on business, both for Pokemon and her music career. Who said she couldn’t get a few battles in between verses? Meeting a cool Ghost-type trainer while she was out and about was the icing on the cake. You kept in contact all these years, either through letters or email.

- Meeting back up in person for the first time in years is a treat. Especially with the delight of meeting a Unovan Ghost-type she hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. Your little Yamask sure got big! Smiling at your old friend, you jerk your head to her Gholdengo. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your weird little friend?”

- You don’t have to ask Ryme twice. It’s no cakewalk to evolve a Gimmighoul, and she is more than happy to tell you about it. She’s bragging, but you let her. Ryme has the right to brag. Both a Gym Leader and an accomplished musician, she’s just as cool today as she was when you first met.

- The two of you shoot the shit in her living room. You’re giggling into your coffee as Ryme tells you how many towers she had to climb to get those Gimmighoul coins. She spares Gholdengo an affectionate pat before her attention is back on you. While you ask her if she’s thinking about adding it to her team, neither of you notice your Cofagrigus’ intense stare at the now sweating Steel/Ghost-type.

- Cofagrigus floats forward, and Gholdengo takes a step back. Cofagrigus’ shadowy hands inch closer, and Gholdengo raises its hands to prepare for a Shadow Ball. It doesn’t like that unmistakable hungry look in Cofagrigus’ eyes. Ryme hears her Gholdengo utter a frightened cry, and her eyebrows raise. “What’s up with Cofagrigus?”

- You cock your head to the side. Blinking at the two Pokemon, you run through all the information you can remember about Cofagrigus. Ryme has Gholdengo’s ball balanced in her palm, at the ready in case anything unsavory happens. Then you remmber Cofagrigus' diet. “Shit!”

- Despite Cofagrigus’ ball being on your belt, you choose to launch yourself at your Pokemon and hang off its back. Ryme laughs, one hand on her stomach, the other comforting her no longer frightened Gholdengo as Cofagrigus bucks you around. Its grin never wavers as you shout exclamations of “Bad! Don’t eat Gholdengo! That’s not cool, buddy!”

- After five minutes of Cofagrigus jerking you around, it settles and you recall it back into its ball. Through her snorts, Ryme tells you that you should visit more often. She hasn’t had this much fun in years. You sheepishly rub the back of your head. At least you didn’t break anything this time. That only serves to make Ryme laugh harder.

[xoxojisu]

holy balls i rly want a bf to cuddle with me