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lady-lauren · 6 months ago

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❥ ENJI TODOROKI X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 1.7k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: stuckage (aka you get stuck and fucked), major dub-con, some ass play, spitting (on your ass), degradation, creampie, Enji is dirty and mean and he's really not sorry for it

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

The sink of spandex between your thighs reminds him of why you are such a vexation. Fabric stretches across the mound of your cunt as you struggle, a perfect contour of what lies just out of reach.

“Finally found something you can’t escape, hm?”

Enji hears your scoff echo across the panes of the air duct, elbows pinging the metal as you try to shift your weight.

You won’t slip away. Not this time.

“Pull me out,” your hips arch and shake with your demand.

The hero claws inside his chest, your plea reaching his sensibilities. But the curve of your thick, open legs strokes a more sinister flame in the pit of his stomach.

“Where’s the fun in that? I’ve chased you for long enough.” He deserves a reward.

For a cat burglar, he expected you to be more clever. Yet here you are, stuck at the waist in the old factory’s ventilation, in a hole your thighs were never going to breach no matter how much you struggled.

Now he gets to be the judge and jury of your punishment.

“Almost like you wanted to be caught,” he muses to himself as he finally gives in to the itch to sink his fingers into the fat of your ass.

Your gasp sounds like the hiss of air down the duct, shrill and quick. You’re not a naive villain—you know what’s coming.

Blunt nails scrape against your costume, black threads splitting with just a fraction of the force he can give.

Your skin spreads into view like a ripe fruit being peeled. Sweet flesh is already dripping as he snaps away the spandex over your cunt, a thrill sparking in his cock at the sight of your pussy lips opening as you wiggle yourself in his hold.

“Oh you fucking pervert! Let me go!”

He could. He should. He won’t.

Intentions are made clear when his massive hand cups your cunt, thumb rubbing over your asshole as he grips your body, shoving you tighter into your trap.

You grunt and groan, shoulders thumping against metal. You seem to be testing your flexibility in a guise to rub yourself back against the palm of his hand. Your wetness smears against his skin, labia spreading against callouses.

He presses his hand until he finds the swell of your clit. A muffled moan makes him rub hard, hard enough to have a muscle in your thigh clenching and shaking.

Grinning, he spits a string of saliva to drip down onto your ass, moving his thumb just enough to catch the lubrication and smother it against your puckered hole. He dips his thick digit into your ass and delights at how you buck back against him.

“You’re a better whore than a thief.”

There’s no denial, just short moans against metal at each thrust of his thumb into your ass. He twists the digit in your tight cavern, moving his fingers away from your cunt so he can watch your pussy clench in anticipation of more.

You’re a prettier sight than he imagined, already messy, body begging for his touch. He’s had many frustrated nights fisting his dick to dreams of catching you.

Enji toys with you just long enough to get his cock fully hard and aching.

You whine as he pulls away, hips pushing back like you’re searching for him, desperate and needy.

He keeps quiet as he unbuckles his suit, wrapping his cock in his hand and pumping, squeezing his fingers around the base of his cockhead.

Taking advantage of you shouldn’t turn him on so much, yet his balls feel heavy as he watches you panic, unable to see the world behind you.

Your head clinks against the air duct, your trapped hands slapping against the bottom.

“En…Endeavor? Please. Please don’t leave me like this.”

He hates that he won’t be able to see the look in your eyes when he fucks you, but it’s too much of a risk to let you free. You’ll slip away like every time before.

You purr with comfort when he grips your ass, pulling at the fat until your pussy is spread to hungry, flaming eyes.

He bursts your relief by prodding his cock into your wetness. Your cunt clenches at the feel of him and he can practically smell your fear.

“I’m not going anywhere, little whore.”

It takes a few purposeful thrusts to get his thick cock to push inside you, your cunt stretching and burning at his intrusion. He doesn’t care to hurt you, mean hands wrapping around your thighs and using your weight to pull your pussy down his cock.

He doesn’t want you ready, he wants to feel your struggle, feel the tightness of your pussy as he punishes you.

Whimpering as he finally gets his length inside you, you grind back against him. He can’t tell if you’re trying to push him out or pull him in.

It doesn’t matter what you want; what matters is what you can give him.

Your pussy starts to gush as he begins his pace—quick, deep, balls slapping against your clit.

Enji’s fascinated by the sight of your wet flesh dragging along his length, sucking so securely it’s like you’re afraid he’s going to leave again.

“I’ve got you,” he sneers in some twisted sense of heroism.

Your reply moan is bubbly, as if you’ve resigned yourself to take whatever you can get.

He pulls your hips up, squishing your body to the top of the air duct as he gets into the heat of his stride. He’s blinded by the pleasure of your warm, went cunt, lost to the primal urge to take, to use.

It’s too easy to abuse you. So small, so exposed. You’re putty in his hands as he spreads you apart even wider, shreds of fabric shuddering against the bounce of your ass.

You sound like an animal trapped in the wall, yelping and cooing all the same as his fat cockhead bullies into your depths.

“You like being a cocksleeve,” he grunts, “your cunt’s so fucking wet.”

Cream is building at his base, smearing into red curls. Your stomach flutters at his words and he realizes he can feel himself in your core.

He could break you if he isn’t careful.

Yet he doesn’t slow down, barely breaking a sweat as he pushes harder, faster, jaw clenching as he chases his high.

He drops one of your thighs, pulling the other higher around his waist as he pounds a fist into the brick wall. The new leverage has your body slipping farther down the chute, trapping you more snugly.

“P-please,” you pant, nails scraping against the metal prison, “I c-can’t take it…”

“Don’t fucking care. You’re cunt’s mine.”

Your ass ripples as his muscular thighs slap against yours, slick dripping into the rips of your costume.

“Such a stupid little girl. This is what happens when you, ah, run from me.”

He can’t hear any response over the wet slap of skin against skin, the slurp of your greedy cunt.

Putting his hips flush to yours, he grinds into your cunt, so deep he knows it hurts.

His hand scrapes up your thigh, big fingers searching for your clit. When his index finger swirls against your swollen bud, you scream, the sound reverberating like a confession in your trap.

Enji presses his forehead to the wall, eyes closing as he feels hot pleasure starting to build in his balls, twitching in his cock.

“Go on,” he pinches your clit between his fat fingers, “cum, cum little whore.”

Your body starts to shake as you whimper, thighs quivering as you lose control. He rubs two fingers against your clit as he pushes harder into you, motions getting sloppy.

Enji grunts, “I said cum, fucking cum.”

He slams into you so roughly that he hears the air duct creak from his pressure. He puts his focus into filling you, stretching you, letting you feel his cockhead spear against the abused, gummy spots inside your cunt.

Your orgasm is rough, sputtering, slick gushing against where he invades the tight suck of your pussy. You thrash against his hold and whine like a bitch in heat, rolls and smashes of pleasure fissuring down every nerve, making your legs kick.

Against every lingering heroic instinct, Endeavor lets himself fill your guts with his cum.

He feels like a volcanic eruption, spewing flames from his skin and molten cum from his balls. You keep him sucked tight as he unloads, cum spilling from the tight squeeze and down your thighs.

His chest heaves with deep breaths, blue eyes opening to stare down at the havoc he’s wrecked.

Your poor body is limp, lodged around his impaling cock. Sweat, cum, and slick drip down your thighs, his fingerprints bruised into your skin. Your costume has come apart even more, peeling down your legs like he’s ripped you apart.

He wonders for a moment if you’ve suffocated; if he’s fucked you to death.

After a few moments, you stir, one weak hand knocking against the air duct.

“For the love of god…” you choke.

Heating the metal just enough to make it malleable, he bends the air duct away from your sweaty, shaking body. Then he tugs you without care, letting you fall onto the floor before his feet.

“Suck me clean.”

A dumb girl would’ve run on shaky, messy legs. But like the smart girl you are, you get on your knees and pop his heavy cock between your lips.

He smirks at the mess of makeup on your face as you look up at him, tongue flat as you lick his cum from underneath his shaft.

Enji grips the hair on the back of your head, shoving your face down to his balls for you to suck the mess you’ve made.

“Not gonna run again, are you?”

“I might,” your moan vibrates against oversensitive skin, “if it means I get your cock again.”

#kinktober #endeavor smut #endeavor x reader #tw.stuckage #tw.dubcon #bnha x reader #enji todoroki smut #mha x reader #enji todoroki x reader #bnha smut #enji todoroki #endeavor #bnha fanfiction #dripping banner by @/adorenedwithlight

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cheriebrat · 5 months ago

Note

Bucky gently wiping his girl’s never ending tears as she tries to apologize for trying to escape a third time, promising him she’ll never do it again only for him to chain her back up for the rest of the night but he knows that she’ll be his perfect little Stockholm princess in no time, especially when the winter soldier is there to help sort her out💞

fuckkkkkk.

warnings; fem!reader, kidnapping, early stages of stockholm syndrome, soft but manipulative bucky, mentions of the winter soldier coming out to play (😏), (perhaps opportunity for an au here!!!)

Your cheeks are glossy with the seemingly never ending wave of tears that portend their descent over your flushed cheeks. Your pulse thrums against your neck, skittering like a nervous doe when Bucky's thumb slides over the tender spot beneath your jaw. His amorous touch only serves to have you sobbing harder, tearing at the loose fitting tee that hangs around your neck as though the fabric is suffocating you.

"Shh, shh," Bucky coos, a thumb coasting the length of your waterline – a futile attempt to plug your tear ducts and slow the second onslaught of frantic tears. "Take it easy."

"I'm sorry," you wail. "I'm sorry. Shouldn't have done it."

Your breath comes in wheezing pants, voice petering out into a whisper as terror's icy grip clamps around your throat and you start to sob in earnest. Bucky sighs, scooping you up tight against his chest and pressing a chaste peck to your sweat-slick temple.

You thrash and cant away from the touch, your body poised tightly and waiting for the punishing blow that is no doubt on its way. His arms tighten over your frame, biceps bulging with the effort it's taking to keep you from squirming out of his grip.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, baby. Stop," he growls, his voice a harsh, grating bite against your fragile ears. Bucky's cadence had come out crueller than he would have liked, and he pets your hair in an effort to dissuade you from panicking beneath his firm grasp.

"Please, I won't do it again. You have to believe me, I'll never do it again," you snivel, bowing your head low until your features are obscured.

"You said that last time, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can't keep doin' this. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Bile crawls up your throat, hot and fast. Your chest burns.

"I feel sick."

"I know." He pulls the hair back from your balmy cheeks as you start to retch and heave, sobs still clawing from your chest all the while. You know what comes next, as does he.

"Please don't- don't put me down there. Please, I'm sorry."

"Do you need me to let Winter out, hm? You want him to take you down there, or me?"

You go stock still. Everything slows, Bucky's voice sticking to your ears like syrup. "No, no. I'll be good, I'm sorry," you croak, lips filling with air as you suppress another retch.

The mere mention of the soldier is enough to halt every ounce of defiance in your body. Winter is far less forgiving than Bucky, and you're not willing to take your chances.

Not tonight.

"There's my good girl," he murmurs, smearing a sticky kiss along your cheekbone. "You stay down there tonight and be good for me, and we'll do something nice tomorrow, how about that?" he bargains. "I'll let you pick a movie to watch, and you can sleep in bed with me for as long as you want, yeah?"

You sag like dead weight against Bucky's chest, seeping up the warmth of the skin-on-skin contact while you still have the chance. You're in for a very long - very cold - night.

"Please don't do this to me," you whisper. Desperation clings to your every syllable, weighs down every word you speak until your voice is thick with tears.

"You know I have to, sweetheart."

His kindness makes it worse, you think. If he was cruel, if he didn't show you this... softness, maybe you could find it in yourself to hate him.

But the way he lets you cling to him, kisses the top of your head as he delivers your punishment, murmuring soft, adoring affirmations all the while... You just can't.

And you know when he lets you out in the morning, you'll be good for him. You'll accept him, in his entirety. You'll let him kiss you and tuck you into his side like you've always been there. You'll let him love you.

Maybe you can learn to love him, too.

Bucky knows you can. He just has to give it time.

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ilium-ilia · 1 month ago

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Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Ten: green

tw: smut

When morning comes and Simon leaves, you are still dreaming.

Caught up in the fabrication of your own mind, curled beneath swathes of blankets, you still feel his kiss against your cheek and his warm breath on your skin. The embrace is smothered with a votary—a promise to return—and still your fingers mindlessly reach for him when he pulls away. He gives in, only for a moment. His weight settles on top of you, arms squeezing you, grounding you enough until your breathing settles. You smell his freshly brushed teeth and feel the way his balaclava scratches your skin. A simper pulls on your lips. It’s heavy—it’s warm.

By the time you open your eyes, he’s vanished. Dissipating into thin air, he leaves behind nothing but a dent in your mattress and the faint scent of him lingering on your pillow. If you strain your ears hard enough, you can hear the echo of his snoring on the walls. Arms stretching, you reach until your hands nearly brush the edges of the bed. The expanse is too great. Too empty. As you stare up at the ceiling, you try to ignore the incessant moisture tingling in your tear ducts and the way your vision blurs.

You can almost still feel it—him. Simon’s warmth. His wet tongue against your supple skin, thick fingers curling into the divots of your hips, his shoulders propping your calves. Spreading you open for communion, for worship. On his knees on the side of the bed as if praying to god above to let him stay even for only a moment longer. To let him linger where the company is good and the loving is better.

Simon feels it too—that tightness in his chest. The way his hands refuse to steady as he sits in his office, waiting. Thumbs pressing into the fabric of his handkerchief, he realizes he can still taste you. Not even the mint of toothpaste can wash away the sapor that haunts his tongue like a spirit calling him home. He’d lay there forever with you if he could. Biceps curling, arms holding you tight, he would sit there and rot with you until the dust coats your muddled bones and you’re petrified for all eternity.

It’s all he can think about. Bullets whizzing, ricochet, shrapnel in his leg; blood on the soles of his boots, drip, drip, dripping along cement as he steps, steps, steps closer to his target; metal on bone, grinding, twisting, screams caught in throats, mangled, warbling until they die with a puff; iodine and hydrogen peroxide, the glaucescence of decaying skin slipping from muscle, from tendon, from body, from life—and still, there’s only you. Your smile, your laughter, the scar on your lip that he wants to kiss, to lick, to mend, to love.

There’s only you, even in the midst of—

—New York City.

No one ever talks about the smell. Warm, wet trash sizzling in the dying heat of the summer leaves a noisome gas wafting in the air as it mixes with the suffocating pollution of the countless cars clogging the streets. Not even the skull-print balaclava on his face can offer any reprieve from the putrid pavement he unfortunately finds himself traveling down.

Gargantuan buildings reach towards the sky with broad shoulders and terrifying needles, blocking out any sort of natural beauty for something synthetic—faux and human made. It’s almost as if they forgot they could build their city sideways, expand over the rolling hills before hitting the Atlantic sea side. All human greed coalesces here in these streets with malicious advertisements plastered on flashing signs and shifting eyes ravenously gawking at near empty pockets.

The city is awfully lively for a place that was almost blown to bits just a few hours prior.

It’s been a long week. A long few weeks. The last thing he wants to do is meet up with Laswell and the others at the bar for a debriefing party, yet his feet trudge along anyway. Pressure has been building in the empty space behind his eyes, straining his vision, blurring it, diffusing it until his mind fractures. Ghost and Simon meet in his psyche—they both covet you. That bed, wide and warm, your skin, soft and alluring, your lips, your teeth, your bones—

“Hey, check this out L.T.”

Then of course, there’s Johnny.

Eyes darting through the swarm of bodies, Simon eyes the man as he stands in front of a street vendor. The aftermath of some morning parade has left behind various small businesses as people attempt to push their handmade goods onto unsuspecting bystanders. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he approaches the Scotsman as he scrutinizes the jewelry displayed on wooden stands. Beaded necklaces, woven wire rings, and even earrings glisten in the dull sunlight that streams between the towers above them.

“Fancy yourself some jewelry, Johnny?” Simon asks, deciding to play along with the man’s antics for a moment.

“Oh, you know me,” Johnny grins, thumbs resting in his belt loops while sapphire eyes scan the items before him.

“Chest candy not enough for you, then?”

“Not looking for myself,” Johnny shrugs.

Simon stands in silence as he eyes the elderly lady running the stand. He would put money on the fact that she very well may be the oldest person alive. Taupe spots dot her pallid skin as if she were a dalmatian turned human, and her thin, wiry hair can hardly be contained into the bun she pulls the strands back into. Still, she’s all gummy smiles as she sits in her rocking chair, hand clasped around a plastic bottle of water.

“Here we go, what about this one?”

Following his finger, Simon catches sight of a ring. It’s a dainty little thing, made of soldered silver, the band seems so thin that the material trembles beneath the pressure of his gaze. Sitting on top of the band is a rhombus cut ruby—fake, of course. The glass hardly glistens in the light.

“What ‘bout it?” Simon huffs.

Johnny shakes his head and hums. “Right. Probably a bit too soon for a ring.”

Before he even has the time to question the man, Johnny grins. Wide, ivory teeth peek between the split of his lips as he snatches a necklace off of one of the stands. Green beads catch his attention, and as it’s moved into the sunlight, he sees the way flecks of saffron glissten like gold peeking out between blades of grass. It seems more sturdy than the ring—something that can withstand his heavy gaze.

“MacTavish,” he grumbles.

“What?” Johnny asks. “You’re all the way here in the Big Apple. You’ve gotta get a souvenir for Wisp. Besides, green looks good on everyone.”

There it is again—that nickname. Despite the fact Simon has yet to mention your existence to anyone on the task force—or anyone at all—Johnny’s eyes pierce straight through him like cellophane. There’s a chink in his armor, a new scar on his face, a special tightness of his lips—you haunt him. Lingering in the smaller places he can’t seem to cover.

Shaking his head, Simon continues down the street. “It’s your arse if you show up late, Johnny.”

At the bar, Simon’s hand chokes a bottle of beer, but he doesn’t sip from it. Eyes forward, he stares a hole through the table as voices merge together into a drone that attempts to pull him from his thoughts. Still, he persists. Mind swirling, he thinks of you in bed, flat on your back, pyjamas pulled down your hips, your thighs cradling his head. You’ve put a spell on him. Ensnared. Trapped within the confines of your ribcage.

He’d take you on this table if he could. Splay himself open until you could see every inch of him, inside out. Drip all over you, spilling, a flood he can’t stop, smothering you in himself. He’d clean it up—he’d promise—but he’d like to make a little bit of a mess for once.

Price says his name, and it’s the first time he thinks he’s looked around the room in five minutes. He’s dull. Blade tarnishing. He can’t expect himself to stay sharp when you’re the saltwater rusting the iron of his body.

When he’s alone—finally alone in the dilapidating safe house set up on the outskirts of the city—Simon’s twitching fingers reach for his phone. The old flip-phone is a burner, and half of the screen doesn’t work, but he could find your contact with his eyes closed.

Dinner at mine this weekend?

The illumination of your phone screen burns through your retinas as you stare at the text you received over night from Simon. Each word repeats over and over in your mind, tongue nearly forming the words themselves as your lips quirk into an all-consuming grin. This weekend. You hold your phone close to your chest as you stare up at the ceiling, hardly able to contain your avidity.

It’s all you can think about for the rest of the week—him. His return home. Your mind races with ideas of things you want to do, food you want to cook for him, movies you want to watch with him—all things to do with him. This stranger who’s enveloped your mind more warmly than anyone else in your entire life ever has.

When the end of the week rolls around, you find yourself rushing to Simon’s flat with your hands occupied with bags of groceries. The lift doesn’t move fast enough for you. Each floor it pulls you past takes ages to fall beneath your feet, and the trepidation in your heart only swells as you watch the numbers slowly increase on the monitor. Two. Three. Four… Your knock is quick and sharp against his wooden door, and you stand there nearly buzzing out of your skin as you listen to the way his feet fall just on the other side of the threshold. Each reverberation echoes throughout your bones until—

—you see him.

Mauve bags dig deep beneath his eyes, but the raw inkiness of his eyes glistens just as bright as they always do when Simon looks at you. He’s hardly dressed; sporting nothing but a pair of joggers and a plain t-shirt, you’re able to see the entire mural of tattoos that covers his arm, along with the new scrapes and bruises that dot his biceps. It’s impossible for him to hide the way his lips curl, scars deepening for a moment as you push your way inside and kick the door shut behind you.

“I’m so glad you’re home! I got some stuff for dinner tonight, I figured something home cooked would be nice since you’ve been gone so long and I just, well, I just missed-”

Your rambling is smothered. Words die in the back of your throat as your body collides with the front door. Warm hands cradle the apex of your cheeks just as Simon’s weight falls on your lips—needy, searing, effusive. The bags in your hands crinkle as your body tenses, muscles anticipating more, coveting more, and you don’t bother to hide the quiet moan that rumbles in the graveyard of your thoughts. He smells fresh—slick and clean, skin feverish against yours. You’d drown in him if he let you.

Simon’s hands slip lower, traversing down your shoulders and arms until he’s snatched the bags out of your hands, and then he pulls away, breaking the very union you haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the last few weeks. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

You’re left stunned for a short moment before your body springs into action. In no time the alluring aroma of seasoned chicken wafts through the air as a pan sizzles away and you’re sharing every single thought you’ve had since Simon left. Each time he attempts to slide in and offer a helping hand, you bat him away and tell him to relax, to enjoy his time home, to let you take care of him.

And he does—he enjoys the way your hands turn meat into meal, produce into sustenance, life into love. You chitter like a bird singing a song for the sake of it, recalling the things you’ve done since he’s been gone, what he’s missed, how often you’ve thought of him. Once the entirety of his studio apartment is smothered in the mouth watering scent of dinner, he watches as you dish the plates with a keen eye, ensuring not a single portion is out of place.

Then, he is right where he belongs. Beside you, nestled together on the couch, forks scraping against plates as you both scarf down your meal in adoring silence. The dying sun floods the room in marigold, softening your features until they’re fuzzy like a dream that threatens to slip through his fingers. You feel his gaze, how the weight of it settles on your chest like a hug, and you give him a sheepish smile as you poke at your food.

“How do you like it?”

He takes a moment to finish swallowing before answering. “Good. Very good. Salad’s alright, though. Nothin’ special.”

Trying to hold back your smirk, you raise a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “Any salad can be a Caesar salad if you stab it enough.”

A pitiful laugh expels from your throat as you shake your head as if his grating joke had sincerely wounded you. “Wow, grabbing the low hanging fruit, are we? Wonder if your co-workers realize their Lieutenant Riley tells shit jokes,” you chuckle.

The muscles in Simon’s arms tense. Soft tissue turning to stone, he pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. He shakes his head with a huff before he continues as if nothing happened.

“What?” you question.

Once more, Simon shakes his head. “That Lieutenant Riley bullshit.”

You smirk. “Is it weird coming from me?”

“Comin’ from anyone.”

Surprised, you pause as you lean your head against the back of the couch, eyes trained on him as if he might vanish into thin air if you don’t. “Really? Does everyone just call you Simon, then? Seems a bit informal.” His silence stretches for so long that your brain is able to cook up another possibility—one that leaves you grinning. “Or do you have a call sign?”

Something is amalgamating that shouldn’t. A spirit and a vessel—monster and man. Simon’s lips tense as he stares at his food, contemplating the choices before him. Then, he breaks.

“Ghost,” he says stiffly.

“Ghost?” you repeat with a hum. “I guess that’s fitting for you. You’re pretty quiet. Does anyone else go by something like that?”

He nods, and it’s just as stiff as his words. You watch with curious eyes as he leans forward and rests his plate on the side table, half finished dinner going cold. Then, his fingers begin to fish around in his pocket.

“Some do,” he answers. “One of them actually… helped me get this for you.”

It’s impossible for you to hold back your gasp as he reveals his gift to you—that green beaded necklace from New York City. Your eyes widen, plate quickly set aside as you scoot closer to him on the couch to let the pads of your fingers brush over the jewelry. It’s smooth to the touch, beads spinning next to one another as you feel the weight of each and every one of them. Your mind attempts to recall the last time you received a gift like this—it comes back empty.

He can’t take his eyes off of you. He wouldn’t dare miss a single moment of the amazement in your eyes.

“Simon,” you exclaim, words so soft they hardly make a sound at all. You delicately remove the item from his palm, taking it into your own hands, cradling it as if it were a child. “It’s beautiful.”

Polar opposites—the magnetic attraction threatens to crush him. Where he is quiet and stiff, you fill every void in him with the song of your voice, a sweet melody that could lull him out of the darkest corners of the world. You haunt his mind, all his thoughts, the empty cavern of his chest. He had felt so cold for so long that when you came along it burnt—seared worse than any bullet casing or explosion. But he would gladly burn for the rest of eternity if that meant he could see you like you are now; blithe, and full of innocent glee.

Happy because of him.

“Help me put it on?”

You’re holding it out to him, fingers buzzing in anticipation. His fingers brush against yours as he takes the necklace from you, and then they trace along your collarbones before clasping it behind your neck. By the time you turn to fully face him, you’re beaming. Face bright, eyes radiating more than any star he could find in the sky—a pit of warmth forms in his stomach.

“How’s it look?” Your eyes find him again, and you feel his gaze bore through you. Spading through your sternum, exposing your still beating heart and the tender muscle that quivers at the mere idea of touching him.

“Gorgeous.” His susurrus is deep. Canorous. It sounds like your favorite lullaby.

His lips are on yours before you can even make sense of it. The pressure. The weight. The heat. Melting beneath his touch, your arms wrap around his neck as you pull yourself closer to him, legs swinging up onto his lap just as his hands settle on your waist. Antilogy plagues your brain as the urge to curl your fingers into his flesh and the yearning to kiss every wound he has clashes together, leaving you trembling as your tongue slides into his mouth. It was inevitable—this destruction. Your need has grown claws, and it doesn’t want to let go now that you’ve caught what you’ve been yearning for all along.

Simon’s hand cradles the base of your skull just as you pull away, lungs quivering. Your breath fans across his face as your fingers gently grip his jaw, your desire hardly containing itself within your body. You stare, lips parted, legs tensing.

“I missed you so much,” you breathe.

His reply catches in his throat as he feels you slip out of his grasp. Knees bending, legs sliding, hands wandering—before he knows it, you’re on your knees in front of him. Your palms press at his legs, spreading them wide, and you invite yourself in as you look up at him, resting on your haunches.

“Sweetheart, c’mere,” he urges, fingers beckoning, trying to bring you back up onto the couch.

Shaking your head, you rest your cheek against the inside of his thigh as your hands rest on his stomach before gently trailing lower. You feel the softness of his abdomen tense—flesh hardens, still plush but full of want; a spring waiting to break free.

“I missed you so much,” you say again, thumbs pressing into his stomach and slipping beneath the waistband of his joggers. “Simon, I wanna take care of you. Please, let me take care of you.”

Only you could do this—render him useless. Mind fuzzy, brain buzzing, chest tightening. His eyes darken as he stares down at you, swirling shadows melting his pupil into his iris, mudding the beginning and end of each other. You watch as he crumbles, thick fingers slotting over yours to pull his trousers down, exposing the pallid skin that stretches over his hip bones and the swirls of dark hair that travels down his navel.

Then, he springs free. Quickly hardening, the florid tip of his cock peeks out of the sleeve of his foreskin. Mouth watering, you watch with blown eyes as he holds himself, fist squeezing the base, knuckles going white as he huffs. His legs quiver around your head, and you feel powerful making a baronial creature such as himself shiver. You carefully place your hand around his, not yet touching him, and Simon hums, content.

“Whatever you need, sweetheart.” His hips shift, and he drinks in the way your lips part. “Go on. Take what you want.”

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #everything you touch #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader #cod smut

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Loving Suffocation.

A Continuation Of This Piece.

Written for a very lovely, very indulgent anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Loid x Reader x Yandere!Yor (SxF).

Word Count: 4k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Slight Somnophilia, Spanking, Sex Toys, Breeding, Mentions of Pregnancy, Medical Malpractice, Oral Sex, Obsessive Behavior, Slight Gaslighting, Bruising/Marking, and Overstimulation.

You never did get to see your opera. A lack of oxygen turned your cramped world blurry and abstract, and you faded in and out of consciousness while Yor fussed over your ruined dress and gathered you up in her arms, the strip of fabric she’d tied around your neck and stuffed in your mouth – not quite a gag, but enough to convince your uncooperative vocal cords that calling for help wouldn’t be worth the effort. Sometime between being pulled against Yor’s chest and slipping out of that sex-saturated storage closet, you blinked and by the time you could find the strength to open your eyes again, you were in your apartment, in your own bed, your makeshift gag gone and your wrists bound behind your back with a generous amount of duct tape. You briefly considered calling for help, but you were past the point of screaming. Even if you tried, the Forgers were your only neighbors close enough to hear, and you’d seen enough of enough of that family for a lifetime.

Just as exhaustion began to overwhelm your better judgement, you caught stifled footsteps in the near distance, heard the door to your bedroom creak open and shut with enough force to shake the drywall. This time, when you closed your eyes, it was in a deliberate effort to will yourself to sleep. An effort that was, of course, rendered futile by Yor’s hand on your forehead, a soft hum too tender to be purposefully deceptive. “I think they might be asleep. The poor thing could barely hold their eyes open.”

“That’s fine.” Instantly, your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach. He spoke quietly, keeping his voice low and airy, but even in worst dreams, Loid seemed to be able to carve out a place for himself. It made sense for him to make an appearance in this nightmare, too. “Can you show me where the damage is?”

You held your breath as Yor’s hand drifted from your face to your thigh. After a moment of hesitation, she nudged you onto your back, pulling the ragged remains of your skirt up to your waist. You fought not to bolt up as cold air washed over your exposed, abused cunt – not to ball your fists as you felt Loid’s narrowed eyes pry into you the way they always seemed to when you passed each other in the hall, when he got home before you could find a reason to get out of the Forgers’ suffocating apartment. You managed to hold yourself still as he clicked his tongue, edging that much closer to the foot of your bed. You could picture him leaning over you, perfectly styled blonde hair falling ever so slightly out of place as he took long, agonizing seconds to evaluate the bruises lining the inside of your thighs, the crescent-shaped marks Yor’s nails had left pressed in your hips, your waist. Calloused fingertips brushed over your ankle, but further restraint was deemed unnecessary as his attention shifted back to his wife. “And you said you found them…?”

“Unconscious,” she filled in. You could hear her shifting her weight, feigning concern as her husband evaluated you. “In front of our building. I tried to wake them up, but they panicked, and I remembered the treatment you told me about for—for hysteria.” She paused, swallowed. “I thought I could help, but I’m afraid I might’ve just made things worse…”

Loid’s response was delayed, put off in favor of inching that much closer to you. The mattress dipped as he rested a knee on the foot of your bed. Don’t move, you repeated to yourself, despite the ever-growing urge to get up and run gnawing violently at the back of your mind. If you pretended to be asleep, you’d only have to tolerate a few minutes of his attention before he got tired of leering at your conscious body. If you pretended to be asleep, they’d leave and you could start to forget this ever happened.

It got harder to be so rational as he reached out, running two fingers over your slit and splitting apart the lips of your pussy, giving himself a better view of your abused clit, your entrance – still pitifully drooling slick. You tried to remember what kind of doctor he was, but any specialties that might’ve come to mind were immediately forgotten as his gloved fingers slipped inside of you. You had to bite back a quiet hiss as he scissored open the sore walls of your cunt, his touch probing and experimental. At least Yor had the decency not to draw it out. “You reacted swiftly and efficiently. Even trained paramedics leave residual damage.” He drew back suddenly, and you fought not to jolt at his callousness. “Can you show me what exactly your…” He trailed off. You could practically hear the curiosity in his voice. “…your treatment entailed?”

Yor made a noise you couldn’t decipher. Loid moved away from you entirely, but Yor was quick to take his place. She settled into the space between your legs, her hands – shaking ever so slightly – taking up your hips, her fingertips near-perfectly aligned with the dark bruises pressed into your skin. You felt her breath ghost over the inside of your thighs, the flat of her tongue run gingerly over your slit, and you bolted upward on instinct, mouth open and ready to—

—ready to have your scream stifled and suffocated by Loid’s palm as he forced his hand over your mouth and shoved you back into the mattress. Unable to claw at his arm, to pry him off of you, you thrashed under his steadfast hold, but he didn’t seem to pay you any mind. Rather, his eyes met yours for all of half a second before flickering to his wife, sparing her a slight nod. “Patients usually react with some level of resistance. You can go on.”

Yor’s eyes widened, but any shock she might’ve felt seemed to melt away at her husband’s assurance. She was more nervous, now that she was performing for an audience rather than assaulting you in the privacy of her chosen hideaway, but the little, tentative movements of her tongue got braver over time, her eyes closing as her hands drifted from your waist to your thighs. She nudged your legs onto her shoulders and latched onto your clit, suckling with just enough force to draw a reaction out of your burnt-out nerves, to leave you trembling and struggling to swallow back pained moans and pathetic whimpers. It hurt – more than anything, it hurt – but she had your body trained, knew just what points to hit to get what she wanted out of you. More than that, your body knew that it wasn’t going to end until she reached her goal, until she had you cumming on her tongue for the— god, how many times would this make? You’d lost track after the first dozen, but even if you hadn’t, it would’ve been impossible to tell, impossible to know what she’d accomplished the first time reality started to blur and consciousness was rendered more of revokable privilege than something you’d ever be capable of holding on to without help. In less than a minute, you were grinding against her tongue involuntarily, the movement of your hips stilted and jerky. You couldn’t have called it a real orgasm, not when any pleasure you could’ve felt was so overshadowed by a searing sort of ache, but Yor seemed satisfied – drawing the back of her hand over her chin as she lifted her head, sending Loid a sheepish smile.

“I just, uh,” she started, drumming her fingers over your thigh. “I just did that until they calmed down. I’m not sure if it helped.”

“I see.” Loid, for his part, failed to let his air of stoic professionalism so much as waver. “And how many times did the patient reach climax?”

“…thirty?” Yor let out an airy, nervous laugh. “Maybe more. It… It was a little hard to keep track, in the moment.”

“And they’re still so unruly.” He was kind enough to feign concern, to let his tone soften and purse his lips into a thin frown. For a second, you let yourself believe that you’d just stumbled into a bad situation – that he and his wife were under some shared delusion and genuinely thought they might’ve been helping you, but then you caught a spec of crimson on the collar of Yor’s dress out of the corner of your eye and thought better of trying to humanize them. “Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

The question was posed to Yor, not you. “Please do, you’re the doctor here,” she spouted, hurrying to get out of Loid’s way. Loid was more hesitant, his palm lingering over your mouth as his eyes found yours. He was cold at the best of times – his expression often hollow when he thought your attention was elsewhere, his touch enough to send a chill down your spine on the rare occasion he found an excuse to put his hands on you – but the look he sent you as he uncovered your mouth was nothing short of frigid. The threat was clear, albeit ambiguous. You had no idea what Loid was capable of, let alone what extremes he was willing to go to.

But, you knew what Yor could do – you’d caught her in the act.

And you weren’t eager to find out what’d she’d do to you at her husband’s request.

When his hand finally fell away from your mouth, you didn’t make a sound. Rather, you dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek as Loid wrapped an arm around your waist and hauled you onto his lap – his thighs cutting harshly into your stomach. The position was enough to leave your cheeks burning and humiliation tying knots in the back of your throat, but whatever embarrassment you might’ve felt was multiplied ten-fold as his hand ghosted over the buttons lining the back of your dress and your only remaining protective barrier fell away – mutilated fabric now limp and useless beneath you. You started to writhe, but the heel of Loid’s palm found the small of your back, pressing into the base of your spine with just enough force a pained whimper past your lips. Reflectively, Yor moved to reach towards you, but Loid shook his head. “It’s important to test for reactiveness,” he explained, tone flat and steely. “I can take care of bruises and cuts, but lasting nerve damage will make things—” He paused, clicked his tongue. “—difficult.”

“Oh!” Yor clapped her hands together. At least she seemed to sincerely believe that, even if she wasn’t helping you, her husband might be. You couldn’t tell what Loid was thinking, but it couldn’t have been so benevolent. “Is that what you’re doing now? Testing for reactiveness?”

“Exactly.” Loid flashed her a smile. You felt him shift, fish something out of the pocket of his suit jacket. Aching numbness had put you at a distance from his invasive touch before, but Yor’s mouth had done away with that – resurrecting the buzzing sort of hyper-sensitivity that meant you weren’t able to hide the way your hips bucked against his thigh as he slid something sleek and metallic into your drenched pussy. It was oddly shaped – one end tapered and the other flat, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand but still big enough to leave you squirming uncomfortably as Loid pulled back. “Normally, I’d use more intricate equipment, but there are a few experiments I can run on my own.”

You heard nails against metal, a soft click muffled by stiff machinery. After a second of delay, the object inside of you let out an abrupt pulse of pure vibration – harsh and sudden and awful. Your reaction was reflexive, undisguisable. You threw your head forward as you bit back a bubbling, broken moan; waves of intense reverberation beating at the walls of your cunt. There was no time to brace yourself, to grow into the piercing sting – it was already too much. The walls of your pussy clenched around the source of your agony, and before you could think to stifle your reactions, to give them as little as you possibly could, tears were blurring your vision, dripping down your cheeks. Yor cooed, kneeling in front of you and cupping your cheeks. “Poor thing…” she mumbled, before looking up towards Loid. “I don’t think they’re enjoying it.”

Another wave of pulsing reverberation, a jagged cry forced past your lips. “P-please, turn it off, take it out, I can’t—”

It took you a second to process the sound of a palm against flesh, how it might’ve been connected to the bright flash of pain just below the curve of your ass. When you could bring yourself to glance over your shoulder, his hand was raised, his expression stern. The sight was enough to make your heart ache in your chest – a sensitivity which surprised you. You hadn’t thought there was anything the Forgers could do to hurt you more than they already had.

“We’re going out of our way to help you.” It was the same tone he used with Anya when she refused to do her homework or threatened to drop out of her upper-crust academy. Whatever genuine sympathy he might’ve had for you was buried beneath a heavy layer of practiced stoicism and nearly totalitarian authority, turning the words cold where they should’ve been comforting. “It’s unfair to be so ungrateful when Yor’s already sacrificed so much of her time for the sake of your health. Why don’t you apologize to her?”

Again, you heard that same soft click, and the vibrations pulsing out of the object in your cunt doubled in intensity. You let your head fall forward, clenching your eyes shut as you struggled to spit something out. “I… I’m sorry, Yor, I didn’t mean to—”

You were cut off by a sharp moan, the feeling of Loid’s fingers tracing over your slit. Soon, the pad of his thumb found your clit, pushing dull circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves. He let out an airy chuckle as you withered into yourself, your legs spreading involuntarily as your feet struggled to find purchase on carpeting that seemed to be just an inch too far, to ground yourself on something that Loid didn’t even have to try to keep just out of your grasp. “Don’t strain yourself,” he muttered, your unwanted reward for your easy compliance. “How does this—” He pushed a rough pattern into your clit, drawing out a wavering cry. “—feel?”

Miserable. Torturous. The worst thing that’d ever been inflected onto your poor, spent body. You deflated, your chest flattening against Loid’s thighs. “…it hurts.”

This time, he let you finish before pulling back, his palm striking your ass with twice the force he’d used before. You cried out, the noise uneven and anguished, but your pain didn’t seem to rank very high on his nebulous list of concerns. “I’ve already told you not to be so ungrateful,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you know what would’ve happened if we weren’t here to help you?” Another strike, another ragged sob. “You’d be suffering on your own, in excruciating pain and spiraling into your own delusions. If we hadn’t been there to correct you so quickly, you would’ve been unrecoverable.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You were babbling, now, your apologies clumped together and nearly unintelligible. Loid cut in, pointed as ever.

“You’ve already apologized.” Two digits slipped into you, splitting your pussy open. Somehow, the added stimulation only seemed to make his device’s vibration more unbearable. “Now, it’s time to tell Yor how thankful you are.”

“Thank you—” There was no hesitation, no resistance. If you’d been able to, if you hands hadn’t been bound, you would’ve clung to her, dug your nails into her shoulder and your teeth into Loid’s thigh, anything to feel like you weren’t about to fall apart altogether. “Thank you, I’m so— I can’t— Thank you—”

It was Yor, this time – her mouth crashing against yours as her hand found the back of your head. Her tongue slipped past your lips, raking over yours with a ginger sort of tenderness and raking her fingers through your hair, drinking down every little moan and whimper her husband forced out of you with enthusiasm. She lingered there, lips moving gently against yours, as you reached your next climax – the number completely lost on you, now. When she pulled away, eyes glazed over and a dark blush painted over her cheeks, Loid hummed approvingly, fishing his bullet-shaped device out of your pussy and switching it off. Slick dripped down the inside of your thighs, your chest heaving stiltedly against his lap, and you noticed, for the first time, something large and stiff pressing into your stomach. For your own sake, you decided you weren’t going to think about it.

But, like always, Loid was quick to tear even the comfort you found in your own mind away from you.

“You did what you could,” Loid started, with heavy sigh. “But their condition is worse than I thought. It might take more than the usual treatment to set them back on the right path.” A lengthy pause, an arm looped underneath you. With more care than he’d seen fit to show you all night, Loid repositioned you on your back in the center of your bed. You were too exhausted to so much as try to protest. “For cases like this, insemination is the only known cure.”

Yor blinked up at him, more curious than confused. “Insemination?”

“Pregnancy,” Loid filled in. “It can be done artificially, but for cases this severe…”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. Weakly, you tried to sit up, but it was Yor that stopped you, this time, pressing her hand flat against your shoulder and pinning you down effortlessly. “If that’s what’s best,” she chimed, her smile wide and brilliant. “Can I help?”

For the first time, Loid’s expression seemed to warm. “Of course.”

Less than a full minute later, you were slotted against Yor, your head resting on her chest and her arms loosely wrapped around your midriff. Loid had reclaimed his position in the space between your open legs, one hand on your hip and the other toying with his clothes, shifting the waist of his now-wrinkled dress pants down just far enough to free his flush cock – already hard, already leaking pearls of arousal. The sight, paired with the breathy sigh he let out as he wrapped his fist around his shaft, was enough to dash any hopes you might’ve had of a last-minute change of heart.

You squirmed in Yor’s hold, your fists balling around your own near ruined sheets as Loid aligned himself with your entrance. You didn’t realize you were talking until you heard your own voice, fragile and desperate, nearly too broken to be comprehensible. “Please don’t, I—I’m not sick, please don’t—”

It was Yor who hushed you, this time, smiling as she pressed a fleeting kiss into your cheek. “He’s going to help you,” she whispered, tone simpering where you wished it would be sterile. “You can just sit back and relax while we—” She paused, squeezed you against her playfully. “—make sure you’re alright.”

There was a beat of silence, of stillness. Eventually, you managed to stutter out, “I don’t want your help.”

Loid let out an airy chuckle, tracing the flushed tipped of his cock over your slit. “You don’t have to want anything.” He bowed his head, leaning down far enough to rest his lips against the top of your head. “You’ll need all the help you can get, in a few weeks.”

You didn’t have time to protest, not before he thrust into you – sheathing himself to the hilt in a single stroke.

You tried to scream, but Yor’s mouth found yours in a moment, swallowing any fractured noises you might’ve been able to make. Loid didn’t seem interested in giving you time to adjust; immediately falling into a rhythm just as forceful and just as cruel as anything else he’d done to you. It wasn’t a question of if it would hurt, anymore, but how badly. The feeling of his not inconsiderably length splitting open your aching pussy alone was enough to bring tears to your eyes, and his rough thrusts, his shattering pace – all of it only working to agitate the few parts of you that hadn’t already gone numb to his assult. You clenched your eyes shut, willing yourself to go completely numb, but Yor cooed, one of her hands falling away from you only to find its way to the curve of your stomach, her palm soon pressed flat against your skin. “Miss Anya did mention wanting a younger sister,” she muttered, nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. “It’ll be difficult to hide, ‘till it’s over with. There used to be a single mother working at city hall, but the State Security Service paid her a visit and…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “But I’m sure that won’t be an issue for you!”

“Of course not.” Loid’s voice was breathy, his attention mostly elsewhere. He did his best to stay composed, to maintain that painstakingly professionally air, but you could feel him twitch inside of you, feel his hips stutter as his pace grew that much more brutal. “We’ll be taking care of you. When you start to show, you’ll move in with us, and—” A groan, a pair of tired eyes allowed to close. “—and if you cooperate, we’ll make it so you don’t have to worry about anything aside from the baby. Any added stress will only make the pregnancy more difficult.”

Loid’s hips pressed against yours, Yor’s mouth on the curve of your neck. “Our little family is growing so quickly.” You could feel her grin against your throat, fangs ready to clamp down at the first sign of resistance. “I can’t wait until you’re better. You’ll be so happy, when you’re in your right mind again.”

Your mouth fell open, but anything you might’ve said died in your throat long before it could ever reach your tongue. There was no pleasure to it, no stimulation other than the same grating sensation and the pinpoints of pressure where Loid’s fingertips dug into your waist, but if your comfort mattered to Loid, he would’ve stopped as soon as he saw what his wife did to you. He cursed under his breath, throwing his hand forward and hauling your rigid body that much closer to his. You didn’t have a chance to brace yourself, to trick your pain-addled mind into believing there was anything you could possibly do to get away from him before he went still, something thick and searing flooding into your unprotected cunt. He lingered there, his cum leaking out of you despite your pussy’s futile attempts to cling to his cock, and for the first time, you let yourself think about what they were taking about – insemination, pregnancy, growing families and new siblings. You let yourself acknowledge the weight of Yor’s hand against your stomach, Loid’s hips against yours. You let yourself breath in, holding the air in your lungs for a moment before exhaling and going limp against Yor.

Fuck.

If you never saw the Forgers again, it’d still be a day too soon.

Yor started to pull away from you, but Loid stopped her. “Conception can be fickle,” he started, fighting not to pant audibly. “It’d be for the best if we were…” His eyes dropped to you. “…thorough.”

“Do you hear that?” Her hold grew that much tighter, her smile that much brighter. Her lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. The feeling might’ve sent a chill down your spine, if you still had the strength to be afraid of them.

“Loid’s going to take very good care of you.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #spy x family #spy x family imagines #yandere spy x family #yandere loid forger #loid forger x reader #twilight x reader #yor forger x reader #yor x reader #yandere yor #yanderecore #yancore

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onlyquinns · 2 months ago

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pairing: quinn hughes x reader, fluff!

content: you and quinn share a fun moment despite rough circumstances, mention of hockeyplayer!reader

the sun sets quickly in the orange sky, its last bright rays obscured by the city skyline off in the near distance. your breath comes out in puffs in the frigid air as you watch quinn shoot puck after puck into an old, dingy net placed out on a frozen over lake, probably left out by someone’s parent or a peewee coach. despite having access to roger’s area after hours, quinn always preferred an outdoor rink, the lake being his favorite; it brought nostalgia into the sport he loved, encouraging him to continue going regardless of his team’s standing and reminding him of where he started back on that lake in elementary school.

you can tell he’s upset, incredibly frustrated with his coaches and managers for attempting a rebuild to a team that he held all of his faith in. you watch as he pulls his stick back, lining up for a shot, and swings down at a blinding speed. the puck arcs through the air and ricochets off the net’s paint-peeled bar with a loud clang into the back corner in the opposite side.

quinn lets out a breath and you notice that his stick lay in two pieces, the strength behind his shot having put too much bend to the poor thing.

“quinny, let’s go home,” you call to him, your voice gentle but without the pity that he’s so tired of hearing.

quinn shakes his head, skating over to you in long and graceful strides. he hands you the two broken pieces of his stick, your fingers brushing the coarse fabric of his gloves. “just a few more, baby,” he says, exhausted eyes roaming your face. “can you grab me my other stick from the car?”

you give him a gentle smile and take the broken stick into your hands, “yeah,” you say gently, “is it alright if i get my skates on and join you? i’ll stay out of your way, jus’ wanna skate a bit.”

you watch as the corner of quinn’s lips quirk upward just briefly before he nods and skates away from you, running through skate drills by himself. as you turn your back and make your way over to the back of his car, you listen to the scrape of his blades on the frozen lake, sound filling the darkening night sky.

the back of quinn’s porsche is jam-packed with hockey gear. an old opened gear bag he snagged from the lake house in michigan sits against the wall of the car’s trunk, an old piece of duct tape stuck to it with his name on it in ellen’s faded handwriting from years of childhood hockey practices. next to it are three hockey sticks stuffed haphazardly into the vehicle, the middles of them hanging over the back seats.

you toss the broken stick into the car and snag two sticks, quinn’s extra one and one of your own quinn brought along in the slim chance he could convince you to shoot pucks with him. you dig your cold fingers through the gear bag with a wrinkle of your nose and fish out a pair of hockey gloves in your size and your own skates, the gloves being second-hand from quinn himself when he was younger.

you quickly tie your skates on and walk through the packed down snow to the lake, hockey sticks in your gloved hands. when you approach, quinn skates over to you and takes the sticks before taking your arm into his and guiding you onto the lake—even knowing the two of you started skating at similar ages. you thank him quietly and loosen your grip from his and take your stick.

“race ya’ to the puck,” you tease and shoot off toward the puck before quinn can respond.

quinn chuckles softly at your words and the sound of his blades fills your ears, his body close behind you as you round the net and fish the puck out from the corner. muscle memory kicks in as you handle the puck, your arms aching a little from having quit hockey after your senior year in high school. you look up and smile at quinn as he positions himself in front of the old net, cheeks flushed from the winter air. he drops his chest forward a little and takes in your form, his tired eyes sweeping over the grin on your face, the mottled skin under his eyes adding a sharpness to his features. the frustration in quinn’s chest melts away and his eyes soften under your gaze, a sense of calm and joy warming his body—thats when you take the chance to advance onto him.

you skate in jagged lines toward quinn’s hunched form, stick pushing the puck along the ice. “they advance toward the net,” you announce into the night air, “and…” you draw your stick back and swing down, sending the puck across the ice and toward quinn, “they shoot!” quinn laughs and easily deflects the puck.

“shot on goal stopped by hughes,” he calls toward you as he skates away from the net and you race after him with a giggle.

you settle yourself a few feet away from quinn and stare him down with a grin. quinn’s lips twitch just a little and he quickly skates around you, driving his body closer to the open net.

“hughes skates around y/n and races toward the net!” he calls behind him.

you let out a loud laugh and go after him, “y/n is in pursuit of hughes—“ you watch as quinn draws back his stick and shoots the puck. “—but is unable to stop him; hughes scores!” you hoot and launch yourself into his arms, stick above your head.

quinn laughs, “i thought we were playing against each other,” he says, his chest rising and falling steadily against your heaving one. he squeezes your hips with his hands, eyes drawn to the joyous look on your face.

“we’re teammates now, duh!” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his. “how do you feel?”

quinn smiles softly and cants his lips onto yours in a soft kiss, “better,” he mumbles and smiles wider when you grin into the kiss. “much better.”

all photos from pinterest

#val’s writing 🧃#quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #hockey x reader

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ranpazz · 2 months ago

Text

ARE YOU DEATH OR PARADISE? ft. Dazai Osamu

synopsis ; He thought he could prevent your inevitable death. How foolish he was to believe that he'd succeed where he failed in every world.

cw ; beast!zai, character death, angst/no comfort, gn!reader, not proofread (it's me.), someone needs to take Billie Ellish away from me.

Death.

Humans fear two things. The inevitable, and what they dont know. The first thing is what most humans tend to try and avoid, knowing that it's impossible. Some fear it, some wish for it. To Dazai, it was something that he felt the duality of. He feared it– only when it prayed and caught onto those he cherished most, yet he wished for it to the point it was not sane.

In this world, the very one he fabricated every tiny detail down to the wire, he assured himself that nothing could truly avoid his watchful eye. He even brought you along with him to ensure that fact. You're something precious, possibly even otherworldly, to Dazai, even in the realities that he's a mere spectator of. The memories of you that plague his mind like flies swarming food.

He wanted to believe that, even just for a moment, you were his. That you didn't belong to the versions of him from another world– you were solely his. Dazai protected you, he has the resources in this world to save you from the very fate that found you in every universe– death. You were supposed to be safe. You were not supposed to be lost. This wasn't supposed to happen again. Then again, Dazai knew better.

So why did he hope that you were any different?

Why did he believe that when he witnessed you die on the CCTV footage, killed by a threat greater than himself, you were merely playing a game? Why did he, for once, pray to a God that this was not the horrid reality it was meant to be? Why was life so far away from fair, taking away the only string of sanity that kept him going in this world?

It was simple, really. He was Dazai Osamu. Everything he wants is lost the moment he obtains it.

Which led him here, hovering over your body, clutching you tightly in his grasp as if you'd vanish the moment he let you go. He was trembling, your blood was staining his hands, tainting the bandages he wore a deep shade of scarlet. Dazai had never cried before, but he could feel his tear ducts stinging, his vision blurring.

Chuuya’s shouts were ignored, all Dazai could focus on was how at peace you looked. Your hair was disheveled, yet it framed your face with the upmost delicacy, your lifeless eyes were closed, thick lashes mocking him, causing him to ponder that you might just be toying with him. Unfortunately, the lack of a heartbeat in your ribs, the paleness of your skin, and the way no air entered nor left your body, said otherwise.

The pages of that godforsaken book tunneled his vision, the sentences that spelt out your death tantalizing him. He knows, so stop it. Stop reminding him of what he lost. Dazai knew he was reckless, stupid for bringing you into this life when he should have left you alone. He should have learned from those other versions him that it's best not to become attached. The original version learned from Oda, so how come he just had not learned his lesson from you?

It could have been that he did not want to accept the truth of your demise. You had loved him so tenderly, accepted every one of his flaws, remained patient with him no matter what occurred. You were practically his safe-haven in each universe. Maybe it was your understanding that led him to forgetting the reason why he told himself to stay away. Or possibly it was the sheer love that he refused to acknowledge until the last minute.

In the next life, he'll try again. You'll stay safe, you'll stay alive. He'll do whatever it takes for you to stay by his side.

Next time, he'll do things differently.

divider by @kodaswrld

#♧ranpazz #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd dazai #dazai x reader #dazai angst #beast!dazai #beastzai #i wrote this with my tears #while listening to billie ellish

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seat-safety-switch · 14 days ago

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Nothing that humanity has put on this earth is as challenging as the humble bouncy castle. Is it an icon of joyful childhood glee, or a deadly trap waiting to consume the unwary? One thing is for sure: it's cheaper to buy one than to rent it twice. Party planning parents in my periphery participate in a profiteer's piratical paradigm. Every weekend, I see an event-rental truck appear and disgorge a balloon-based fortification. That's money I could be making.

On paper, a bouncy castle is pretty simple. Those of you who fell asleep a lot in physics class: I'm gonna try to make this as straightforward as possible. You've got a bunch of fabric in the shape of a castle. You've got a compressor that fills it full of air. As long as nothing leaks too badly, it turns into a puffy castle. Like blowing up a balloon. Then – don't fall asleep again – you tie it down.

That's right. You have to tie down a bouncy castle, and tie it down really well. Something about the size and the seeming solidity of this thing tells our brains that it's big and heavy and can't easily be moved, but if you think about it even medium-hard, it's basically a parachute that we're farting into. A big wind storm comes through, and that sucker is in orbit. So you want to make sure you tie it down really well. That's where my competitive advantage comes in.

You see, bylaw has been getting angry about my parking habits for the last couple of weeks. And, to be fair, their argument does have its merits. It is very unusual indeed that I have over six hundred cars, most of which are in states of disrepair, littered all over my neighbourhood like kudzu. I imagine that visitors to the community find it hard to park. Hell, I have to find a place for a new car almost every week, and I'm cussing myself out when I have to walk home after parking twenty blocks away, inside a church basement where they forgot to lock the windows.

A car's engine is basically a big air compressor. And a car is very heavy, too. Perhaps you see where this is going. All I had to do was get some old bouncy castles, strap 'em to the roof, and instant party rental. I'll always have a parking space in front of the house of whatever kid is having a birthday this weekend, parents don't have to worry about a three thousand pound counterweight blowing away, bylaw is afraid to interfere with any revenue-generating parking, and I get to collect some tax credits for "carbon capture."

It went really well for a couple weekends. Then those leaks started to show up. Turns out I had a few very poke-y pieces of rust sticking out of the dilapidated cars I was using as a mobile fortress platform. That ripped up the castles real fast, and soon I was spending all my profits on duct tape. That's why they don't have castles anymore, history profs.

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durkeeglobal · 1 year ago

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Durkee Flexible Air Ducting System Integrated Solution for New Energy Battery Industry

On April 9, CATL Energy released a new energy storage product - the Tianheng standard 20-foot container-type energy storage system. The system features in the 4-dimensional true safety, 5 years 0 attenuation, with the total capacity of 6MWh, the energy density per unit improved by 30% while covering area decreased by 20%.

With the increasing growth of the new energy vehicle market, the new energy battery industry is also developing rapidly. Durkee foresees the future trends of the new energy battery industry and has innovated the flexible air duct system solution to meet the needs of different manufacturing scenarios. This has earned us high recognition from leading customers in the domestic and global new energy industry, including CATL, Svolt Energy, CALB Lithium Battery, BYD, and Tesla.

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In high space ranging from 10m-20m, Durkduct pre-insulated air ducts are applied as the transmission ducts, and the fabric nozzles are connected to supply the air. The precise design of the nozzle structure and taper enables the air delivered to the targeting area at high velocity.

As for lithium battery cell manufacturing, traditional solutions commonly possess the following cons: complex installation, long construction period, high costs, and zinc pollution caused by GI ducts.

Nanosox Fabric Air Duct Systems are designed to fulfill the uniform air supply for the Setup & Module PACK workshop. Through axially uniform perforations, and radially linear, forming a fan-shaped three-dimensional airflow, is even and comfortable, bringing an excellent airflow effect for the production lines or working spots. Meanwhile, Durkduct Air Ducting System is ultra-lightweight, has low construction costs, a short installation period, and easy cleaning & maintenance.

Part of our clients

#tesla #byd #catl #svolt #fabric air duct #flexibleairducting #textileductwork #textileventilation

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moriitis · 3 months ago

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HOLYYY SHEET

YOU'RE THE AUTHOR OF BLOODLUST? THAT ONE OF MY FAVORITE DARK TOBY FIC!! MY FAVORITE PART WAS HIM KISSING US THROUGH THE FABRIC. (IDK WHY THAT WOKE SOMETHING INSIDE ME) MAYBE WRITE SOMETHING SIMILAR THAT-😈😈😈😈

yes, it is i. hheehe thank you! you ask, i write.

Toby Rogers x Fem!Reader. Short.

Wordcount; 1.1k.

Content/Warnings; mentions of non-con, blood, non-consensual kissing, hyperventilating, feelings of suffocation.

Those kidnappings you read on the news happened frequently, too frequent and you felt uncomfortable knowing that these people were winding up dead. Everyone was on their toes, your mayor even enforcing a curfew to ensure the safety of his citizens. It was a good idea, at least it was; the number count continuing to pile up. Your Mom begged you to come home, to stay with them until things simmered down but you knew you were more than capable of looking after yourself. You ensured your doors and windows were locked, there was a handgun in the bedside table and your landlord made sure to tighten security for the coming weeks. Despite the fear, the panic - you knew that this wouldn't happen to you. You read this shit a lot, people got murdered every day and never once did you think that this would happen to you? Why would it?

Well, that was your mindset, a shitty mindset to have as you struggled against the grip on your wrists. You were unsure what had happened, one moment you were in bed, the next you were fighting a figure much larger and more muscular than you. You tried to fight, to scream, but his trained hands knew how to shut you up within minutes. There was a throb in your head, a throb that pulsated around your skull and squeezing your brain in a deadly grip. You had no idea where you were because when you awoke, you were enveloped in complete darkness. Wiggling around, you tried to get a feel of your surroundings. Your wrists and ankles were tied by what felt like duct tape and there was a hood over your head, a blanket of some sorts that made the small space around your head suffocating. It didn't help that now you were panicking as you tried to steady your breathing, as you tried to figure out what to do. A part of you was convinced you were already dead, that this was the afterlife and it was cruel and unwelcoming but the blood that tainted your forehead felt real enough. You were certain it were blood, as it had that metallic taste and smell to it and the pain was becoming unbearable.

With a grunt you shuffled, trying to rip the duct tape or wiggle free but it was useless. There was a chair beneath you and suddenly a light flicked on, alerting you and causing you to freeze. With your sight stripped from you, you focused on using your ears as aid. There was a shuffle a couple feet in front of you, it approached you, walked around you and then stopped in front of you again. Despite the urge to remain still, you were shaking and a part of you feared that you might even piss yourself; not that it was that big of a deal in this moment.

"Now, I know you're ss-scared-" the voice started, it was gruff and it seemed the person was struggling to form words as there was a motion before you. Your chest heaved up and down, desperate for some fresh air and to be home; under the warmth of your blankets. You were on the brink of hyperventilation as you tried to remain calm. The voice continued; "I get it. So, f-fforgive me." This male voice did not sound apologetic, smug perhaps and suddenly you felt some hands atop your knees. They were gloved, leather? They squeezed the flesh of your thigh, making you feel nauseous at the touch. The gloves were cold, making you shiver at the touch as you whimpered softly. You wanted to speak, to scream even but you only remained silent as you prayed to whatever God there was that you made it out of here alive.

Suddenly one of the gloved hands moved, his weight distributing to the other hand on your knee as you felt fingertips touch you through the fabric of the hood. A touch unwelcomed as you flinched, trying to steer your head away.

"No, no, don't shy," he uttered as he grabbed your chin and forced you back close to him. You couldn't see him, only a shadow loomed through the stitching of the hood as you grunted out. The touch sending all kinds of shockwaves through your system, your body telling you to do something, to fight!

A gloved thumb caressed your cheek tenderly through the cotton, appreciating how beautiful you face must be, how scared you must look right now. Perhaps he had covered your face in your favour, or maybe even his own. Regardless, you hated this, you hated him. Nothing stopped him from ripping it off your face and exposing you to his own features and surroundings, but you knew any maniac as skilled as he wouldn't make any risks. Then his thumb trailed to the bottom of your lip, pressing firmly against the hood. Your breath becoming even hotter under the fabric, unsure how to think or feel; knowing you were nothing but a part of his perverted games.

"A part of m-mme doesn't want to kill you," he purred, chuckling softly. Those words made your heart drop and immediately you began to sob, wanting nothing more to live this life.

"Please- don't.. I won't tell anyone about you, please-" you begged, shaking your head softly which only resulted in him grabbing your chin once again, holding your head firmly between his fingers.

"Shut up," he spat, the sudden humour in his voice replaced with hate. Then there was a beat of silence as he cleared his throat to speak again. "Don't be so pathetic. Please." There was a hint of desperation in his voice, a sound of woe himself. Regret in his words, regret in how he spoke to you. Before you could cry and plead, his mouth crashed against your own. The cloth acted as a barrier between your lips, the warmth of his breath creating the small space within the hood even more suffocating. It was a kiss stolen, unwelcome as you fought the grip on your chin. A fight deemed useless as his tongue grazed over the fabric of the hood, wetting only the cloth; desperation in his breath at the temptation to kiss your naked lips.

It was over as quickly as it had happened and finally he released your head, allowing your head to hang in shame. There was a shuffle of footsteps, another person approaching and any hope you had of surviving this now vanishing into nothing but disappointment. You accepted that whatever day it was, you would die.

"Not her, we need her," the voice spoke in the doorway and you felt your brows twist in horror, confused by the statement. The man who had kissed you sighed.

"Well, that's gonna be awk-awkward.." he grumbled.

#creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #ticci toby #toby rogers #ticci toby x reader #mdni

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silvercap · 5 months ago

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if ur still taking prompts :3 “silent fury” but make it h/c? maybe one of leon’s boys goes on a “rampage” to save him orrr maybe someone is angry at the dso for almost killing him again or ya know whatever strikes your fancy

OHHHH I LIKE THIS!! (Prompts)

7. Silent Fury

Chris coughs frantically as the gas invades his lungs, throwing his oxygen-starved body at the sealed metal laboratory door with enough force that he can practically feel his shoulder bruising upon impact. Beside him, Leon sags against the wall with half-lidded eyes, gun hanging from limp fingers.

"Fight it," Chris chokes, but Leon's body has already succumbed, knees buckling beneath him as he collapses bodily to the floor and doesn't move again. Chris grits his teeth, ignoring another wave of dizzy lightheadedness in order to redouble his assault against the locked door. The room has no other exit, round and filled with glass tanks that Chris can't make out when his vision is blurring so badly but knows are filled with half-formed specimens suspended in bubbling liquid. The green glow makes him nauseous, casting the walls and his skin alike in eerie neon.

Chris throws himself into the wall with one last desperate effort and drops to his knees, heaving for air. His throat hurts from breathing in chemicals and god knows what else, muscles aching and spasming as it attacks his body. Leon doesn't move when Chris drops the rest of the way to lie beside him, weakening arms reaching out to scoop up the other man and pull his unconscious body close. Chris presses their foreheads together and blacks out an instant later.

-~-

When Leon wakes, it's to harsh light and a hand in his air, eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to make sense of the figures towering around him. An experimental shift reveals that his hands have been tied behind him, the hardness of a chair pressing into his back as his head is stretched backwards to expose his throat. He coughs.

"With us, again?" an accented voice drawls, one of the figures stalking towards him to reveal a tall man in militaristic clothes, a blade in his hand. Flinty eyes stare Leon down as he tries and fails to think of who this wannabe tough-guy could possibly be, the man's calloused fingers twining around the knife in a delicate way that reminds Leon of Krauser and his knife tricks---and tells him that the man knows how to handle it. He leans in close, drawing the sharp tip very gently down the curve of Leon's bottom lip. "We're very pleased to have you as our guests today, Mr. Kennedy."

He grins, letting the knife follow the natural line of Leon's jaw and down to a collarbone, where he presses into the skin just enough to make a bead of blood bubble between Leon's clavicles. Leon rolls his eyes. "Is this supposed to be scaring me? Get on with it, will you?"

The man laughs, standing upright. "It's not you that I'm trying to scare." He shifts away so that Leon can see past him into the dingy, cement-floored room he's been placed in---and the other chair several feet in front of his own, one Chris Redfield secured to it with rope around his wrists and ankles. There's blood on his temple, eyes blazing dark with silent rage that would be terrifying if only he weren't looking at Leon with such tender concern at the same time. Leon feels his blood run cold.

"Chris?" he calls. "Don't give them what they want. I'm trained for this, alright? Don't fucking tell---"

A hand grabs Leon's chin with force, a thumb shoved between his lips before he even registers what's happening. He thrashes, about to bite down, before a blow to the side of the face distracts him. Leon reels, attempting to kick one of his bound legs towards the large man who'd been brandishing the knife, but it's no use. He's the one holding Leon's jaw, a large wad of cloth in his other hand. It's all too easy for him to jam it hard into Leon's mouth, pushing so much fabric in that Leon, well, gags.

His eyes water as duct tape is wrapped far too tightly over his lips and around the back of his head, clinging to his cheeks and sparking a wave of panic at the claustrophobic feeling before he forces himself to exhale slowly through his nose. He's okay. He's faced worse. It's going to be---

"Lets begin," the man drawls, and plunges his blade deep into the flesh of Leon's thigh without warning.

Leon doesn't even try to hold back his cry.

He's not sure how long they torture him for, just that the world quickly goes foggy and distant with pain, shouting voices demanding things that Leon can't give. He can't see Chris through the hair that's fallen over his eyes as he lolls his head to his chest and heaves for breath, the wounds on his body, broken fingers, and ribs pulsing in time with his thundering heart. His cheekbone aches where a particularly nasty hook had split the skin, nose damp with blood that makes it even harder to breathe properly. The gag fills his mouth, saliva dampening the heavy fabric and muffling his pathetic whimper of pain as the man who's been beating the shit out of him offers one last slap to the side of the head.

Chris has been yelling incoherently for the past few minutes, but Leon can't hear his voice anymore. Maybe they gagged him, too.

"I'm tired of this, Redfield," the man says, a flash of metal the only warning Leon gets before the edge of his knife is up against Leon's throat, putting pressure on his trachea that makes him cough. The man digs in harder in response, the bright sting of Leon's skin splitting open on the blade's edge enough to make him wince. "Agree to the terms, or I cut his---"

There's a commotion that Leon can't make sense of, the blade leaving his throat so that he can suck in a relieved gasp of air. His eyelids flutter. Fuck, he's tired.

"Leon?" Leon can't open his eyes to see who's calling his name, the fear in their voice nearly tangible. They're talking fast, panicked. Chris, it has to be. Hands tug at the duct tape on his face, an effort that doesn't accomplish much more than wrenching Leon's aching neck. "Leon, don't do this to me. Leon? Open your eyes, Leon."

Pain spikes as Leon obeys, the harsh light upsetting the headache that had exploded into being three or four punches in. Chris's worried gaze appears before him, haloed in the glow.

"Good, that's it. Eyes on me, okay?" His voice is calm, collected, but Leon can hear that he's on the verge of tears, blood shivering down Chris's wrists as he carefully slices open the tape and peels it quickly from Leon's face. His hair is wild, eyes sharp with anger, but his touch is nothing but gentle. Even when Leon grimaces as his hair pulls free of its follicles, he's careful. "I've got you, I've got you."

Leon spits out the gag before Chris can even get to that point, the rag falling into his lap as he coughs and heaves for breath. He's dimly aware that he's trembling, but Leon's certain it's too small of a detail to notice. That is, until Chris pauses in his ministrations to run soothing hands up and down Leon's arms, leaning their foreheads together.

"It's okay. It's okay," he soothes, something dark stealing into his tone. "I took care of them. Let me deal with these cuts and I'll untie you, okay? I've got you."

Leon glances to his left and sees a growing pool of blood. He swallows, letting his eyes fall shut as Chris puts pressure on the deep gouge in his leg. "I trust you," he rasps, and means it.

#whump #ask game #my fics #asks #resident evil #drabbles #torture whump #hehee thanks for the asks guys

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n0ts0surel0ck · 11 months ago

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Some autistic Sherlock headcanons!!

Based on my own autism

Sherlock hates getting his hair cut. He can’t wear ear defenders and he despises the small talk and how loud the clippers and blow dryers are. So, he generally wears his hair long and/or cuts it himself. Mariana eventually starts cutting it for him, since it equally bothers him when his hair touches his ears or neck. She’s just… not very good at it.

John finds a salon for Sherlock that does sensory appointments. It’s a silent appointment, so he doesn’t have to talk, and John gets him some earplugs to help with the noise. They’re not as good as his ear defenders but they do for the short time it takes to get his hair done. He mostly gets a dry scissor cut so he doesn’t have to be wet and so the clippers don’t touch him. He doesn’t like the vibration. He finds that he actually enjoys the sensation of a blow dryer when the sound isn’t overwhelming him. The heat and the air pressure are soothing.

Sherlock is very particular about fabrics. He despises polyester and other scratchy, synthetic fabrics. Everything he wears has to be 100% cotton. If he got his way, he’d wear an old pair of holey, decade old pajama pants and a jumper everywhere, but he doesn’t. He understands that he has to be presentable. He likes linen, the material doesn’t touch him as much, doesn’t stick to sweat, and allows for plenty of airflow. During spring and summer, and often stretching into fall and winter, he wears a pair of grey linen trousers. When it finally gets too cold, he switches to a pair of cotton ones that have an elastic waist band. He hates when there’s a lot of pressure below his diaphragm, so he keeps it loose. Shirts are mostly tees in the summer, a bit too big so they don’t touch him much. In the winter, he wears big sweatshirts, a half-peacoat, and a green scarf.

He’s been buying men’s high-top converse since he was in middle school and refuses to wear any other shoe. They’re comfortable, allow him to move without being heard, and don’t add to his height. He hates breaking in new ones, and so holds on to the ones he’s wearing for dear life. John has seen him wrap duct tape all the way around his shoe to keep the sole from falling out before.

His bedroom is kept perfectly organized by absolutely agonizing effort. He is particular about that space, since it’s where he rests. He doesn’t work in there. His chemistry equipment is in the living room and he never goes into the room on cases unless John forces him to change clothes. His room is a sensory heaven that he works tirelessly to keep so. Cleaning is difficult for him, but he resets the space every time he leaves it, even when he’s in a rush.

The rest of the apartment is a bust. His executive dysfunction takes over as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hallway. He leaves toothpaste uncapped, cups and plates everywhere, clothes wherever they fall. It drives John insane and he tries to clean up after himself, but it feels like an insurmountable task.

His hyper fixations overtake conversation constantly. Sometimes he and John will engage in conversation that is just… incomprehensible to those around them. John’s talking about the weather and Sherlock’s talking about Pendolino trains. Neither is acknowledging the other’s topic of conversation, but they’re responding to each other in turn and seemingly having a lovely time.

He likes to stim “with” John when something exciting happens. He grabs both of John’s hands so they’re facing each other and has John pull him back and forth quickly. He likes it when John and Mariana mimic a stim back to him, especially vocal ones. When the three of them are in the office together, it’s just an echo chamber of mouth pops and buzzes.

Sherlock respects the fuck out of routine. His in unconventional, but he follows it almost religiously. This means he respects other’s routines just as aggressively. He never moves John’s items, and if he borrows anything, he puts it back exactly where it was, position and all. He noticed John folding laundry in a certain way and now, if he steals one of John’s shirts and washes it after, he folds it in that certain way.

#sherlock & co #sherlock and co #sherlock holmes #john watson #mariana ametxazurra

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creepinonmen · 2 months ago

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Jake stepped out of the bustling Pennsylvania Farm Show, the echoes of livestock calls and vendor chatter still ringing in his ears. The crisp February air of 2025 hit him as he adjusted his cap, the logo of a local ranch catching the faint streetlight. His denim jacket, jeans, and boots felt comfortably familiar after a long day of wandering the expo halls, chatting with farmers, and sampling artisanal cheeses. The weight of his belt buckle—a shiny emblem of his pride in rural life—clinked softly as he walked toward his hotel, just a few blocks away.

The hotel lobby was quiet, the fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the checkered floor. Jake nodded to the clerk, who barely looked up from a crossword puzzle, and made his way to the elevator. Room 312 felt like a sanctuary after the sensory overload of the day. He fumbled with his key card, the exhaustion of the fair settling into his bones. As the door clicked open, he stepped inside, the dim light from the hallway casting long shadows across the carpet.

Before he could flip on the light switch, a sudden, forceful shove sent him sprawling onto the bed. The door slammed shut behind him, and a heavy presence loomed over him. Panic surged through Jake’s veins as a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. He struggled, but the assailant was strong, pinning him down with ease. Duct tape ripped loudly in the quiet room, and within moments, Jake’s wrists were bound behind his back with coarse adhesive that bit into his skin, his mouth sealed shut with the sticky strip that muffled his panicked breaths into desperate, muted whimpers.

His heart raced as the unknown figure, shrouded in a dark hood, leaned closer, their face obscured. The assailant’s gloved hands moved with a deliberate, almost methodical slowness, starting at Jake’s lower back. Fingers brushed against the worn denim of his jeans, tracing the curve of his hips with a sickening intimacy. The touch lingered, pressing harder as they explored the contours of his backside, kneading and groping through the fabric with a grotesque curiosity. Jake’s muscles tensed, his body rigid with revulsion and fear, but the bindings held him fast, rendering him helpless.

The gloved hands slid downward, following the seam of his jeans with a slow, deliberate pressure. The leather of the gloves whispered against the denim, creating a chilling contrast to the warmth of Jake’s skin beneath. The assailant’s fingers paused at the juncture of his legs, pressing firmly against the denim to feel the shape of his body, lingering on the outline of his anatomy with horrifying familiarity. They squeezed and probed, their touch invasive and methodical, as if cataloging every detail, leaving Jake trembling with a mix of terror and shame. His muffled protests grew more frantic, his body twisting in a futile attempt to escape, but the tape held tight, and the assailant’s grip was unyielding.

With a sharp tug, the attacker unbuckled Jake’s belt, the metallic clink of the ornate buckle echoing in the room. The belt slid free, pooling on the bed, and the assailant yanked Jake’s jeans down to mid-thigh, the denim catching briefly on his boots before settling around his legs, exposing his vulnerability. The cool air of the room hit his skin, heightening his sense of exposure as the assailant’s hands returned, now skin-on-skin, groping with a brutal intimacy. They squeezed and probed, their touch leaving red marks where the gloves pressed hard, the assailant’s breathing growing heavier, a low, unsettling sound that mingled with Jake’s muffled sobs, amplifying the horror of the moment.

With a violent motion, the attacker forced Jake’s legs apart, the denim around his thighs restricting his movement further. Jake’s body tensed, his muscles straining against the bindings as he felt the assailant’s weight shift, positioning themselves behind him. There was no preparation, no mercy—just a searing, brutal penetration that tore through Jake’s resistance, sending a shockwave of pain radiating through his body. The assailant thrust deeply, their movements harsh and relentless, each motion accompanied by a guttural grunt that echoed in the quiet room. Jake’s muffled sobs grew more desperate, his body jerking involuntarily against the bed, but the duct tape held firm, rendering him powerless to fight back.

The assault was raw and unforgiving, the friction and force causing Jake’s skin to burn and bruise, his thighs trembling under the strain. The assailant’s hands dug into his hips, leaving red marks where the gloves pressed hard against his flesh, pulling him back with each thrust to deepen the violation. Blood mixed with sweat, slicking the space between them, as the pain became a relentless, all-consuming agony. Jake’s vision blurred with tears, his breaths shallow and ragged through the gag, his mind reeling from the horror as the attack continued, each moment stretching into eternity. The assailant’s breathing grew heavier, more erratic, their grip tightening until Jake’s body was a mere object under their control, shattered and broken by the brutality.

Jake’s body lay broken and trembling on the hotel bed, his wrists still bound tightly behind him with duct tape that dug painfully into his skin, his mouth sealed shut with the adhesive gag that stifled his ragged, shallow breaths. The dim light from the curtains cast flickering shadows across the room, the only sound his muted whimpers and the assailant’s heavy, uneven breathing. His jeans, bunched around his mid-thighs, left him exposed and vulnerable, his body bruised and blood-streaked from the brutal assault. The assailant, still cloaked in a dark hood, loomed over him, their gloved hands reaching for a crinkling plastic bag on the nightstand—a clear, thin grocery bag that gleamed faintly in the low light.

With a cold, deliberate motion, the attacker snatched the bag, the plastic rustling ominously as they stretched it open. Jake’s tear-blurred eyes widened in terror, his body instinctively tensing as he sensed what was coming. Before he could muster any resistance, the bag was yanked over his head, the edges snapping tight around his neck. The assailant’s gloved fingers gripped the plastic, twisting and pulling it taut against his skin, creating an airtight seal that cut off his air supply instantly. The plastic clung to his face, molding to the contours of his nose and mouth, fogging with each desperate, futile breath he tried to draw.

Jake thrashed wildly, his bound hands useless behind him, his legs kicking against the mattress as the denim around his thighs restricted his movement. The plastic crinkled loudly with every jerk of his head, the sound sharp and grating in the otherwise silent room. His chest heaved, each attempt to inhale drawing the bag tighter against his face, sucking it into his nostrils and mouth, blocking any chance of oxygen. His muffled gasps turned into panicked, gurgling noises, the gag muffling his cries as his lungs burned, starved for air. The plastic stretched and strained under the pressure of his struggles, tiny beads of condensation forming where his breath tried to escape, only to be trapped against the suffocating barrier.

His vision darkened at the edges, stars bursting behind his eyes as oxygen deprivation set in. The assailant held the bag firm, their grip unrelenting, the gloves creaking slightly as they maintained the deadly pressure. Jake’s body convulsed, his muscles spasming as his strength waned, each twitch weaker than the last. The plastic grew slick with sweat and tears, clinging tightly to his skin, the faint outline of his features visible through the translucent material as his face contorted in agony. His movements slowed, his legs twitching feebly against the bed, the denim rustling faintly, until finally, his body went limp, the bag still sealed around his head, now eerily still and silent. The last remnants of his life slipped away in the suffocating darkness, leaving only the crinkled plastic and the quiet of the room as evidence of his final struggle.

#gay #redneck #COUNTRYBOY #cowboy boots #TIGHTJEANS

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