#i might drown in my own tears | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

criminalamnesia · 5 months ago

Note

Not a request but NEW TRAITOR CHAP WHEN??? prioritize urself no rush Pookie just the ppl gotta know

part 7 is here 🙏

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

it was pouring rain as you slid from the taxi, the driver attempting to yell at you to shut the door as thunder rumbled overhead.

you paid him no heed; boots splashed in murky puddles as you pushed the door closed and moved towards the yellow cab’s trunk.

you could barely hear yourself think. the rain was battering the ground as if locked in a viscous war with the cracked pavement— puddles forming as the asphalt resisted with all its might. it wasn’t enough, water seeping into the ground and muddying the grass nearby, drowning it mercilessly.

you grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder before shutting the trunk. you’d barely stepped back from the car before it was speeding off, kicking up water and splashing your legs.

you didn’t mind— you were soaked through to the bone, anyways. besides, you didn’t mind the storm. it was comfort— a distraction from what lay ahead.

your new team. a small, covert operations group made up of the best of the best. two sergeants, a lieutenant, a captain— and they wanted one more soldier.

the opening couldn’t have come at a better time. you’d run your course with your old squad. they’d been fine— until they weren’t. carelessness and ignorance from teammates almost resulted in your untimely death, and laswell hadn’t questioned your transfer request after hearing the tale.

in fact, she’d recommended the one-four-one to you.

you thought you’d be meeting them on base, but the captain had requested you meet them here, instead. a run-down old diner, with its bright, neon pink sign blinking down at you through the rain.

you inhaled, then exhaled. clenched your fists, then unclenched them. it was a habit you’d had since you were a child. it forced you to slow down and think, to overcome the emotions you were lost in.

you blinked. rain ran down your face, creating false tears as it streamed from the corners of your eyes. you were sure you looked a sight.

another inhale, another exhale, and then you moved towards the diner’s door. you pushed it open, stepping inside and wiping your boots on the mat in front of the door.

“I think you’re gonna need to do more than that to dry off, sweetheart” a woman’s voice calls to you, causing you to look up towards the counter. she’s grimacing, looking you up and down. no doubt she’ll be following your path through the building with a mop in hand.

“sorry,” you tell her, trying to brush some water from your jacket. “forgot my umbrella.”

the woman gave a huff, waving her hand before turning and attending to an ancient-looking coffee maker.

you take the time to glance around the diner then, noting the substantial lack of customers. only two booths were occupied, one containing a young couple tangled in each other’s arms, and the other containing a man wearing a baseball cap with the UK flag patched on it.

he looked up from his phone as you approached, seemingly unsurprised based on the grin he gave you.

“glad to see you got here in one piece,” he says as you shrug off your bag, placing it on the floor as you slide into the seat across from him.

“one drenched piece,” you say, and he gives a small chuckle.

“im kyle,” the man tells you. “don’t know what laswell told you,” he clicks off his phone and places it on the table. “but im one of the sergeants.”

you nod. “callsign ‘gaz,’ right?”

he gives a nod of his own. his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up. his eyes glance down, scan the message, then meet yours once more.

“rest of the team got held up. price is in a meeting. johnny and ghost are on assignment, but they’re due back any day now.”

“so you’re the welcome committee by default, huh?” you say, and he laughs.

“guess i am. have i scared you off yet?”

“dunno,” you tell him. “but laswell sings your praises. the captain’s, especially.”

“she sings yours, too.” kyle says.

you give a small nod, your mind racing at what laswell may have told the task force. you weren’t bad at your job— you were great at it. a great shot, a reliable solider, a tireless sentry.

your emotions got the better of you at times, that was all. attachments and bonds that formed, linking you and your fellow soldiers together in the web of warfare. tying you around the wrist and dragging you along, for better or worse. little siblings or lovers evolving from what once had been just another set of boots on the ground.

this job was all you had. you found family where you had too, and it made you all the more loyal. but when you were spurned? when the fire leapt from the pit and scorched your skin?

you weren’t quick to forgive, and you found that reasonable in this line of work. mistakes by teammates could get you killed. who could blame you for holding a grudge against an ally who had almost cost you your life?

it’s why you were here now. a new start with a new team— a team of the best, you included.

kyle’s phone buzzes again. he picks it up, the screen illuminating his face as the lights flicker overhead. the storm wasn’t letting up.

“cap’s on his way— says he’ll be here in less than 30.”

“price, right?” you recall his name. kyle nods.

“don’t tell him I told you,” he leans in, a mischievous look in his eyes, “but he’s been lookin’ forward to meeting you. maybe even more than johnny has.”

“why’s that?”

“said the one-four-one is overdue for someone else who can kick johnny’s ass. wants you to knock him down a few more pegs.”

you laugh at that, giving a small shake of your head. kyle’s lips curl into a smile. “nah, he’s just happy to have some more hands on deck. always helps to have another person that’ll watch your back.”

as kyle starts talking again, you find your nerves settling.

maybe this team could be your new family.

you looked down at your hands, noting the slight shake of them. you don’t think they’d been steady since before everything happened.

your eyes glance to the ugly, scarred stump of the finger you’d lost. simon hadn’t chopped it off prettily, and it’d been stitched up hastily. you couldn’t blame the doctor, there had been more pressing injuries to attend to.

such as the bone-deep cut to one leg, growing infected from your time spent in the chair. the scar was long, stretching from the top of your thigh to your knee. it was still pink, a sign of your body still trying to put itself back together.

your torso wasn’t much better. jagged scars and puckered knots of skin marred your image. both from before and from after.

your eyes met your own in the mirror. you barely recognized yourself. the anger within you still burned, but its flame had reduced to a simmer. exhaustion, apathy, and shame had taken its place.

perhaps that was a good thing. it saved you the energy of fighting the men you inevitably saw every day. despite your numerous pleas and demands for them to simply leave you alone, they seemed to have a hard time listening. it made you want to scream. to hurt them, digging your fingers into skin until they understood the pain behind your words.

a knock sounded at the door. you didn’t move.

a knock again. you could hear the shuffle of feet outside the door. you wished whoever it was would leave you be.

another knock, accompanied by the soft timbre of kyle’s voice.

“love, you alright in there?” he was saying. you still stood before the mirror.

things had been different since you attacked the doctor. it had only been a few days, but word spread quickly through base. if people had avoided you before, you were like the plague now.

and the shame you felt was insurmountable. the pain and regret and fury were building like a tidal wave in your stomach, rising and choking the air from your lungs.

you wanted to leave this place. get away from the men you once called family, the one you once called yours.

but leaving meant the end of your career. you just had to hold out until kate arranged your transfer, that’s all. just a few more days, right?

and then this place and these people wouldn’t be a constant reminder of what had happened to you. of what it had done to you, physically and mentally.

“go, kyle,” you called out to him, breaking from your trance as you reached for the scratchy robe johnny had gifted you one christmas.

“not until i see you breathin’, love.”

you sigh, tying the robe shut and hugging the material to your body. you moved to the door, turning the lock before inching it open.

“breathing,” you tell him, watching as his eyes flick away from yours. god, it made you want to strangle him.

to yell at him, to yell at all of them— "you did this, and you should be able to look me in the eyes and see it.”

“now go.”

he looks at you again, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “will you let me in?” he asks, and you scoff as you move to slam the door.

“fuck off, kyle.”

but he’s quick, and his hand shoots out, grasping the door’s wooden edge and keeping it from closing.

“we need to talk.”

“whatever you need to say, you can say it from there,” you tell him, and he pauses for a minute before he nods.

“doc is asking about you again. she’s up and runnin’ around. said she wants to see you.”

your lips press into a thin line. you didn’t deserve that woman’s kindness, not after what you’d done to her.

you hadn’t been in your right mind, but that didn’t excuse it. you had bloodied your fists; harmed an innocent in the war between you and your own mind.

you didn’t want to see her still worrying about you when you had assured her you were fine. you had left her supervision, and then you’d attacked her. and you hadn’t stopped until simon had pulled you away.

you would’ve killed her, you know that in your heart. you would’ve killed her, thinking she was one of the men who had wanted to kill you.

“tell her im fine,” you said, your hand tightening around the door’s knob.

“i think she’d rather see that for herself,” he says.

“im fine,” you repeat. “i’ll be out of everyone’s hair in a few days, anyways.”

kyle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “you’re leaving?”

he knew this, they all did. perhaps they just didn’t truly believe it. all of them, every single one, still thought you’d turn around and run back into their arms.

bastards.

“as soon as laswell gives the word,” you reply. “should be soon.”

kyle doesn’t speak. he’s obviously biting his tongue— you’d seen the expression that was on his face enough to know when he was holding back, but you didn’t prod like you would’ve before.

let him keep his secrets, lies, promises, and sorries. you didn’t need them anymore.

“don’t bother me again,” you said before shutting the door in his face.

you hear him sigh on the other side of the wood, then hear the retreat of his steps. you turn back to the mirror, snarl, and grab the alarm clock from your nightstand.

you throw it into the glass, shattering it to pieces. seven years of bad luck, you think.

well, it couldn’t get much worse, could it?

kyle sighs, staring at your door for a second longer before turning away. simon looks down at him from where he was leaning against the wall, hidden from your view, his muscled arms crossed over his chest.

“surprised?” simon asks as the two of them retreat down the hallway. he makes sure they’re far enough from your door before speaking, so that you won’t hear his voice.

“we knew it was happening, price said as much after that whole thing with johnny,” kyle replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. “just thought this might change things.”

“change ‘em how?” simon says. “if anythin’, this speeds it up. they’re a liability now.”

“they’re hurt, ghost,” kyle retorts, his eyes meeting his superior’s. “that’s ptsd. not everyone’s as forgiving as the doc. they attack someone outside and that’s a fucking felony.”

“that’s not our problem, sergeant,” comes simon’s baritone reply, and kyle stops.

“you’re a fuckin’ case yourself, y’know that, LT?” he says, and simon stops. “we all played a part,” kyle continues. “but you? you would’ve killed ‘em if we never knew the truth. i know you would’ve. i’ve seen you do it.”

the men stare at each other. simon’s expression is hidden underneath his balaclava, but kyle knows it’s unreadable regardless.

mean, old ghost. heartless bastard, loyal to the mission only. that’s what the others around base whispered to each other.

kyle had seen proof to the contrary. yes, simon was loyal to the mission. but he was also loyal to his team, his family. you.

he was loyal to you.

“watch yourself, sergeant,” simon speaks, his voice a dangerous rumble.

kyle scoffs and walks off, shaking his head.

simon watches him go, his breath steady.

kyle didn’t understand him, not really. not the way you had begun to. and that was his own fault, he knows it. forever holding those close to him at arms length for fear of the worst.

he’d let you in— let you invade that space he enforced so ruthlessly. and the worst had happened.

kyle doesn’t know this is tearing him in half; none of the team does. they don’t understand that simon wants you to stay because you’re you, but he wants you gone because he can see how this is killing you.

even when he’s the villain in your story, he’s still trying to look out for you— in his own, twisted way.

he doesn’t regret it. that is cemented in his mind. but as he grapples with his own emotions, his mind in its own turmoil, he knows he wants you to be okay.

“im sorry,” he had spoken to deaf ears.

sorry for the ripping apart of your life, but not sorry for what he had done.

deep down, he knew you would never forgive them. he knew that leaving this team would be the best thing for you.

he knew, he knew, he knew.

knowing and accepting are two different things.

hope this was worth the wait! i think the next part will be the end, unless my idea changes 👀

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shadow4-1 · 7 months ago

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I'm just imagining the 141 looking for a medic because all of the ones they sign on keep dying or getting poached by other task forces. And you're a baby medic who is shadowing your higher rank and well esteemed teacher (who is actually the one on the 141's radar). But something goes horribly wrong...

You've done everything you possibly can but he's still drowning in his own blood.

He's tried walking you through everything through wheezing, wet breaths. He has a knowing look in his eye, this isn't working and it won't work. You're in the EVAC helicopter, but the time it'll take to get you back to base is too long.

"I-I'm sorry." You whimper, tears forming on your lashes. "I'm not a very good student."

Your mentor smiles sadly, his eyes glassy. He was always sweet to you when he was no nonsense with everyone else.

"You're doing great, kid." He huffs, blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. He winces and sputters up more but you're there. You try to fill up his vision and give him something to focus on. "People crash. Don't give up on 'em till it's over."

You cradle his head, memorize every wrinkle, scar, and patch on his kit. And then, it hits you.

He's right, its not over yet.

You rip through your medical supplies with shaking hands. It feels like it takes forever but it's merely seconds before you're sticking a needle from your vein into his. You watch the bag as it quickly fills with your blood before entering into him.

Your mentor chuckles and shakes his head weakly. This is nowhere near anything he taught you. But he knows it might just save his life since you're both the same blood type.

You go through multiple more needles releasing pressure on his lungs until he's even more stable than before. He finally has a shot and that's all that matters.

You're so close. Fifteen minutes out when he starts to crash again. You've exhausted everything. Your medical supplies are dwindling. You have no more blood to give. Your teacher just continues to smile at you. And he keeps smiling at you and he keeps smiling at you. You rub at his face, his eyes are far away. You feel for his pulse.

You scream.

It's not one of fear, but a deep, mournful cry. You turned your comms off forever ago but you know everyone could hear you, even through the wind. It carries your scream off and away as the heli's motors clip around you. You feel empty. He was supposed to teach you more. He was supposed to live.

You scream again and throw yourself over him. You sob and scream and grab at him, trying desperately to look for vitals. You know you won't find one but you're delirious. He's supposed to live! You did everything right!

Tears blur your vision but you notice someone out of the corner of your eye. It's one of the members of a different task force assigned to help your squad with this now terribly failed mission. He's their Captain, you think. He tries to reach down but you hiss at him. You don't care about rank. You don't care about the social ramifications. You scream to be heard over the wind.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!"

The man's eyes soften. You don't imagine what you look like. You probably look wild, feral, gnashing your teeth and growling. You don't care. He's YOUR teacher, he's YOUR responsibility. Quite frankly, you don't trust any of the other strangers watching you. You hiss at them too. Then you cry again.

You bury your face into your now dead mentor's chest and sob.

- - - - -

The look in your eye is like nothing he's ever seen before in a medic.

Price had watched you exhaust every possible avenue to save your superior's life. When all else failed you gave him your own blood. And when he finally succumbed to his injuries you threw yourself over him, not allowing anyone or anything to get close.

Even when they arrived on base, when your other superiors tired to swoop in, you stood your ground.

"I don't care! Even in death he's MY patient!" You yelled at your own Captain.

And surpisingly, they let you take care of him to the end. They even let you escort his body to the morgue. It's where Price finds you hours later.

You sit in a rusty old folding chair just outside the morgue doors. Your eyes are glazed over, far away, and still brimming with tears. He kneels in front of you to get on your level. He doesn't say anything, just waits for you to finally see him. You blink slowly and look up at him.

"I-I'm sorry..." You apologize. "I d-didn't mean t-"

"It's alright, Love." He hums and offers you a tight smile. "I understand."

He pats your knee in a fatherly way before standing up. His knees pop and he winces. You immediately stand up, your eyes searching him up and down.

"S' alright, I promise. Just a lil' stiff s' all." He soothes. "I need you to come with me."

He notices how your pretty lil' eyes widen. He shakes his head and offers a hand to help you out of the chair.

"You're not n' any trouble, sweetheart. I just want to talk with you."

He looks down at you with a knowing, sweet smile.

Your commitment is exactly what he's looking for.

#cod imagines #mw2 #call of duty #mw2 headcanons #cod mwii #captain price #price x reader #captain john price #john price

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yanderenightmare · 5 months ago

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TW: yandere, domestic violence, abuse, suicidal ideations, suicide attempts, accidental murder, death

gn reader

You should have never fallen in love with someone so brash, but you like seeing the good in people much to the abuse of your own. Still, rough around the edges as he was, you’d never thought he’d become such a monster.

The first time he slapped you, you were so shocked you’d ended up the one who apologized—all the way convinced you must have deserved it. And ever since then, you’ve only accumulated more bruises in areas you can’t explain.

You’re in the bathroom now. The door’s locked, but you don’t think it’ll keep him out for long.

“Open the door, babe—I didn’t mean it.”

You don’t even know if he has himself convinced of that or if he’s just saying it to soothe you. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that your wrist and rib are broken. You’re so terrified you think you might end up dying from the fear alone, sitting in the bathtub just waiting for the inevitable.

You don’t have a phone—it was taken when an old boyfriend had texted. You’d share his from then on, he said—better that way so he can keep track of you. It’s strange, but somehow, you believed it was rather romantic.

You were going to leave this time. It would be so simple. He was at work, and you’d just leave everything and walk right out the door. But there was an incident at the office which made him come home early only to catch you red-handed heading out the door you know you’re not supposed to open without him.

You’d been so panicked you’d tried running—but there was really no chance. His arms caught you hard, and the floor he threw you back on met you even harder—hence the snapped bones.

Still, you’d managed to scramble to the bathroom with just enough time to lock it behind you.

And now you were left all out of options.

“Open the door, we’ll talk. Maybe I misunderstood.” His voice had calmed down now. He’d been at it for a while—he sounded more airy, teetering on frantic, and it only served to scare you even more. “I know it can get pretty cramped in ‘ere all alone. Maybe you were just getting some fresh air, is all?” He left the question a couple of seconds worth of breath before sending his fist into the door. “Come on, answer me!”

You were sobbing. He might actually kill you this time. God knows you’ve thought he would other times with both his hands wrapped tight around your throat, stringing you up, making you lose voice for days.

You thought about it—the razor blades in the drawer. It seemed like the only option left. Better you than him, right? He’d make it painful. Or worse, he might not go through with it at all, and you’d be stuck living with him forever.

That really did seem worse than death, you thought, sitting on the floor while holding the shiny metal piece to your wrist. Which way was best to cut again? Right. It’ll be quick, and then it’ll be over.

You don’t even hear the door breaking down before he’s on you. You don’t even realize you’ve cut before you see the red. You don’t even know whose blood it is before he gags on it—before it splutters from his mouth upon your face and the slice on his neck splits upon and gushes out like a waterfall all over your clothes.

He drops to the floor with a heavy thud a moment later.

The blood is so warm you don’t even understand how he’s dead.

You even think about stopping the bleeding for a moment, but then it suddenly settles. And then along, shortly after, the understanding that you’d killed him.

The razor hits the bloody tiles with no sound—it’s all so thick it splats before sinking, disappearing slowly. You swallow once, but you’re throat is all but dry. Even the tears had stopped in the shock.

You spot the phone on the floor, having slid from his pocket—moments away from drowning in the blood that seems to just continue seeping and spreading forever. Something within you grabs it before it can.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“Hi! Uhm… I’ve just killed my boyfriend.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Enji, Aizawa ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Toji ♡ DS – Akaza, Inosuke, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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wolvietxt · 3 months ago

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💭 thinking about…

𝗅𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍!

pairing : logan howlett x fem!reader warnings : argument, logan shouts at reader over something insignificant, hurt / comfort, ANGST, fluff, happy ending word count : 2.4k

logan had been on edge for weeks now. everything seemed to be going wrong, one thing after another. his mission plan was falling apart, charles was breathing down his neck, and it felt like no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t catch a break. the stress was eating at him, wearing him down little by little until it felt like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

you’d noticed the change in him - how he seemed quieter, more distant, his temper flaring up over the smallest things. you tried to help where you could, offering him a shoulder to lean on, giving him space when he needed it, but nothing seemed to work. logan was like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment.

today had been the worst of all. logan’s day started with a series of frustrating conversations that left him feeling like he was running in circles. every task seemed to come with a new problem, and by the time he left work, he was fuming. his hands clenched into fists as he drove home, his mind racing with everything that had gone wrong. all he wanted was to come home, find some peace, and forget about the day. but even that was too much to ask.

when he walked through the door, he immediately noticed that the kitchen was spotless - so spotless, in fact, that his papers, the ones he’d left scattered across the table, were missing. he felt a surge of irritation. you had been on a cleaning spree, trying to make the house more comfortable for him, but in doing so, you’d moved around some of his blueprints. the ones he needed. the ones he hadn’t had time to organise properly.

“where are my papers?” logan’s voice was tight as he scanned the kitchen, looking for the documents that were now nowhere to be seen.

you looked up from where you were organising the bookshelf, smiling a little at him. “oh, i moved them to the study so you’d have more space. i thought - ”

“you thought?” logan cut you off, his voice rising. “why would you move my stuff without asking me?”

you blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness in his tone. “i just wanted to help. i know you’ve been stressed, and i thought having a clean space might - ”

“a clean space?” logan’s laugh was harsh, bitter. “i don’t need a clean space, i need my work to not be messed with! do you have any idea how much shit i’ve been dealing with lately? and now this - this is the last thing i need!”

he was shouting now, the frustration of the past few weeks boiling over. every little thing that had gone wrong, every setback, every sleepless night - it all came out in a torrent of anger directed at you.

“logan, i didn’t mean to make things worse…” you tried to explain, but he wasn’t listening. he was too far gone, too wrapped up in his own frustration to hear the hurt in your voice.

“you never think, do you? you just do whatever you want, and now i’m the one who has to deal with the consequences! i’m sick of this! i’m sick of everything always going wrong, and now you’re just adding to it!”

his words cut through you like a knife. you hadn’t meant to make things worse, you

were just trying to help, but the way he was yelling at you, the anger in his voice - it was too much. your chest tightened, and you could feel the tears welling up in your eyes, but you tried to hold them back.

“logan, please… i’m sorry, i just wanted to make things easier for you,” you said, your voice trembling.

“easier? easier for me?” he snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “well, congratulations, because you’ve done the exact opposite! now i have to waste even more time finding everything you moved, and i’m already drowning here!”

the tears you’d been trying so hard to hold back finally spilled over. you tried to wipe them away quickly, but logan was still shouting, too caught up in his own anger to notice.

“why can’t you just leave things the way they are? why do you always have to interfere? it’s like you don’t even care how much pressure i’m under! do you even care about anything besides what you want?”

his words were like a punch to the gut, and you couldn’t hold it in any longer. a sob escaped your lips, loud and broken, and it stopped logan in his tracks. the sound cut through his anger like a knife, and suddenly, the room was silent.

he stared at you, his chest heaving as he tried to process what was happening. you were crying - no, you were sobbing, and it hit him like a ton of bricks. all the anger, all the frustration that had been driving him just moments ago, drained away, leaving him feeling hollow and ashamed.

“y/n…” he started, his voice shaky now, all the sharp edges gone. “shit, i didn’t mean…”

but you couldn’t stop crying, the weight of his words crashing down on you all at once. you hadn’t realised just how much stress he’d been under, how deeply it had been affecting him, and now it felt like you’d only made everything worse.

logan stepped closer, his hands reaching out, but he hesitated. he didn’t know how to fix this - how to take back the things he’d said, the hurt he’d caused. “hey, hey… please don’t cry. i’m sorry, i didn’t… i didn’t mean any of that.”

his hands were trembling as he finally pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. he could feel your sobs wracking your body, and it broke something inside him. how could he have been so blind? so stupid?

“i’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “i’m an idiot, and i let all this shit get to me, and i took it out on you. you didn’t deserve any of that.”

you clung to him, your fingers digging into his shirt as you tried to calm down. his arms were strong around you, holding you like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality. and maybe, in that moment, you were.

logan pressed his lips to the top of your head, murmuring apologies over and over, his voice thick with regret. “i’m sorry… i’m so fucking sorry… please, y/n, don’t cry. i hate seeing you like this.”

you wanted to tell him that it was okay, that you understood, but the words were stuck in your throat. instead, you just held onto him, letting him hold you, letting his presence calm the storm inside you.

it took a while for your sobs to finally subside, and when they did, you felt exhausted, like all the fight had been drained out of you. but logan didn’t let go - he just held you tighter, like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d slip away.

“i’ve been such a fucking mess lately,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “everything’s been going wrong, and i didn’t know how to deal with it. i’ve been pushing you away, taking it out on you, and that’s not fair. it’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to us.”

you nodded against his chest, your fingers still gripping his shirt. “i just wanted to help… i hate seeing you like this. it feels like you’re slipping away from me, and i don’t know how to bring you back.”

logan’s heart clenched at your words. he hadn’t realised how much his behaviour had been affecting you, how much you’d been carrying on your own. he felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over him, and he held you even tighter.

“y’re not losing me,” he said firmly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. his thumb gently brushed away the tears on your cheeks, his touch soft, careful. “i promise you, you’re not losing me. i’ve just been so caught up in my own shit that i forgot what really matters.”

you searched his eyes, looking for the truth in his words, and you found it there - clear and unwavering. he was still here, still the man you loved, even if he’d lost his way for a while.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he continued, his voice steady now, a promise in every word. “we’re going to get through this. together.”

you nodded, a small, shaky smile forming on your lips. “yeah.”

logan leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “i love you,” he whispered, his voice filled with all the emotion he’d been holding back for weeks. “i love you so much. and i’m going to do better, i can fuckin’ promise you that, bub.”

you closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you, feeling the truth in them. you knew it wouldn’t be easy - logan was stubborn, and he had a lot to work through - but you also knew that he meant every word. he loved you, and that was enough.

“i love you too,” you whispered back, your voice soft but steady.

logan’s lips found yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, one that spoke of apologies and promises of love and commitment. when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed as he took a deep breath. logan smiled - a real, genuine smile that you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

the two of you stayed like that for a while longer, just holding each other, finding comfort in the closeness. the argument, the hurt, the tears - they were all still there, but they didn’t feel as overwhelming now. you both knew there was work to be done, but for the first time in weeks, it felt like you were on the same page, like you could actually do this.

when logan finally pulled away, he took your hand and led you to the couch, where the two of you sat down together. his arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side, and you leaned into him, resting your head on his chest.

“tell me what’s been going on,” you said softly, wanting to understand what had been eating at him for so long. “i want to help, logan. i don’t want you to go through this alone.”

logan let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair as he tried to find the right words. “it’s just been one thing after another. work’s been a nightmare. nothing’s going right, and scott is on my case constantly. every day, it feels like i’m just… barely keeping my head above water. and then i come home, and i don’t want to burden you with all of this, but it’s just… it’s been too much.”

you listened quietly, letting him talk, letting him get it all out. you could hear the exhaustion in his voice, the frustration, the weight he’d been carrying for so long. it broke your heart to know he’d been dealing with all of this on his own, and you hadn’t even realised how bad it had gotten.

“logan,” you said softly when he finished, your voice filled with compassion. “you don’t have to carry this by yourself. i’m here, and i want to help. we’re a team, remember?”

logan nodded, his eyes closing as he rested his head back against the couch. “i know. i just… i didn’t want to unload all of this on you. i didn’t want to worry you.”

“but i was already worried,” you pointed out gently. “because i could see that something was wrong, and you weren’t talking to me about it. that’s what scared me the most - not knowing what was going on in your head.”

logan’s grip on your hand tightened, and he turned to look at you, his eyes filled with regret. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to shut you out. i just… didn’t know how to talk about it. i didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“logan, you don’t have to be perfect,” you said, your voice firm but loving. “i love you for who you are, flaws and all. and if you’re struggling, i want to know. i want to be there for you, just like you’ve always been there for me.”

logan’s expression softened, and he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. “i don’t deserve you,” he murmured against your skin. “but i’m so fucking grateful that you’re here.”

you smiled, wrapping your arms around him and holding him close. “you deserve all the love in the world, logan. and i’m not going anywhere. we’ll figure this out, one step at a time.”

logan nodded, his heart swelling with emotion. he knew he was lucky to have you, and he was determined to do better - to be better. for you, and for himself.

the two of you spent the rest of the evening talking, really talking, about everything that had been weighing on logan’s mind. it wasn’t easy, but it was necessary, and by the end of the night, you both felt a sense of relief that had been missing for far too long.

logan knew he still had a lot to work through, but he also knew that he wasn’t alone. you were by his side, ready to face whatever challenges came your way. and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could finally breathe again.

as you both drifted off to sleep that night, wrapped up in each other’s arms, logan made a silent promise to himself: he would never take you for granted again. you were his rock, his safe haven, and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure you knew just how much you meant to him.

because at the end of the day, no matter how tough things got, you were the one thing in his life that he couldn’t afford to lose. and he would do whatever it took to keep you by his side, now and always.

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marvelstan0905 · 5 months ago

Note

Helloooo can you please write one where Ken is just stressed his practices and barely has time with reader and their baby girl so reader surprises him by taking their bby to watch hin practice and the entire time their baby is just giggling and cheering him on?

"Sunshine in the dark"

Husband!Kenji Sato X Wife!Reader [Oneshot]

TW : petnames/fluff/mentions of overwhelm, sadness and guilt/Emi mention/Kenji's mom mention/not proofread yet/mixed POV

Note : Here you go! Hope you enjoy it! Thank you for the love and support!❤️

Swing. Strike. Swing. Strike again. At this point Kenji had been out more times than he could count. His head was everywhere and he felt like he was pulled in numerous directions. The guilt and overwhelming feelings that drowned him where far too immense for Kenji. He couldn't even think of a time when he spent a full day, a whole 24 hours with his wife and beautiful baby girl, d/n. Kenji's little princess was so small, just months old and his mind was eating him for not being there for every single moment of her growth. That was only the cherry on the cake. His mother was still not found. All this Ultraman stuff was dragging him further down. Kaiju alerts left and right. Even if Emi was in a far better place and with her birth mom, Kenji couldn't help but worry from time. That was his baby as well. Then his passion, a reason for a smile on his face was going downhill as well. Baseball, God. Kenji felt like he was sleeping on the field. He was losing plays left and right. He couldn't get much sleep because of his own worrying and the Kaiju alerts which were increasing day by day. Along with that, he was doing his best to be a good husband and father. Trying to change and feed the baby at night, help his wife so she can rest as well but it felt like he was more of a problem than solution to his family.

"Goddammit! You're Ken Sato! The Ken Sato! Hit the ball! Hit the ball!" Kenji roared in frustration as he slammed the bat into the ground before picking it up. As the simulation of an old ball park surrounded Kenji, another ball was picthed and he missed once again. In complete frustration he slammed his knee into the bat. Instantly regretting it, he groaned from the pain and grumbled. "Of course. You're being so stupid, Kenji"

"Go Kenji!"

"You can do it, sweetheart! Just breathe!"

"Dada!"

Kenji immediately whipped his heads towards the stands to his beautiful wife, his daughter and his mother. All three of his favorite girls. Even if one was a simulation. It made Kenji's heart skip a beat and flutter in happiness. His baby daughter, sat on his wife's lap clapping and giggling. The infant finding joy in just seeing her father. Those little joys even made Kenji's frustration dissipate. Even for a moment. With a grin, you leaned to kiss your daughter's head.

"C'mon, princess. Say 'Go daddy'" I gently coaxed my daughter whiles she cooed and babbled. D/n just clapped and giggled calling out for her father with endless joy. Kenji's eyes brimmed with tears. This small moment, this joy meant the world to him. It was just what he needed. His sunshine in the dark.

Even so the simulation of his mother sitting right next his daughter and wife was all he needed. With a quick wipe to his cheeks, Kenji readied himself.

Batter up. Ichi. Ni. San. Ball!

With all his might, Kenji swung and finally hit the ball. The ball disappeared into the landscape of the simulation as Kenji dropped the bat and felt so refreshed. This small win. This trivial achievement. It was..everything to Kenji. At this very moment, he just needed this.

"YAY! GO KENJI!" I cheered for my husband. The simulation of his mother followed in suite urging him to run. Kenji went towards the stands and picked up his daughter. With a spin around, he peppered her face in kisses before running three bases with her safely tucked in his arms. At the very last stretch, just three quarters in from the third to home base, Kenji put his tiny princess down and held her hands tight. "That's it! You're almost there!"

"Come on, little one. You can make the home run for daddy!" Kenji encouraged his daughter who giggled. D/n held onto her daddy's index fingers and with his support she waddled towards home base. With some falls and babbles on frustration, she finally got there. Kenji couldn't help but think of Emi when his baby daughter finally made the home run.

"Home run! Let's go D/n!" I shouted from the stands. My daughter giggled and smiled brightly not even knowing what she was being praised for. Blissfully unaware of the impact her bright smile had on Kenji. "Well done, baby! You did Kenji!"

"There's my girl! Well done, princess" Kenji praised his tiny girl and picked her up holding her tight and kissing her tiny face. D/n clung to her father and nestled into his affection.

"Thank you." Kenji murmured as his cheek pressed against hus daughter's soft hair. Thank you to his wife, his daughter and..of course his mother. He really needed this.

#ken sato #kenji sato #kenji sato x reader #ken sato x reader #ultraman 2024 #emi ultraman #ultraman rising #ultraman #kenji sato masterlist #ultraman masterlist #kenji sato fluff #kenji sato x chubby reader #kenji sato x plus size reader #kenji sato x black reader #kenji sato x you #kenji sato x y/n

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darlingdaisyfarm · 1 month ago

Text

cigarettes after sex

tags: mullet!stan pines, fem!reader, mentions of alcohol and smoking, nsfw, sexual themes, depression, ptsd, drunk sex, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst, inspired by cigarettes after sex songs, so I recommend to listen some while reading that :)

Stan hasn't been himself since the portal swallowed Ford up.

His life is ruined, his mind is ruined, everything is ruined. Every single night, he’s hunched over the journals, Ford’s stupid, cryptic notes that Stan can’t figure out, can’t understand, but wants to. It's like trying to read in the dark. He knows there’s something in them, some answer, but it’s out of his reach and every time he thinks about his brother being gone, his chest tightens, that guilt slamming into him so hard he feels like he can’t breathe so he drowns in his own tears.

Stanley knows he’s not the smart one, never was, and now it feels like he’s lost every chance to make things right. The lab is his prison. The cigarettes are his only escape, one after another until the ashtray overflows, the smell of smoke permanently clinging to everything in this place. His eyes burn from lack of sleep, the bags under them deep and dark and he doesn’t bother to clean himself up anymore. What’s the point? He’s all alone. Again.

Tonight, something changes. He can’t sit in that goddamn lab for another second, can’t stare at those useless pages with his head spinning. So, he stumbles out into the cold and ends up at the bar down the street — the only place still open this late.

When he walks in, he’s already halfway drunk and you spot him immediately from across the room. It’s not hard; the guy’s a walking disaster. His coat is rumpled, hair a tangled mess, and his eyes are empty, hollowed out like he’s already lost something far more important than money. You've seen a lot of people sink to the bottom, but this guy sank even lower than most.

Stan doesn’t notice you at first. He barely notices anything as he stumbles up to the bar, hands trembling as he grips the counter. His cigarette hangs loose between his fingers, half burnt and about to fall, but he’s too out of it to care. He leans heavily against the bar, head down like the weight of his own body is too much.

“Whiskey,” he grumbles. “whatever’s cheap.”

The bartender glances at him, sizing him up with a frown. Stan looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, hasn’t eaten much either. It’s written all over him, the sag of his shoulders, the unsteady sway when he tries to straighten up.

The bartender slides the glass toward Stan, but before he even picks it up, he’s already mumbling something under his breath, little grin pulling at his lips. “Don’t think I got the money for this, pal.”

He downs the drink in one go, barely wincing as the burn hits his throat and for a moment, you think he might get away with it. But the bartender’s patience is wearing thin. He scowls, leaning in with narrowed eyes, clearly not in the mood to deal with Stan’s shit tonight.

“I’m not running a charity here,” the bartender snaps. “you pay or you leave.”

Stan grins, and it’s the saddest, most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen. “What, no freebies? Guess I’ll have to put it on my tab.” he laughs, but there’s no humor in it.

The bartender looks about two seconds from throwing Stan out on his ass and for some reason, you find yourself moving before you even realise it. Sliding off your seat, you walk over. Stan doesn’t notice you until you’re standing right next to him, and even then, his gaze is unfocused, blurry as fuck.

Before things get ugly, you step in, sliding a couple bills across the counter, “I’ll cover it.”

The bartender takes the money without a word, though you can feel the tension of the situation, he’s definitely bothered and not in the mood. Stan looks at you, bleary-eyed, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or just another hallucination. His mouth twists into that lopsided grin again, but there’s something softer about it this time, like he’s genuinely surprised someone bothered to step in.

He’s too drunk to notice the bartender’s scowl as you grab him by the arm, hauling him to his feet. He stumbles, almost dragging you down with him, but you manage to keep him upright, though just barely.

“Hey, thanks, sweetheart,” he slurs, blinking at you like he’s trying to clear the fog in his head. “didn’t know I’d be gettin’ free drinks tonight.”

He tries to stand up straighter, but the alcohol’s got a firm grip on him. His body sways dangerously so you reach out, grabbing his arm to keep him steady. He’s heavier than you expected, way too much, his body leaning against yours as you pull him away from the bar.

“Come on,” you mutter, dragging him toward the door. “let’s get you out of here before you piss off anyone else.”

Stan stumbles along beside you, his steps unsteady, barely able to keep himself upright. He’s mumbling something under his breath, words too slurred to make out, because he’s so fucking drunk, but you can tell it’s nothing good. Outside, the cold hits you both like a slap to the face. The winter air is brutal, biting through your clothes and cutting through the haze of alcohol that’s been clouding Stan’s head.

“Jesus, it’s freezing out here,” he mutters, blinking against the cold. His breath comes out in visible puffs, his flushed face suddenly looking even redder in the harsh chill. Then he looks at you. “So what, you my babysitter now?

This time you have to shove him back against the wall just to keep him upright. His back hits the cold brick with a dull thud, and he lets out a low, drunken laugh, his head tipping back to rest against the wall.

“Ohh, you gonna pin me here? gotta say, I’m not usually into this kinda thing, but for you, sweetheart, I might make an exception.” his body sags, leaning heavily into the wall as he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. “or are you just waiting for me to do something stupid?”

Your brows furrow at that, irritation flaring in your chest. “What are you talking about?”

He’s a mess, a complete disaster, but there’s something about him that makes it hard to walk away. Maybe it’s the way he’s still trying to crack jokes, even when he’s clearly drowning in his own misery. Maybe it’s the way his hands tremble, even though he’s trying to play it off like he doesn’t care.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes half-lidded as he stares up at the sky. Stan chuckles. “Well, I could just. . . y’know. Throw myself off a cliff. Put an end to all this crap. What’s one more dead Pines, huh?”

He’s not joking anymore. There’s something raw in his voice, he sounds way too hurt, too honest, too broken that makes your stomach twist. You don’t really know what to answer on that. You aren’t that good at supporting people, but supporting drunk guy? He’ll barely hear what you’ll tell him.

You pull a cigarette from your pocket, lighting it up with quick movements, because cold air stinging your fingers. Stan watches you through half-lidded eyes, his breath visible in the frigid air.

“Hey,” he mutters. “mind if I bum one off ya?”

You hand him a cigarette without a word, and he takes it, his fingers still shaking from cold or. . . as he lights it. He leans back against the wall, the smoke curling around his face as he exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

Neither of you speak after that. There’s nothing to say. You don’t know how to start a talk either. Is it even needed?

Stan’s a complete mess, the kind you don't want to get too close to. But as you stand there, cigarette smoke curling between your fingers, you can’t tear your eyes off him. He’s slumped against the wall, looking like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders or maybe that’s just the whiskey. You wonder why the hell you bothered to drag him out here in the first place. He’s a disaster and his weird comments aren’t helping, they just disturb you.

You take another drag, feeling the bitter taste of nicotine hit your lungs, and for a moment, you think about just walking away. He’s not your problem. You’ve done your good deed for the night and the cold air is starting to bite at your skin. Just leave him here. He’ll figure it out, or. . . he won’t. Either way, it’s not your concern.

But just as you’re about to turn and go, Stan mumbles something under his nose. It’s faint, too quiet to catch.

“. . . should’ve never messed with the damn portal.”

You blink. Portal? The word echoes in your mind, that’s surprising, intriguing. What the hell is he talking about? You glance at him again, but his eyes are fluttering shut, his body slumping further against the wall.

“Hey,” you say, stepping closer. “what did you just say?”

Stan’s lips move, but no sound comes out, he’s completely out of it. Your eyes widen in shock as you say “hey, man” louder to get him back to his senses, but before you can react, his knees buckle and he collapses, dead weight against the cold ground.

“Holy shit!” you drop your cigarette, your hands immediately going to his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. His head lolls to the side, completely out cold

Of course. Of fucking course! He’s drunk off his ass, hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten anything substantial in days. You run a hand through your hair, staring down at him, your mind racing.

You’re not sure what the hell to do with this guy. You don’t even know him. But something in your gut twists, something telling you to stay, to not leave him lying here like this.

***

He’s strange, sure. But why does that word “portal” keep sticking in your head?

Days pass, but your thoughts keep drifting back to him. That night, his ramblings, the look in his eyes before he passed out. You shouldn’t care. He’s just some guy, a random drunk you stumbled across. But you’ve always been a curious person. You keep thinking about how broken he looked, how utterly wrecked he seemed and you wonder what could’ve driven him to that point.

You’re out in town again, aimlessly wandering the streets of Gravity Falls, and without even realizing it, you find yourself back at the bar where you met him. It’s the same cold winter night, what makes your body shake from chill no matter how many layers you’ve got on.

You stand outside with a cigarette, your breath mixing with the smoke. Your mind’s still on him, on that weird stranger. You can’t help but wonder if he’s alright. Probably not? Guys like that don’t bounce back easy.

You take another drag, exhaling slowly, your thoughts swirling. You think about how he stumbled around, barely able to stay on his feet, and for some reason you smile. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s such a loser. But there was something strangely. . . cute about it all. God, why are you even thinking about him

Suddenly, the door to the bar swings open, and a familiar figure stumbles out into the cold. You blink, and sure enough, it’s him. That drunk weird guy. Same red jacket, same disheveled look, but this time he doesn’t seem quite as far gone. Still drunk, but not teetering on the edge like last time.

The bouncer gives him a shove, muttering something about not coming back without cash and Stan nearly trips over his own feet before catching himself. He stands there for a moment, muttering insults and then his eyes land on you. His gaze lingers, squinting through the haze of alcohol, and recognition slowly dawns on his face. He straightens up, well, as much as a guy like him can, and adjusts his jacket, trying to look somewhat presentable.

“Well, well, if it ain’t my guardian angel,” he says with a grin.

You raise an eyebrow, flicking the ash from your cigarette. “didn’t know angels had to drag drunks out of bars.”

Stan laughs, but it’s more of a low chuckle. “do I know you? I feel—“ he hiccups. “fuck, feel like I should know your name. . .”

“I never told you, dummy.”

Stan stares at you for a moment, processing that, and then he smiles wider. “Ah, right. Guess I can’t forget what I never knew.” he winks, but it’s sloppy, and you can’t help but smile back.

He takes a step toward you, leaning against the wall beside you. “Y’know, I gotta thank ya for payin’ for me back there. ‘Specially since that whiskey was crap. Worst I’ve had in years.”

You snort, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, and that’s why you drank all of it, right? real convincing, man.”

He chuckles again, running a hand through his brown hair. “What can I say? Gotta give every drink a fair shot. Even the bad ones.”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. The guy’s a mess, sure, but there’s something oddly charming about his complete lack of shame. He’s so human. Flawed and ridiculous, but human. And funny.

For a while, neither of you say much, just standing there under the night sky, the snow crunching beneath your feet as you walk slowly down the street. The cold bites at your skin, but it feels less harsh with him beside you, talking about nothing in particular. He rambles about the bar, about the bartender, about how he’s been kicked out of worse places, but there’s an ease to it, like he’s just talking to fill the silence.

And for some reason, you don’t mind it. His company is strangely nice. Despite everything.

As you walk, you glance over at him, still trying to figure out what it is about this guy that’s gotten under your skin. He’s weird, yeah. Definitely not what you’d call put-together.

He catches your gaze and smirks, a little lopsided but softer this time. “What, you like what you see?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not even close.”

***

Over time, you start to see Stanford Stan more regularly. It's never planned, never some formal arrangement. He’s just there, outside that same dive bar, smoking under the dim streetlight or wandering down the streets with his red jacket pulled tight against the cold. And every time, you find yourself walking beside him, talking about nothing and everything.

It’s not like you’re close, not really. He doesn’t open up, never gives you much more than surface-level comments or dumb jokes to deflect anything too personal. You only know what he lets slip, and even that feels like more than you should. He insists his name is Stanford, though something about it always sounds. . . off.

Stanley thinks he’s idiot. It’s a role he’s playing, a mask he’s not ready to take off, won’t take for for the next thirty years.

One night, after you’ve met up for what feels like the hundredth time, you finally ask him why he’s always drunk when you see him. It’s been bugging you for a while, how every time you meet, he reeks of whiskey and stale cigarettes, eyes glassy, speech slurred, sometimes flirting with you or winking dumbly at you. You’ve tried to ignore it, but tonight the question just slips out.

Stan pauses, cigarette halfway to his lips. You think he’s not going to answer, but then he takes a drag, exhaling slowly before speaking. “Helps me think,” he mutters. “keeps the noise out.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Noise?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the wall, his eyes scanning the street. “Yeah. The crap up here. Some people got quiet minds, y’know? Not me. Gotta slow it down.”

It’s vague, cryptic. You don’t push for more. You’ve learned by now that pressing Stan doesn’t get you anywhere. He only shares what he wants, and even then, it’s always layered in something else, sarcasm, a joke, some offhand comment that makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s just him deflecting.

Nevertheless, there is something in the way he says it that does not leave you indifferent. The way he looks when he mentions his thoughts, as if there's something more hiding under the surface that booze and cigarettes can't hide. You wonder what’s rattling around in his brain, what kind of shit he’s trying so hard to drown out.

Time passes, and your strange friendship, or whatever it is, continues. Nothing changes. You meet up, you talk, you walk through the streets of Gravity Falls, smoking and trading stories. Stan makes jokes, you laugh, and somehow, despite everything, you find yourself growing more comfortable around him.

But he never lets you in, not really. You can only guess at what’s going on in his life, at what’s driving him to the bottom of a bottle every time you see him. It’s frustrating in a way, how closed off he is, how he seems determined to keep everything buried. There’s a part of him that’s afraid to let you see the real him, afraid to show just how broken he really is.

You start to ask him more personal questions, though he always dodges them with some half-assed joke. Like the time you asked him about his hair. His mullet, to be specific. It’s a mess, now unruly and overgrown, and you can’t help but wonder why the hell he refuses to cut it.

“Why don’t you change a haircut?” you ask teasingly. “you look like you haven’t touched it in years.”

Stan just grins, flicking his cigarette into the street. “Ah, what can I say? Chicks dig the mullet.”

What you don’t know is that Stan’s too scared to look at himself in the mirror.

The way he avoids mirrors, the way his eyes flicker away if he catches his own reflection for even a second. It’s not about the hair, it’s about something deeper. Every time he sees his reflection, it’s not his face he sees, it’s Ford’s. If he cuts his hair, changes anything, he’s worried he’ll lose himself completely, that he’ll become the brother he’s spent his whole life running from. It’s not something he’d ever tell you, though. That’s way too deep for the guy who lives behind a wall of bad jokes and alcohol.

Stan never talks about his past. You’ve asked, but he always deflects with a joke or changes the subject. The most you’ve gotten out of him is when something goes wrong, he drops something, or his stupid car won’t start, or even when he just stumbles over his own feet. He’ll shake his head, muttering to himself, “Screw-up. Always been a screw-up.” It’s weird, like it’s the only thing he knows how to be.

It bothers you. You don’t get it. Yeah, he’s a mess, but this weird obsession with calling himself a screw-up, like it’s some kind of mantra, doesn’t make sense to you. You don’t know where it’s coming from, but every time he says it, you see a flash of something bitter in his eyes, like he’s heard those words so many times they’ve become part of him.

What you don’t realize is that those words are burned into him. His father used to call him a screw-up, over and over until it became his identity. And then there was Ford, his golden child of a brother, the smart one, the successful one. Stan’s always felt like the lesser of the two, never quite measuring up, always stuck in his brother’s shadow. He’s spent his whole life trying to live down to that title, like it’s all he’s worth. Stan was a kid, who heard those words over and over until they stuck, until he couldn’t see himself as anything else.

You can’t fix what’s already broken. But that doesn’t stop you from trying. Something about Stan makes you want to help, even though you know you can’t. He’s too far gone, too buried in his own mess. Still, you keep coming back. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of some sense of hope.

***

Another night, another round of drinks. The two of you sit at the bar, glasses clinking against the wood, the air is filled with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Stan’s already a few drinks in, and you’re not far behind. You laugh at something he says, probably another dumb joke, but you’re not really paying attention. Your mind is clouded, your body is hot from drinking, and before you know it, your gaze slides over his lips.

It’s stupid. You’re both drunk, and this is Stanford, the guy who can barely keep his life together, let alone maintain a relationship. But the way he looks right now, disheveled and messy, his lips curling into that cocky grin, makes your heart race.

His lips. Your lips. Apocalypse.

The kiss happens fast, messy, without warning. One minute you’re sitting there, and the next, his lips are on yours, rough and dry. It’s not graceful, not soft. It’s desperate, like he’s been holding something back for too long, and now it’s all spilling out at once.

The kiss deepens, but you don’t care. His mouth moves against yours, hungry, needy, like he’s searching for something, like that’s what he needed all those years. Human touch and someone else's warmth.

You’re both drunk, of course. Maybe that’s the only way it could’ve happened.

Stan tastes like smoke and cheap liquor, the bitterness lingering on your tongue as his hands slide up your back, pulling you in. You can feel the heat of his body, the way his chest presses against yours.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is a mistake, stupid drunk accident. But then he kisses you harder, his hand tangling in your hair and all thoughts of logic fly out the window. This isn’t about fixing him. You don’t care about anything except the fact that Stanford, the complete disaster of a man you’ve somehow gotten tangled up with, is kissing you like the world’s about to end.

His hands are rough, clumsy as they cup your face, and it’s all heat and desperation, like neither of you know what the hell you’re doing, but you don’t want to stop.

You’re not sure how it happened so quickly, one second, you were sitting at the bar, laughing, your lips crashing into his, and now you’re pressed against the cold wall of the bathroom. The neon lights of the bar barely make their way out from under the door, flooding the room with a dim glow as Stan presses you against the sink.

Stan kisses like an animal, like he’s trying to lose himself in the moment, drown out everything that’s weighing on him. Like he’s searching for some kind of escape. The alcohol has dulled his brain, but not enough to make him forget. He needs something more, something real to pull him out of the relentless spiral of thoughts, of portals, journals and the constant gnawing guilt.

Stan needs to lose himself in something, anything else. And tonight, that something is you.

His big hands are on you, one sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair, tugging you even closer as he deepens the kiss. He groans into your mouth and you feel how his hard cock presses through his jeans as he pushes you against the sink in the bar's bathroom. You feel like you’re burning from the inside out, every nerve igniting under his touch, his mouth trailing down your jaw, leaving a scorching path along your skin.

You barely notice when the door creaks open, someone stepping into the small, dimly lit room.

“Bathroom’s occupied, unless you wanna watch, but that’ll cost you.” Stan snaps, irritated as he glares at the stranger. The man stutters away quickly and the door slams shut with a loud bang.

Before you can say something, he’s kissing you again, hard, desperate, rough, demanding.

You moan into his mouth, tangling your finger in his brown hair, tugging him closer, and the word slips out between your breaths. “Stanford. . .”

Stan freezes and that name seems to knock all the alcohol out of his blood. It feels like something heavy and wrong between you, Stan's gaze is blank, like he's not here at all. It’s his brother’s name, the one he’s stolen, the one he’s buried himself under. You look at him and see something in his eyes. Regret. Guilt. That endless pain that’s been eating at him for as long as he can remember. You don't know what's going on, but you want to solve this damn mystery so badly. What's wrong with this man?

But then it’s all gone, replaced by that cocky grin.

“Stan’s fine, sweetheart. Trust me.”

His hands fumble with your pants, yanking them down roughly, desperately, his fingers massaging and rubbing you through your underwear. You’re already soaking, practically trembling from his touch, and he groans when he feels it, his fingers sliding through your wetness.

“Shit, you’re so wet for me,” he growls. “fuckin’ perfect, baby.”

You moan, head tilting back, the sensation overwhelming as he slides two fingers inside you, rough and fast. He’s not gentle, not tonight, there’s no time for that, no point for that too. He’s desperate and it shows in the way his thick fingers pump into you, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit in the most delicious way.

“St-Stan—“ you moan, looking down at his fingers thrusting into you.

“Please, don’t say it, don’t say that name,”meanwhile, Stan thinks, hoping your drunken mind has figured it out.

“—fuck me,” your last words make him breathe a sigh of relief. Good girl. And then he’s yanking your panties down as he have you bent over the sink, your palms pressing into the cold porcelain and you barely have time to register the sound of his belt hitting the floor before you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he lines himself up. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, right now. And you’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”

You moan, nodding, pressing back against him, desperate for the stretch, to feel him inside you because your brain can't think of anything else but getting fucked hard in the bathroom of a bar. “Please, Stan— please, use me!”

And he obeys, slamming into you, burying himself deep in one rough, brutal thrust that actually hurts, but your drunk state doesn’t care much. You gasp, his cock fills you so completely you can barely breathe, you cry out, your body arching, but Stan's hand is holding you back, pressing on your back to keep you in place and he groans. It’s overwhelming you, a mix of pain and pleasure and you can’t stop moans that escapes your lips as he starts to move, his cock sliding in and out of you with rough thrusts.

“Huh, oh jesus fuck, baby, yer tight,” Stan grits out between ragged breaths, his voice hoarse. He pulls back only to slam into you again, harder this time, his hips snapping against yours with a brutal rhythm that has you gasping.

“Staaann—!” you whimper his real name again, your fingers gripping the edge of the sink for dear life, his cock so deep it’s like he’s claiming every part of you. “Oh, fuck-fuck-fuck!”

“my fucking god, baby,” he groans, his dick hitting that spot deep inside you that has your body trembling. His fingers find your clit, rubbing in quick circles as he fucks you harder. “you feel so fuckin’ good, doll, so tight around my cock.”

Of course, there's a mirror hanging over the sink, and Stan glances up, wanting to see your fucked-out expression, how gorgeous your face looks when he's pounding into you like this. But, almost spitefully, his eyes land on himself instead. He wants to look away, he should look away, but something makes him stop. For the first time in years, the reflection staring back at him is someone else. Not his twin. Not his nerdy brother. No, not Stanford. Ford would never end up like this. Never get so fucking dirty.

Stan sees himself for what he is. What he's become. Hair disheveled, drunk, filthy, fucking in a bar bathroom. Ford would never be like this. Stan, you piece of shit, you're a disgrace to your brother's name, Stanley thinks.

But then your moans reach his ears, pulling him back, reminding him where he is. Thank God the bar music is loud enough to cover you. He blinks, realizing he's let the pace slip, and his hands tighten on your hips, his grip hard enough to bruise, grounding himself.

You’re a mess of moans and gasps, your body shaking, your warm walls tightening around him as the pleasure builds. “Stan— fuck, I’m gonna—”

Stan leans into you as much as the position allows, one hand tangling in your hair, tugging hard enough to make the roots sting, though in your drunken haze, you barely even feel it.

“Do it,” he growls, his breath hot against your neck. “Cum for me. I wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

And you do, the orgasm rips through you, your body convulsing as you cry out, your walls squeezing around him what makes Stan groan, his fingers digging into your hips, thrusting harder, faster, chasing his own release. You can feel him throbbing inside you and then he’s pulling out, his hand wrapping around his cock as he strokes himself, his cum spilling hot and thick onto your skin.

***

The days began to stretch into weeks. Time wasn’t something you paid attention to anymore, not since that night. You could still feel him sometimes, his rough hands ghosting over your skin, the taste of whiskey and cigarettes lingering long after he’d left, his groans, the way he said your name. It hadn’t been anything gentle or romantic that night, just bodies lost in drunken hunger. And after that, you hadn’t seen much of him since, not like before.

You couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that night had ruined something between you. Maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe he’d felt nothing, and you’d been stupid to think it could’ve been anything more. The way his lips had pressed against yours, hungry, desperate, hadn’t felt like love. He was drunk, did he even know who he was kissing? Your anxiety was growing, your thoughts were fighting one another. It wasn’t love. It had been something else entirely, it was raw and messy. You knew it wasn’t love, just a night. It wasn’t tender or slow; there were no whispered promises of endless love, marriage, kids, whatever “all happy” people have. Just a desperate fuck, not some grand confession of feelings. Whatever had been between you before — it felt like it was ruined, as if that thing in the bathroom had burned everything else to ash.

Stanford had disappeared, leaving you with silence and your own thoughts, and you believed that he regretted it. Maybe it was just too much for him.

However, Stanley, he couldn’t shake the feeling of your lips on his, the way they were so warm, because no one had ever kissed him with that kind of passion before. He wasn’t used to that, to being touched like that. His entire life, he believed nobody really liked him. Not like this. Hell, even his own family had given up on him at some point. Except for his mom, she’d always tried to love him, even when he couldn’t love himself.

He tried to ignore the way his chest ached when he thought about you, tried to drown it out with more cigarettes, more drinks, he tried, but failed because nothing worked. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. Stan was getting attached to you, he knew it, even when he didn’t want to admit it. Even without alcohol, without the nicotine to calm his nerves, he knew he wanted you and your presence. It wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper, something that scared the fuck out of him because he wasn’t used to it. And maybe that’s why he’d been avoiding you. Because how the hell was he supposed to deal with feelings he didn’t even know how to name? Stan always felt that people didn’t love him, they tolerated him.

With you, for the first time in a long time, Stan had felt like he mattered. Like he was seen.

It scared him a lot.

***

Spring came early that year, and with it, the world outside the window seemed to come to life. Gravity Falls blossomed with colors you hadn't noticed before — the world is painted in bright greens and soft pastel tones, flowers made their way through the ground, as if the whole town was shaking off the cold and waking up. And that's when you saw him again.

You weren’t expecting to run into Stanford like this, not here, not in daylight, when spring is blooming around you. He was standing at the edge of the road, hands shoved into his pockets, a slight frown on his face like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be here. But then his eyes met yours and he didn’t look away this time.

There was no alcohol, no bar lights casting shadows on his face. Just sober Stan, the man who had kissed you with so much need that it had nearly broken you.

“Hey,” he called out and you immediately responded with excited “hi!” you smiled, he stood there, waiting for you to come closer. When you did, there was a long pause, neither of you quite sure what to say. His eyes flicked down nervously and you noticed it then, the subtle change, not too noticeable. Had he fixed his mullet a bit? It wasn’t much, but it was. . . cleaner. Neater, like he’d put in just a little more effort. Like maybe he had been planning on running into you.

“Uh, you wanna grab some coffee or somethin’?” Stan asked, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to play it cool, but the way he shifted on his feet betrayed him. He was nervous. Actually nervous. You hadn’t seen that in him before. “I figured we could, ya know, talk. Maybe. If that’s somethin’ you wanna do, of course.”

You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

That’s how two of you ended in a small café nearby, the conversation light at first, both of you avoiding that specific term about. . . Doesn’t matter.

It was much easier to talk about the weather, or the weirdness of Gravity Falls, or how spring had made the town feel alive again. But every now and then, your eyes would meet and you exchanged awkward laughs and smiles.

“So, uh. . . I gotta ask,” Stan started. “did ya notice somethin’ different?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think for a moment before grinning. “Your hair? you mean you actually put effort into it?”

He smiled back at you. “Yeah, well, figured I’d try to clean up a bit. Y’know, look a little less like a bum.”

You laughed, feeling warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a small thing, but it felt significant to you. Like he’d actually cared enough to try for you, impress you maybe. And that meant more than you could say.

***

Nights bled into days and days slipped back into nights. Time seemed to blur together, the moon swapped places with the sun over and over. And here you were, tangled in the sheets of Stan’s bed, staring at the ceiling, while the moonlight filtered through the triangle-shaped window, the soft glow of it lays over your face, feels like the world outside was holding its breath just for you.

Things between you and Stan had shifted in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t quick or loud. At end, Stan let you get closer, but piece by piece, he was afraid you might notice if he let you too far in all at once.

The first time Stanley let you hug him, really hug him, was late in night. You weren’t sure how it had happened, it wasn’t planned, you reached for him first. You didn’t even think about it, just pulled him close. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him carefully at first, waiting for him to tell you to stop. But he didn’t. Stan stiffened at first, because the idea of being held was foreign to him, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to do. Then his face buried against your shoulder, and at first, you thought he was just tired, resting, taking what he needed and nothing more. But then you felt it. The dampness against your skin.

You realized with a sinking heart that Stan was crying.

It wasn’t loud. No sobs, no gasping breaths. Just silent bitter tears soaking through your shirt, his grip tightening on you like he was afraid you might disappear, just like his brother. His body trembled slightly, now he couldn’t hide anymore. It broke something in you, seeing him like this, this man felt so small in your arms.

He clung to you like a child, because no one had held him in years. No one, no one had hugged him like this since he left his family.

You sighed and held him tighter, feeling his tears soak into your skin. Stan wasn’t just crying about tonight, he was crying for all the years he’d spent running, for all the times he’d pushed people away because it was easier than getting hurt. He was crying because, for the first time in so long, someone was holding him, and it wasn’t just physical, it reminded him of what it felt like to be cared for. To not be alone.

Your hand gently stroking the back of his head, letting him melt into you like the child he probably hadn’t been allowed to be in years. Decades, maybe. For the first time, Stan didn’t feel like the tough man you knew him as. He felt small, fragile, like he was that little boy again, the one who had been left behind, pushed out of his family and told to figure it all out on his own.

Stanley pulled back, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand, embarrassed as he looked down. But you didn't give him time to think again and regret his actions, you didn’t let him feel that shame for long. You reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table, handing one to him without a word. Stan took it and you lit it for him, the soft click of the lighter the only sound in the room.

You sat together in that silence of the night, both of you smoking. You weren’t drunk this time and that made everything feel more real, clear. It wasn’t about the cigarettes, though. It was the quiet between you, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel uncomfortable or awkward. Stan wasn’t running anymore, he could finally relax, finally let himself breathe.

He looked up at the night sky, at the Milky Way stretching above you and smiled then, just a little, but it was there. A real, sincere smile. You hadn’t seen that on him before, not like this. It wasn’t the cocky grin he wore after dumb compliments or the smirk that followed some joke. This was softer. Stanley stared at the stars, his eyes reflecting the distant light and you wondered what he was thinking about. But while he was smiling, you were calm.

Stanford, real Stanford, he’s always been somewhere up there. In the stars, in the galaxies, in other world, always lost in science and mathematics, in things Stanley never really understood.

Nights passed like this more often, where it wasn’t about the rush of everything. He didn’t have to keep running anymore, didn’t have to keep pretending he didn’t care. He’d gotten soft around you in a way that surprised both of you, but it felt right. He could relax now. He could let himself be vulnerable.

One night, after the smoking had long stopped, after the silence had stretched between you in that comfortable way again, the two of you ended up in his bed. Not in the desperate lust way you had before, but in a way that felt natural. Like this was where you both belonged, in each other’s arms.

Stan was lying on your chest, his head resting against you as you calmingly ran your fingers through his hair, the brown strands slipping through your hands. He let out a long, contented sigh, relaxing into your touch.

You felt his breath against your skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest in sync with yours, and that made you understand just how fragile he really was. He never was the tough guy he always tried to be. Stanley Pines was was just a man trying to figure out how to feel again.

Stan’s arms wrapped loosely around you, holding on but not out of desperation this time. Just out of comfort. Out of need.

You smiled softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, Stan.”

And for the first time, he believed it and smiled.

***

It wasn’t in Stan’s nature to lay everything out in some big, romantic gesture, not now. This will happen later when he gets older, much older. So there was no official conversation, no ‘what are we now?’ that hung awkwardly in the air.

It happened one evening, at dusk, because at this time of day people always become more sincere and honest, the two of you sitting on the back porch, sharing the silence in the way you’d grown to love. He had that usual cigarette between his lips, the glow of the ember flickering in the dark and you were watching the stars. That's when he said it, which in his language meant “I love you”:

“I think I like you best when you’re just with me and no one else.”

That was his way of telling you. You didn’t need him to say the word love. You understood him well enough by now to know that what he felt was real and that was all you needed.

You didn’t ask him to clarify, didn’t push for more. Stan was never someone you could push. Instead, you waited. You knew he would tell you everything in time. He just needed to get there on his own, at his own pace.

Sometimes he’d disappear into the lab, working on some thing he barely explained, shrugging it off with that typical grumble about science and mathematics. “It’s all bullshit anyway,” he’d say, tossing his hands in the air. “I ain’t ever understood that crap.”

“Not like my brother, he’s the smart one.” Stanley continued in his thoughts.

Then you started noticing the small changes. The way the bottles that once cluttered his desk and the corners of the shack were fewer now. He still drank, yeah, but not like before. He wasn’t drowning himself in it anymore. It was like he was learning, little by little, how to exist without that forever haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, feelings and memories.

Stan was still scared though. He was scared of a lot of things, scared you’d leave, scared you’d find out something about him and realise you couldn’t stay. And then there were the nightmares. The ones he never talked about, but they were all the same, repeating every time. You’d wake in the middle of the night to find him tense beside you, his breathing uneven, his hands gripping the sheets as though he was trying to hold on to something slipping away.

That haunted him. The portal, always the portal. He’d never say it, at least not now. He’s not ready yet. He’s terrified that somehow, you’d be pulled into it too, just like Ford. That one day you’d be gone and he’d be alone again, abandoned forever.

But when your lips touches his in slow kiss, when you brush your fingers through his messy hair and kiss his forehead, all these fears are washed away. You’d hold him close, feel his body relax against yours and slowly, slowly, his breathing would steady as the nightmares faded. There he stops dreaming about portals and disappearances. Instead, he sleeps deeply, peacefully, like a normal human being.

In the mornings, he’d stay in bed longer than you, his eyes still closed when you slipped out from under the covers. He’d stretch, arms reaching out lazily, that rough voice of his so sleepy. “Sweetheart, come right back,” he’d mumble. “i’ve been waitin’ for you to slip back in bed.” he’d smile when he’d feel your warm body next to his.

That’s what made you fall in love with him harder.

The way he was always a bit softer in the mornings, not yet fully awake and not needing to be. He wasn’t running anymore. Not from you, not from himself. For the first time in what felt like forever, Stan was learning what it meant to just be. To exist in the quiet moments. He still smoked, but it wasn’t to escape anymore, it was just a part of him, something familiar, habit.

Stanley had spent so much of his life running, from his past, from laws, cops, states, from his brother, from his mistakes. But with you, for the first time, he wasn’t running anymore. He was staying.

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wooyoungmybelovedhusband · 6 months ago

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ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛᴏʀʏ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ

PAIRING: Baseball player! Wooyoung x Cheerleader! F! Reader

SYNOPSIS: You can't blame Wooyoung for wanting to fuck upi after a good game, after all, having a hot girlfriend is tiresome.

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

WARNINGS/CONTENT: Semi-public sex, college au, unprotected sex, oral (f, receiving), finger sucking, degradation, daddy kink (literally twice or thrice), wall sex, hints of voyeur! San.

Your smooth moves were contradicting your mind – which was filled with anticipation. It was already mid-game and although your boyfriend's team was leading with four points, the anxiety in you never settled.

Your abdomen is also filled with images of what might be awaiting you if Wooyoung won the cup for your university. It was almost like the feeling of his plump lips resting against your lips still lingered on your skin while he whispered, “I'm gonna win this game and ravage your tight little pussy till you're digging your nails on my back.”

Surely his whisper had been subtle but the same couldn't have been said to deep blish taking over your face which caused your boyfriend to instantly bloom into a satisfied grin.

It was at the last round, that the atmosphere turned extremely silent – patiently waiting for Wooyoung to pitch the ball that would get his team the point to win the tournament.

In barely a few seconds – as you watch, loud cheers erupt, drowning out the loud ‘all out’. You exclaim in happiness, almost running down to where your lover stood with a proud smile while his eyes stalked your steps.

You immediately throw your arms around him, his own hands wrapping around your waist as he places a soft peck behind your ear. The subtle action has you clenching your thighs in excitement. “Congratulations, baby.”

You mentally thank your vocal chords for not betraying you. “Mhm, I hope you still remember the promise I made you, pretty.” You nibble on your lower lip from his words – his hands caress the sides of your waist sensually.

And before you knew it, Wooyoung's large hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you away from the crowd, desperately trying not to draw attention to yourself. You expected him to pull you to his car to take you home but your surprise only grows when he drags you away to the sports locker rooms.

There was barely anyone in sight when Wooyoung pulled you into one of the empty sections inside the locker room, locking the door behind him.

It was a narrow space, but big enough to give the both of you room to fuck away like rabbits. “Did you seriously think about fucking me all the while you were on the field?” You ask as you wrap your arms around his shoulder – prepping kisses onto his jawline. “Having a hot girlfriend is tiresome, alright? You know how hard it was to not imagine you wrapped around my dick while wearing this short ass skirt of yours?”

His thigh locates itself in between your thighs, letting you grind over his tight jeans. Wooyoung gathers your hair in one big ponytail tugging at your hair to present your neck to himself.

It doesn't take long for him to find your sweet spot, sucking the area hard till you're a moaning mess in a few seconds – your hips grinding down on him desperately.

His tongue slides over the dark purple mark when his hands yank up your skirt to tear off your underwear. A chuckle from him when he feels your wetness on the pads of his fingers has your face flushing red. “You're fucking dripping, baby.”

Moving his hands to the hem of your shirt to effortlessly pull it off. With a swift move, his fingers skillfully unbuckle your bra, pushing the fabric off your body. The sudden exposure to the cold air causes your nipples to perk up.

Your hands mindlessly travel down to unbuckle his belt, hastily. Wooyoung is fast in helping your desperate hands as he holds your wrists in one hand, while throwing away his belt to the floor. But nonetheless, he shakes his head at you, “You gotta stop being impatient, princess.”

Although contradicting his words, Wooyoung suddenly moves down to his knees – his hands coming up to grasp your thighs from below. You yelp when – without a warning, Wooyoung hoists your right leg on his shoulder – leaning in between your thighs to attach his lips to your clit.

Your hands swiftly find home in between his hair locks as his tongue laps at your slick. You practically chew on your teeth to avoid the loud moans threatening to escape you. But your eyes shut close in pleasure as your lips stretch into a satisfied grin from finally feeling the pleasure coarse through your body.

Wooyoung's hand travels to the back of your ass, squeezing your flesh momentarily before pulling your pussy closer to himself – till his head is buried underneath your white skirt.

His tongue darks out to lap at your wet folds in a fast pace – which has your hands moving away from his hair to desperately find a surface to hold on to.

But, of course, Wooyoung almost had a smug smile painting his face when he heard your muffled noises which you tried to hold in desperately. Your eyes roll back when you feel your orgasm approaching – your bottom lip falling from the confines of your teeth as loud moans erupt from you. Your hazy brain could barely worry about making it obvious to the people outside.

“W-woo, Gonna cum” Your words could be confused for whimpers and a series of loud moans fall off your lips as you climax. Your hips twitch in Wooyoung's hold all while he moves his lips to press soft kisses to your inner thighs.

Rising to his feet, Wooyoung caresses the back of your neck, “Breath for me, baby.” He places butterfly kisses on your neck, “You did so well for me, love.” And soon, your pants lower as you get over your high.

“Want a break, princess?” His words immediately have you shaking your head, “Want you to fuck me, now.” He cocks his eyebrows at your demand, and the immediate “Please” from you doesn't help. “You know how to ask for something, baby.”

“Can you please fuck me, daddy?” Hoping the nickname makes him cave and ram his cock into you, your hands tug on his black baseball shirt. A smirk makes its way onto your lips, when Wooyoung groans under his breath – his hands almost ripping off his own pants as he hastily makes his way out of them.

And before you could speak a word, Wooyoung's fingers shove themselves into your mouth, his hand coming down to wrap your leg around his waist as he lines his cock in between your slippery folds. “My fucking pleasure, princess. You're gonna keep your mouth fucking shut while daddy fucks his cum into you alright?”

Your muffled whimpers and pathetic nod manages to break Wooyoung’s patience as he grips your hips closer to his – letting his thick cock slam its way into you. Your eyes roll back yet again, your hips immediately losing control at the feeling of being filled to the brim.

Wooyoung slowly lets his cock slip out a bit before he is slamming into you again at a ruthless pace, his hand bruisingly gripping at your flesh. “Don't you fucking love being treated like a dirty slut?” the noises of skin-slapping resonate throughout the room – along with your muffled moans.

“You love getting fucked against some wall with barely any privacy? You wouldn't mind if someone barges in and watches the way I fill your little pussy with my cock, hmm?”

Your spit slips past your mouth, dripping down your chin from the way your brain can only think about Wooyoung's cock movements.

And out of nowhere, there was a familiar voice outside the door. Wooyoung curses under his breath, his hips barely halting from slapping against yours.

“Yo, where did Wooyoung run off to? I swear I couldn't see him anywhere.” San's voice was almost muffled from how farther he was from where you stood but the thought of getting caught by your boyfriend’s best friend almost has you clenching around Wooyoung.

“Fuck, San can barge in here any second, you know that right, baby?” His hips slam harder into you, for each thrust. “Maybe, he should. I think San would love to know what kind of slut is hiding behind that pretty face, wouldn't he?”

You can barely respond to Wooyoung's obvious question when you feel his fingers rub circles on your clit. And the action had you squirting all over his cock, your hold clenching down on him tightly. The sight of your orgasm and your warm walls closing around him, brings Wooyoung closer to his own orgasm sooner than he imagined. Wooyoung moans under his breath, as spurts of hot cum fill you up in seconds.

Both of you take a few minutes to ride out your orgasm – while you lean into each other's arms. “Fuck, that- was hot, babe.” Wooyoung says once he pulls his soft cock out of your hole.

As the both of you dress yourself back in your clothes quickly, you try not to make any more noises as you get out of the confined space. But you yelp loudly when the both of you come face-to-face with the wide-eyed San, whose face was as flushed as the tip of his cock which laid hard on the palm of his hands.

#ateez #ateez smut #wooyoung #wooyoung smut #ateez imagines #wooyoung imagines #ateez x reader smut #ateez x reader #wooyoung x reader smut #wooyoung x reader #ateez smut imagine #ateez smut imagines #wooyoung smut imagine #ateez scenarios #ateez oneshot #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung oneshot #ateez drabbles #wooyoung drabble

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foxy-eva · 1 year ago

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Wild Honey

Summary: Reader gets emotional during sex with Spencer

Request: Spencer dicks down Reader so good it makes her emotional. Then lots of fluff with aftercare (originally requested to @imagining-in-the-margins)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Category: Smut, Fluff

Content Warning: (18+, minors DNI) crying (happy tears), praising, implied breeding kink, unprotected penetrative sex, aftercare

Word Count: 1.1k

Masterlist

The color of Spencer's irises reminded you of wild honey, so warm and alluring when he looked at you. His lips captured yours as he hovered over you, letting you taste the sweetness of his kiss.

Being with him truly was one of life’s greatest pleasures.

You whined when his mouth left yours, only to be soothed by the sensation of him caressing your neck. Gently, he kissed and licked over sensitive skin until you couldn’t think about anything else than being one with him.

"I love you," he whispered right before your bodies merged.

There was no need for you to speak those words for him to know that you loved him, too.

"Spencer!" You moaned instead.

With a smirk spread over his face, he purred, "I know, it feels so good."

He took his time entering you, relishing the sensation of your walls enveloping him. You shared your body with him without any resistance, almost feeling greedy to feel all of him. When he was at your deepest point you could feel both of your hearts beating inside of you. Just for a moment you had to close your eyes to let this moment enter your memory, to be able to cherish it forever.

When you locked eyes with him once more, his pupils had almost completely swallowed the warm amber of his irises. His cheeks were flushed and his lips slightly parted when he slowly began moving. Even with his weight on top of you it felt like you might start floating at any moment now.

Spencer knew your body better than you did, so it was no surprise that he had you dancing along the edge of euphoria with just a few skilled motions. The sounds of your pleasure fell from your lips as he pushed into you and he became eager to hear even more of them.

"You're doing so good, my love," he praised you. "Are you gonna come for me?"

"Yes!"

With your arms and legs wrapped around him there was no distance allowed between your bodies. Spencer found your neck to bite on your pulse point, eliciting the most enticing sound he had ever heard from you. It all became too much for you to handle, it felt like you might drown in the love you had for him.

When he kissed your cheek he could suddenly taste the ocean on your skin. In an instant he stopped moving and propped himself up on his arms only to find saline droplets spilling from your eyes.

"Please don't stop," you whimpered as you wiped your tears away. "I'm so close."

"Oh my sweet girl," he cooed. "Are those happy tears?"

A bright smile formed on your face while you nodded. "You make me feel so good."

"You have no idea how much I adore you," Spencer breathed as he kissed one of your tears away.

You began grinding your hips against his and demanded, "Show me."

He met your motions with his own thrusts, moving with you in perfect synchronicity to guide you into the sensation of pure bliss. Your lips were attached to his, your kiss only interrupted by the moans and sighs escaping your throat.

With one particular hard thrust he finally pushed you over the edge, your entire body trembling as your walls began pulsing around his hardness.

When you came down from your high he whispered against your lips, "Good girl."

Once he was sure you could take it, he accelerated his pace again, now chasing his own climax. You moved with him, watching his face intently as he got lost in the pleasure.

"You feel so good," he groaned when you clenched around him. "So tight for me."

"Please, Spencer!"

He knew what you were asking for, aware of what it was you needed from him. When he shared his essence with you, you moved with him until he had nothing left to give. The warmth Spencer provided spread through your entire body and you couldn't stop smiling at the thought that the love you two shared could one day grow into something more.

“I love you,” you cooed and welcomed him inside your arms.

He kissed away the stray tears he still found on your cheek before he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You held him tightly against your body until he had caught his breath enough to whisper, “I love you more.”

Your bodies were still connected and you fought against letting him go but he slipped out of you eventually. Spencer got up from the bed and offered you a hand to follow him into the bathroom. He motioned for you to sit on the edge of the bathtub while he ran some warm water over a washcloth.

When he kneeled before you, he gently parted your legs to get access to your center. He let the washcloth run along the insides of your thighs and followed it with his lips, kissing every inch of your soft skin the piece of fabric had touched. There was the utmost tenderness in his motions when he reached your folds, ridding you of the remains of your shared desire. He took care of you, cleaning your body as if it was some sacred ritual. In a way it was.

Once he was done with that he set the damp fabric aside to continue with his kisses. He let his lips move along the apex of your thigh until your hands flew to his unruly curls, tugging on them until he tilted his head to lock eyes with you. He looked up at you like you were some kind of deity and he was ready to worship you.

“Spencer, what are you doing?” You snickered when he wanted to bury his face between your legs again.

“Showing you how much I adore you.”

When he got too close to your core, you shied away from him, still sensitive from your previous high. He got up from the floor to place a soft kiss on your lips before asking, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes,” you reassured him. “I just want to be close to you.”

Spencer took your hand in his to guide you back to the bed. Gently, he pushed you onto the mattress just to join you seconds later. You found your home inside his arms with your head resting on his chest. His fingertips began dancing over your back, drawing soothing patterns on your skin as he pushed his body further against yours.

You turned your head to find the wild honey of his eyes again, longing for the warmth they radiated. Gratitude washed over you when you realized how much sweeter your life had gotten since you met Spencer.

Taglist: @nomajdetective @reidsbookclub @gspenc @justreadingficsdontmindme @samuel-de-champagne-problems @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @malindacath @pauline5525mgg @sanaz1dlol @luredwithpretzels @reidselle @alexxavicry @frickin-bats @spencersprettyslut @sebs-oxygen @beepbooptoop @lovejules888 @encyclo-reid-ia @lilibet261 @fandomstuffff @spencer-reid-wonderland @happymangospot @conniesanchor @reaux02 @ellamaianderson @cynbx @dashneydanger @melifluorei-d @bitchassbecky691 @iameternallylonely @hotchandspencearedilfs @kobaltdragon @amititties @castiels-majestic-wings @torigorie @emiliaserpe @thenerdthatwrites @reidtopia @velvetthunder93 @cncoxlifeline @jordie-gvf-admin @saturnstringz @missabsey @spencerslove @guacam011y @whoopdy-doo @hugyourlungs

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction

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giuliettagaltieri · 11 months ago

Text

Giggles and Wiggles

Pairing: Husband!Gojō x Pregnant!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: Gojō Satoru vs. a pregnant woman's hormones.

Warning: pregnancy, mood swings, flirting, suggested misogyny, jujutsu society stigma, implied cunnilingus

Word Count: 973

7 of 9

It was difficult for Gojō to understand how much strength your body has to be able to carry all that weight.

He was aware of his physical stature, a hundred and ninety centimeters tall. He knows he is not exactly small, and with his genes growing inside your cute belly, he worries your pregnancy will be difficult.

And there you were, rounded and full, and you were only seven months pregnant.

The day started quiet and warm. You in his arms, sighing softly in his chest.

And then your son decided it was a good idea to send a power kick through your belly.

Your eyes pop open, watering immediately at the impact.

Gojō cradles your belly as he hushes you, his lips pressed in your temple.

It took a while to calm you and even after that, you were already grumpy, lips turned upside down as a frown pinched your brows.

Gojō knows better than to bother you further so he started the day on his own. He padded to your shared closet and selected his clothing, eyeing your heavy kimonos with much contempt. He was in the middle of a big yawn when your distressed cry reached his ears.

His clothes were dropped on the tatami mat and he rushed out of the walk-in closet.

And there he stood at the foot of your bed, watching you. Just…watching you.

You had tears streaming down your cheeks, your temples beaded with sweat as you made grabby hands at him.

“I-I can’t get out of bed, Toru.” You whimpered.

It made his cock strain. He clears his throat and quickly supports your back as he lifts you off your bed.

Your warm bare thigh brushes against his manhood and you cry harder. How could your suffering arouse him! How dare he!

“‘S all your fault!” You cry on his chest and Gojō bites his cheek to stifle a snicker.�� “You did this!”

He simply nods as he strokes your hair, peppering your head with kisses.

“Of course. Mmh, yes. Yes, it’s all my fault.” His arms were wrapped around you as he swayed you from side to side.

After a gentle bath with you, with Gojō doing everything for you, your hormones decided to take a break.

And you were smiling up at him again as he brushed your hair, you were lavishing your skin with the moisturizing creams he bought for you and kept asking for kisses.

Gojō was happy to do so. He liked seeing you happy.

But your sweet spirit slowly dissipates with every layer of clothing you wear. Formality returning as you become what is expected of a Gojō lady.

Your husband did not like that. He liked being playful and endearing to you, and he was almost grateful for the change that your pregnancy did to your emotions.

Although, he was still always careful with the boundaries he crossed.

It is just, there are moments in which he loses himself after catching sight of your bare skin.

A soft moan has Gojō’s eyes traveling to his right, there you sat, your face in a twist as you stretched your back. His eyes followed your hand as you rubbed your waist.

“You alright?” He asks before sipping his tea. His hands glided the fountain pen faster in the paper to finish his work. He enjoyed your company when he was at home, but being stationary in your seat, despite you almost drowning in cushions already, might be causing a strain on your pregnant body.

He caps the pen and places a paperweight on the documents.

“Wanna take a walk?” He asks as he stands up to stretch.

“Oh, yes.” You say softly. He slips his hand under your forearms and helps you up with a soft grunt, your cheeks warming at the sound.

Gojō places a hand on the small of your back as you walk and immediately feels how stiff your posture is. He might need to get serious about those stretches you do, maybe he can join you more often to help.

His eyes glance at you as you sigh and attempt to subtly roll your shoulder.

“You should probably take those clothes off.”

Your hands fly to your chest, one on top of the other as you look at him in pure horror.

“N-not in that way.” Gojō scratches his head, a small smile playing on his lips as he watches your reaction. “Still acting like a maiden when you’re heavy with my child?” He rubs his knuckle on your cheek and your hands cover your flushed face.

Gojō guides you forward to continue your walk.

“I meant, you should reduce the layers you wear. Your belly is heavy as is, you don’t need to carry unnecessary weight.”

You frown at him. “I don’t mind. The lady of the house is expected to wear such clothing.”

He clicks his tongue. “I don’t care what’s expected of you. I say you should wear comfortable clothing. And whatever I say, goes.”

You choose not to speak further as his tone turns to a more assertive one, and you are reminded that the man you are walking next to is the head of the clan. His word is law in this house.

The elders seem to have a difficult time understanding that.

So Gojō Satoru brought it upon himself to wage war with your closet.

One by one, your pretty kimonos started disappearing. Your tight obis vanish along with them.

After some time, the clan elders simply had to raise their concerns as the wife of the clan head was no longer wearing the appropriate clothing.

Gojō started a bonfire that night. The pretty silk being fed to the blazing fire that was shot from the fingertips of the man who has his head buried deep between your thighs.

Where the Blue Roses Grow

#gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojō satoru #arranged marriage #jujutsu kaisen #dad gojo #gojo fluff #gojo smut #gojo x pregnant reader #where the blue roses grow

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whimsyvixen · 2 months ago

Note

Hi! I just read your Rusty Nail fic, and I was wondering if you have SFW and/or NSFW head cannons for him? I love your writing and hope you're doing well :)

A/N: ~I'd like to apologize for waiting two years to answer this ask 😭. I've been watching slasher movies again and my motivation was brought back so I decided to have fun with writing this! Once again, I'm very sorry for the late reply but I hope you and every one else enjoys this! 🫶~

NSFW Alphabet | Rusty Nail | Joy Ride

Pairing: Rusty Nail x Female Reader

Rating: 18+

Synopsis/Excerpt: He also loves how easily you bruise, a smug grin forming in his face when he sees his marks of ownership scattered all over you.

Tags/Warnings: explicit content, dubcon/non-con themes, unprotected sex, choking, creampies, brief mention of captivity/kidnapping, overstimulation, large cock, vaginal sex, Rusty being sweet and a monster at the same time.

Minors do not interact

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He's very affectionate, peppering kisses along your flushed face and caressing the dips and curves of your body as you're fighting to catch a breath after his vigorous fucking love making.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His hands are his favorite instrument, large enough to wrap around your throat and squeeze until his veins protrude from the force. He loves every dip and curve of your body, not knowing where to start because of how obsessed he is with your fragility and softness. He also loves how easily you bruise, a smug grin forming in his face when he sees his marks of ownership scattered all over you.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He's a big man with an equally big set of balls and dick. When he cums, it's in copious amounts and he always makes sure to come inside, ignoring your distressed cries and your hands pushing against him when you feel the sudden heat in your spasming walls. He licks your tears away, grinding his hips further into your puffy pussy to make sure none of his cum escapes your womb.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He read books by Nicholas Sparks and liked them.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He's very experienced. He prioritizes your pleasure over his because he loves seeing you come apart under his ministrations. Once you're twitching from the neverending pleasure, does he spread you wide and spears you with his cock in one smooth thrust. He listens very intently at every little gasp and moan escaping your lips so he can discover the rhythm and technique your most vocal on.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

His favorite position is cowgirl. He loves seeing how shy and nervous you get when you're hovering over him, licking his lips in anticipation when your pussy presses down on his engorged cock. He lets you go at your own pace, fighting the urge to thrust his hips up as you're slowly taking him inch by inch until your pelvises smack lewdly against each other. It is when your legs grow tired and your movement goes sluggish, that he takes charge and brings you down to clash with every upward thrust into your welcoming pussy. His eyes roam greedily between your sexes smashing violently together and your fucked out expression every time his cock kisses your cervix.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

He enjoys teasing you, especially knowing how flustered you get when he whispers dirty things to you. Lacking any sexual experience prior to him, your face quickly gets heated and you can’t look him in the eye when he’s promising to drown in your pussy and fuck you until the bed breaks. If he's feeling humorous, he might start to tickle you to get you to smile and shriek to make you forget your embarrassment at his words.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He's a hairy man. His hair grows rather quickly so he needs to shave often, but he prefers to trim instead of shaving anything off fully. The hairs on his chest often tickle your nose when you're laying on him and the raspiness of his beard leaves a pleasant tingle behind on your skin when he kisses your cheeks. You have to look away when he stretches, his happy trail bringing memories of how deep you’ve had him in your throat, your nose pressed right against his pubic hair and smelling his manly musk before he proceeded to face fuck you to oblivion.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He wasn't always kind to you. Your refusal to accept your place as his beloved had forced him to be the bad guy early on in your relationship. However, after months of secluding you from any form of contact besides his, you've become dependent on him and jump into his arms when he releases you from your prison in the basement. As he's stroking your back and hugging your hiccupping form, he hushes your whimpers with sweet murmurs of never leaving you like the people that abandoned their search for you long ago. When he’s making love to you upstairs in his bedroom, he confesses his feelings for you and worships every inch of you with his mouth and hands. He will make sure you would be protected and loved by him and him alone.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He tries not to think about you while on the road because of how easily just the thought of you makes him hard under his pants. When explicit memories of you won’t leave him, he grumbles in frustration and tries to find somewhere secluded to rub one out. Once he’s parked his vehicle, he opens his glove compartment to find the piece of cloth he tore from you earlier that day. He then pleasures himself while sniffing the remnants of your cum soaked panties, shuddering at the musky scent and envisioning your pussy wrapped around him and your mouth begging him for more.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

The man has a breeding and lactation kink. He often places a pillow under you so his cum can stay in place inside your unprotected womb and sucks on your nipples to the point of pain imagining you plump with his baby and leaking milk into his mouth.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

He'll have sex with you just about anywhere. He particularly enjoys doing it in his truck, reclining his seat back to watch you bounce up and down on his fat cock in the middle of nowhere, dirty praises trickling past his lips about how much of a pretty slut you are for him and how good he'll give it to you later at home. He loves having you for dessert when he gets home from work (and killing) too, kneeling under the table in the kitchen to eat you out as you're struggling to eat the food you cooked for him while he gnaws at your clit and folds.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

It's your skittish behavior and the way you bite your lip when he's near you that drives him crazy. Despite your stubbornness not to give in to his lecherous hands, he has you bent over before you can voice out a protest. He runs his fingers lightly along your trembling legs, eyeing the way your soaked panties cling to your vulva and asking what you want him to do to you. If you stay silent for too long, he’ll lean down and threaten to leave you as you are, pressing his hardened cock between your cheeks all the while. Just as he’s about to pull away, you push your hips back and look at him pleadingly. You’re still too shy to tell him what you want so you’ll open your legs wider hoping he catches your drift. He’d want to tease you further but even he has a limit. Your panties are torn off and the clink of a belt is heard right before the room is filled with wet smacks of flesh and breathless cries and grunts echoing throughout the house.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He would never share you. He'd kill any man or woman who dared touch what was his.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Over the years, he entertained himself with a few lot lizards and learned how to perfect his technique with each encounter. By the time he met you, he knew exactly where to kiss, lick and suck to have you creaming in his mouth within minutes. He's never tasted a pussy as good as yours and will often eat you out for long periods of time, ignoring the way you're tugging on his hair to try to remove him from your overstimulated clit and quivering walls.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Depending on how well behaved you are, he can make it slow and sweet for you. He prefers his sex fast and rough, but will be gentle when your sex is sore from the poundings he gave it. However, his gentleness goes out the window when you start acting rebellious again. If you disobey him and try running away, he will catch you and fuck you in a rage until your crying and begging for forgiveness. He'll fuck you like a bull all night until you pass out from exhaustion. You'll wake up alone and locked inside the basement again, what little freedom you had earned gone in an instant.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He's not a particular fan of quickies because he likes to take his time with you. He enjoys seeing how your will chips away with every stroke of his hands, mouth, and cock, your body fighting against your mind to reach its climax and forcing you to cry out for him after the pleasure becomes too much for you.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Considering how creative he is when torturing his victims, you can bet he’s just as creative in the bedroom. He's a bit of a sadist and will be curious to find out what your limits and pain tolerance is. He smiles at you when you freeze at the rope and chains he has in his hands. You’ll cry out when he handles you none-too-gently, having little time to protect yourself when he wraps a hand around your throat and forces the other down your panties. He’ll tighten his hold on your neck, wheezes and choked gasps escaping you as your eyes beseech him for mercy. In the midst of this punishment, you are horrified to feel your arousal spike, strands of your slick running down your legs as he fingerfucks you roughly. Once he finds out how much you can take, he will subject you to the same painful pleasure at a later date.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He’s only human and has to suffer through a refractory period so he makes sure you cum multiple times before he does. He is able to accomplish this by pumping his fingers inside your pussy, stimulating your g spot while he is forcing his tongue down your throat to muffle your mewls. He’ll have you cumming on his fingers within minutes, allowing you to witness him licking the residue of your orgasm before trailing his body down to the juncture of your thighs. He’ll bury his face in your cunt, holding you in place with one hand on your stomach and stroking himself with the other. Once he’s successfully made you cum again, does he line himself up along your soaked entrance. It is a challenge not to cum once his cock is enveloped by your heat, your walls constricting like a vice around him and making him grit his teeth to prevent himself from spilling inside you too soon. He’ll pump his hips slowly at first, trying to adjust to your gummy insides and closing his eyes in concentration. His careful pace gets shot down to hell when your heels brace on the bed, tilting your hips up and colliding with his next downward thrust. He opens his eyes startled, taking one good look at your disheveled appearance and your chest heaving in a tantalizing fashion before he grabs on to the headboard and slams his hips down in one meaty smack. Within a few moments, you orgasm two more times and your head is lolling to the side by the time he fills you with his cum.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

While he does use restraints on you, he does not own any toys. He's aware of their existence but has never really thought of using them on you. He's confident in his ability to bring you pleasure by his touch alone.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

As was said before, he enjoys teasing you due to your inexperience with sex. His sexual innuendos and jokes make you fidget and squirm where you’re at. No matter how often he’s fucked you, he can never seem to rid you of your embarrassment when you’re both naked and touching each other intimately. It amuses him how cute you are, removing his shirt purposely in front of you before tackling you down playfully on the bed to begin teasing you further.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He'll grit his teeth to lessen his gasps and groans, preferring to hear the sweet symphony of your pleasured cries and moans instead. He'll hide his face on your neck, bracing his knees on the bed before pummeling you hard enough to make the bed creak and your voice rise with each snap of his hips. Heated puffs and throaty moans would spill from him once your walls constricted around him and coaxed him to cum inside your warm heat.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

It was a passing conversation he heard between truckers on the cb radio while he was driving. One of them mentioned how he and his lady kept their sex life interesting and alive for so many years. They did this by role-playing and wearing salacious outfits to spice up the sex. Rusty listened on to the conversation, his mind conjuring up images of you dressing up as a scantily clad nurse or maid, waiting to treat him and service him in any way he desired. It was another trucker’s similar experience but with pet play that had him stunned. A flux of images of you on your knees in cow print lingerie and a collar around your neck stormed his brain, triggering his lactation kink and imagining you whining about the fullness of your chest and needing his help to ease the hurt. That night, he didn’t give you a chance to welcome him home. He ripped your clothes off in a frenzy, paying special attention to your tits while you let out confused moans not knowing what’s gotten into him. He fucked you especially hard, your sweaty bodies colliding violently as his silent determination to get you pregnant echoed like a mantra in his head.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Being well over 6 feet tall, the dick must match the man. The first time you saw it in its entirety, you had quickly slammed your legs shut out of fear. Now you knew why you were always so sore. His cock bobbed out in the open, the weight of it nearly dragging it down as he walked purposefully towards you on the bed. It took very little effort to spread your legs, slapping your hands away when you tried to hide your sex from him. A gasp left you when the heavy weight of his cock slapped on your pubic mound, the length of it reaching your belly button as you lay frozen in place. You could feel it throbbing angrily along your soft belly, your pussy twitching like crazy as you imagined it splitting you open.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive nearly kills you. He's always ready to go and he is not ashamed to grind his erection against your ass so you can feel how much he wants you. Even after he cums, he will continue to play with your body, ensuring you’re always ready for him once he gets hard again.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Once he is completely spent, he's a heavy sleeper. It's hard to get out of his arms when the brute barely feels you squirming and continues to snore softly above your head. You have to bite him to get him to wake up.

A/N: Believe it or not, writing this killed me. Next time I make one of these, I'm only doing certain letters of the alphabet, not the whole thing 💀. Anyways, I hope you guys really enjoyed this! Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated 🫶!

Aand I've got a nice treat for my followers to go with this writing~🖤

🔞Full NSFW image here🔞--> <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

#whimsy asks #slasher thirst #slasher fucker #slasher smut #slasher x reader smut #slasher x reader #rusty nail joyride #rusty nail x reader #rusty nail x reader smut #tw dubcon #tw noncon #dark content #dark smut #smut art #slasher art

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