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syoddeye · 25 days ago

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kinktober - day 17 - period sex

soap x f!reader | 2.5k words cw: noncon/rape, periods and menstrual blood, blood as lube, comeplay, bloodplay, restraints, gags, stalking, some sexism from side character, food, abrupt-ish ending a/n: the way i could've kept going. blink-and-you'll-miss-it plot. lightly edited. summary: you're chum in the water. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

The lights hum louder than usual, buzzing like flies in your ears. They compound your headache and the nauseous blur hugging the edges of your vision. The heat is thick and oppressive, open flames on all sides of your station. One quick move, and you think you might faint.

Such is Saturday night.

“What happened to the caviar dish for–”

“Gave it to the maintenance man. A gift.”

You sharply inhale, biting back something more sour than the lemon gelée. “Expensive gift.”

Jace adjusts his jacket in the reflection of a hanging sauté pan. “‘Least we can do. Third time the walk-in’s compressor has tried to fail. We can’t risk losing it.”

He’s not wrong, but he’s become insufferable ever since he made sous. More so than when he literally rubbed elbows with you in the kitchen.

Frustration bleeds into your words. “Of course.”

“And between you and me,” he chuckles. “The fella isn’t playing with a full deck. Twitchier and twitchier every time he’s here. And, he’s said–”

“Jace, could you–ugh.” You don’t have time for gossip. You forcefully pluck a few sprigs of dill off its branch. “Just…Ask next time. That was a complete dish, ready to–”

“Don’t lecture me.” Jace interjects, staring down his nose with a sneer. He slides past your station, ducking close to ask. “That time of the month?”

You grip your santoku tighter and pretend the fresh lemon under your blade is Jace’s stupid neck.

You do not notice the maintenance man.

But the maintenance man notices you.

“Oh, what’s this?” The man attached to the hand down your leggings asks.

You whimper pitifully through your repurposed eye mask, knowing precisely what he’s found. You hoped it would stop him, that he’d freak out in disgust and flee, but the moment that ‘oh’ left his mouth, you knew it was a futile hope.

His fingertips come back bright red, slicked with blood, and leave a wet trail on your stomach. He wiggles them, chuckling before he reaches up and pats your cheek. Smearing blood, your nostrils flaring at the smell. What little light filters through your flat’s cheap blinds hits his eyes perfectly. Two blue rings, like swordfish, thin as he speaks.

“That’s alright. I dinnae mind runnin’ red lights.”

Head pounding from the amount of tears you’ve already shed since he surprised you in the bathroom, it takes you a second to compute. A second he takes advantage of.

Though your wrists are already uselessly cuffed to a headboard rail, your legs are free. Your leggings and panties, the pad still attached, are at your ankles by the time you remember. The realization hits you quicker than the cool air. Instinct takes the reins, and you kick out your feet hard. Your heel cracks across his skull, right in the dead center of a vaguely star-shaped scar on his temple. He cries out, barely smothering the sound in time. He keels over, hinging at the waist before sliding off the bed and crumpling to the ground.

He goes still.

Then his head turns slowly. Something selachian glares through the dark over his bicep as he cradles and tests the skin around the mark.

“S’not a good button to hit.”

He rises to his feet and stands out of range of your legs. His hand drops to his belt, pulling it open and loose in one fluid movement. He gestures at your legs, which you’ve bent in an attempt to hide and protect yourself. “I ken you’re embarrassed, but it’s natural. It’s what we’ve been doin’ for a millennia. And I’m no’ the type of man to turn away a good cunt ‘cause she’s bloody. Extra lube, ye ken?”

His trousers and belt hit the floor with a muted thunk. He’s bare. The cock you’ve felt poke and jut against you as he hauled you to your bedroom springs free and bobs. Happy to see you. Leaking, red, and slightly curved. His fingers close around its base and glide, smearing the remnants of your blood with a stroke.

“Had a feelin’ ye’d be startin’ soon anyway. Ye were in such a foul mood last week.”

Fear surges. The rancid taste on your tongue grows stronger, and your stomach churns. You rattle the cuffs above your head as he rucks off his shirt. Desperately, you rack your brain trying to place him, reckoning with both the fact that this bastard stalked you and is currently stalking toward you, arms wide like a zookeeper trying to corner a frightened animal.

His mouth curls. Feral. Jagged rows of teeth perfect for biting and tearing gleam. “Gonna play nice? Or do ye want a second bloody gash?”

In his hand is your boning knife, taken from your roll. He must’ve watched when you dropped your things upon arriving home. And it clicks, then and there, where you saw him.

Another night, another shitshow. Half a dozen men and women barking in your ear as you minded the cod, ignoring the blanket of sweat under your whites. Waving off some man with a toolbox that the stagiaire let in. Missing caviar. Jace’s crude question. A man hovering at the door of the walk-in. The same man you barely acknowledged when you stepped out for a break, glued to your phone. Who you continued to ignore, needing a minute alone, who you thought was taking pictures of the mural on the restaurant but must’ve–

“Saw how ye handled this and the others. Good hands. Nimble little things.” He steps closer, testing. He hums, pleased when you remain still. “Knew I couldn’t let ‘em be free, as bad as I want ye to rake those claws down my back. You’re somethin’ fierce when you’re mad. We’re the same that way, so be good. Nod if ye understand.”

You do. Mechanical and stiff, resignation and dread intermixing in your blood. You don’t want to die.

He whistles as he clambers back onto the bed, situating himself between your legs. You watch him part them, limbs locked in both panic and a shred of noncompliance. The word ‘condom’ sits, preemptively smothered, on the back of your tongue. It suffocates there, knowing it’s no use.

With his unoccupied hand, he grips the base of his cock and dips its head to your bloody, drenched core. You hiss under the fabric, but he doesn’t push in. He pulls it back, groaning at the sight. His fist glides up his messy shaft, stroking himself with a loose grip. His head falls back, lips parting in silence. It almost looks like he’s going to come from just this, he looks rapturous, and then a sound bubbles up from his chest, low in his throat. He snaps forward, and the knife sails forward, clutched in a tight fist.

There isn’t even time to scream, your stomach simply falls. You brace, every muscle in your body flexing and seizing in a hard flinch. Your life, the thousands of hours spent in hundreds of kitchens, the countless meals and tears shed—it all flashes before your eyes.

But nothing comes.

Instead, a faint vibration passes through your skull and hands. The man above you breathes heavily. Panting open-mouthed, his air puffing down the slope of your forehead. Convincing yourself to open your eyes takes effort, but you do as your trembling slows. You lift your chin, stare into the man’s gaping mouth and crazed eyes, then up even further. Your stomach drops like a stone.

The knife is buried in the headboard.

There’s no time to dwell, no time to calm the rapid beat of your heart.

The slap of his cock to your sensitive skin reorients your world.

“Red’s m’favorite color,” he mumbles, words slurring like he’s drunk. His eyes drill into your matted hair and slick cunt. Revulsion sits heavy on your chest, rocking back and forth over your ribs, feet firmly planted on your sternum. His hand does the same. It slides over your lower stomach, petting it. Then it presses harder and harder to the point where it rivals the dull ache of your cramps, and you struggle to hold back a noise. “Fuck, it just keeps comin’.”

It does. Your blood gushes from where you’re spread open, pooling under your ass and ruining your sheets. No amount of water or hydrogen peroxide will ever get the stain out. You’ll need to throw them away. Your mattress, too. Your whole flat.

“Does it hurt?” His nails rasp across your skin at your silence, lifting when you hastily nod. “Poor thing.”

The pressure on your stomach eases, but it shifts elsewhere. His cock slips through your folds, then nudges at your hole. It’s mortifying, the wet sounds, the ease with which his head slides in. Its heat lights a match that travels behind your navel, the whisper of something terrible and inevitable.

“This’ll make it feel better. I’ll fix it.”

Then he pushes, steadily sinking in one long plunge. It’s revolting. Hurts. Reminds you of burning metal. The smell of sweat and blood clings to the air like a damp cloth, so heavy it perforates your gag, coating the inside of your mouth before you notice you’re breathing it in quick, panicked gasps. It’s an eternity before he bottoms out, settling flush against you. He rests for only a moment before pulling back.

The squelch makes your innards flip and summons a new flood of tears.

Above you, his expression slightly softens, but impatience leaches into his voice. “Shh, shh, you’re fine, not even goin’ yet.” He rolls his hips for a bit, watching you cry under him. His head tilts every so often, almost reptilian. Detached, studying. Eventually, decision flickers behind his eyes. He mumbles something and lowers himself.

His elbow anchors beside you, supporting his weight as it lands. His chest is warm against yours, its hair coarse and thick. He squeezes your tit, guiding it toward his mouth to suck the nipple between his lips. Behind their lids, his eyes move as if dreaming, then blink rapidly, like he can’t believe where he is or what he’s doing. He smiles around your flesh, biting and tugging your nipple with a happy hum.

“See? Not so bad,” He releases your breast and cups your cheek, adding another smear to your skin. You wince as he plants a kiss over your parted mouth, tonguing the silk he placed behind your teeth himself. He acts as if it isn’t there, upping his pace into short, shallow thrusts as he makes out with your eye mask, tongue occasionally catching your teeth and chin. “Soon as you’re off the rag, gonna do this to your cunt.”

You whimper at his promise, which just makes him moan. Makes him shudder and grit his teeth.

He becomes enthralled with watching your face as he fucks you. Adjusting according to what he sees, but he’s often wrong, a priest too deep in his cups to read his knucklebones. The twitch of brow or tone of your gasps. Too far gone, too drenched in his pleasure to try and make sense of yours. But even a broken clock is right twice a day, and at some point, he stops petting your damp eye socket with his thumb to find your clit.

To your fury, he finds his rhythm and matches it to his brutish thrusts. Heat spreads under your skin, making your toes curl and knees press to his sides. Even with all your sniffling and muffled curses, he stares, fascinated. Entranced. “Oh, fuck, ye look–ye look so good like this. Chokin’ the life out–”

You howl, pathetic and hateful. Beneath his weight your body jerks uncontrollably, your quivering thighs welded to his sides by sweat. Your orgasm rushes out of you like a tidal wave, sweeping up everything else—his face, the pain, even the way the light bends through the blinds. For a moment, it’s as though you’re outside of your own body, the rush of endorphins and adrenaline stamping out reality if only for a few seconds. But there is no reprieve as you come down, no soft landing. John pats your clit, cooing when it makes you clench around him again.

“Next time,” he bets on the future again, the stars still popping in your eyes. “I’ll let ye keep your tongue free. Ye’ll call me ‘John’, then.”

Learning his name makes it somehow worse.

Mortification scorches your insides to fond for him to scrape up and use again. John’s thrusts turn punishing. The obscene sounds of him rutting into your sopping pussy bounce off the walls. It’s deafening, and the scent of blood is heavy and overpowering. It knocks you back into the kitchen, gloved hands slick with entrails and reeking brine, avoiding looking at the eyes beyond the customary tests. You’ve always felt some measure of empathy for the things, but maybe not enough, you think, as John pinches your clit. Your knives, extensions of your hands, scaling and gutting and cleaning until they’re perfect cuts. Remnants of their former selves. Lighter and emptier.

It’s how it feels when he wrings another orgasm out of you, pleasure sharply turning to pain as he takes what he wants. Hollowing you out.

His hand returns again to your face, which screws up in disgust and contorts with your sobs. His palm is bathed in your essences, slipping around to the back of your head to bring you into another not-kiss. He presses your foreheads together, panting feverishly. He rambles, one long string of filth. How tight you go, how perfect you feel. How hot, how wet, how yours is the messiest and best pussy he’s ever had. The last pussy he’ll ever have.

When he comes, his weight knocks into you full force. The steel around your wrist digs into flesh and the air is driven from your lungs in a yelp. Notching his cock deep to the seal of your womb painfully, soothing with a torrent of cum. His shoulders slump, elbow near collapsing as he gradually comes to rest atop you. Even if you weren’t cuffed, the heft of him would lock you in place.

It’s some time—minutes or hours, it doesn’t matter—before he pulls back to sit on his haunches. His softening cock tugs free, releasing a deluge of cum and blood. It squishes beneath the cleft of your ass. You’d cry if you had anything left.

Apparently sated, he treats your abused and blood-soaked cunt like an inkwell. He guides his tip through your flood so many times, it lulls you into a strange, middle space. You’re simultaneously in your bed, shackled under a psychopath, and at the same time, floating elsewhere. Somewhere untouchable. You don’t feel the bite of the cuffs or the soreness between your legs.

You slip under.

Later, wide-awake at the business end of your knife, you struggle to swallow the tinned fish he pushes in your mouth with his fingers. He washed you both in the shower, but you taste phantom traces of iron.

John coos at your floundering and swipes a bit of escaped flesh back into your mouth with his thumb. He hooks it in your cheek to watch you chew.

“It’s good, right?” He meets your eye with a genuine smile. “It’s good for you.”

#soap x f!reader #soap x reader #darkfic #tw rape #tw noncon #sy kinktober #kinktober

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o-sachi · 3 months ago

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Where Love Grows - Drabble for WinBre Week!

ᯓ oh to grow old and plant tomatoes on your farm together... ᯓ character; umemiya hajime (wind breaker) ᯓ tags; aged up (but just because growing old and in love makes me sappy), FLUFF, afab reader, no y/n

[🐟]: for the day 1 - garden prompt! @windbreakerweek

You've been calling out his name for a while now, yet you received no response. There was no mistake that he was out here, tending to the plants again. Sometimes he gets so immersed in it that he fails to notice how hot it is. The duty of reminding him and hauling him back in the house has been designated to you.

You had to be careful, especially at this age. Getting a heatstroke and keeling over in the middle of the scorching heat would be terrible after all.

"Hajime!" you call out again. Just how far away was he from the house?

If only you knew he'd be this irresponsible, you would have stopped him from buying a land with this huge of a farm. Or maybe not... you could never find it in yourself to turn him down—not when he's smiling so earnestly at you.

You click your tongue, feeling tired from just stepping through the rows of crops the two of you worked hard to nurture. "Hajime! Where are you?"

Finally. You see head of white hair poking out from a few rows away from you. Your eyes met each other's and despite your annoyance, a smile creeps on your face. He was a hardheaded man, but seeing the joys of a simple life reflected on his face made your heart swell.

"You missed me already? I've only been out for an hour," he teases with the familiar twinkle in his eyes.

"Say whatever you want, darling. I'd prefer if you stay inside for now and drank some water."

He stood up, dusting his pants. But it was all in naught because he wiped his dirty hands on his white tee anyway. It was a habit of his and at this point it was impossible to correct.

"I'll be inside in a sec. Just need to—" he pauses to stretch his back. "Relocate some of these tomatoes somewhere else."

He never said a thing, but you noticed in his mannerisms that his back was giving him trouble lately. You stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his aching back.

"How about we do it together later when it's not so hot?"

Hajime sighs, glancing over at the tomatoes that shone a bit under the sun. He'd prefer to get it over with, but he couldn't pass up on the chance to do some farm work with you. "Alright, fine. Let's head back for now."

Even though his hands were covered in soil, you squeezed it hard when he held yours. There was an inexplicable feeling when he'd take you by the hand and lead you around the farm. It reminded you when the two of you were younger—you'd run around the empty parts of the field, giggling like idiots.

It wasn't possible now because the two of you had filled most of the land with healthy and beautiful crops. As nostalgic as it was, you loved how fulfilled it seemed. It was like a testament to your marriage and to your love.

"Sometimes I miss being young," he starts, as if he read your mind. "Back then I'd have no trouble crouching down all day and taking care of my plants."

You squeezed his hand in reassurance once more. "All that fighting getting to you now huh?"

A rich chuckle erupts from his chest. "Guess you're right, darling. But I don't regret a single thing."

The two of you continue your trek back to the house. The sun still shone brightly, but his body blocked it. All you could see was his broad back—the same back that carried Furin and your family on its shoulders.

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you hadn't noticed that you were already at the fence that separated the main house from the farm. Hajime easily unlocked the gate with one hand and it opened with the creaking sound you've heard everyday for the past 20 or so years you've been living here.

That gate had a Pavlov effect on you. Whenever you heard it, you knew that Hajime was done farming and that you'd have to wait by him at the door where he'd collect his end-of-the-day kiss.

It seems like the kids have caught on to it as well. As soon as the gate closed, they were already there—running towards their beloved parents. A little girl and a little boy went to either parent and gave them a hug.

You had other older kids who had moved out some time ago. These two came later in your lives. Initially, you were worried, but Hajime got rid of your fears.

"The more the merrier!" he would say. Hajime did love kids after all.

He pat both of their heads. "Hehe, you guys missed me too? Your mama sure did."

"Hajime..."

He feigns innocence. "Mama missed me, right? She got all grumpy again, didn't she?"

The two rascals, who took after their father (way too much), nodded along. You playfully narrowed your eyes at them.

Hajime sure loved your reactions to your family banter. He clapped his hands. "Alright. Let's go inside and make some orange juice."

"Yeah! Orange juice!" the kids cheered in unison.

"Let's all go to the farm together later hm? How about that?" Hajime asked the kids as they began walking back to the house.

You were left to stand a good distance away from them—admiring your kids and the man that helped you raise them. He turned back to look at you, smiling and gesturing for you to come along.

Well... you've truly come a long way.

#wind breaker #wind breaker x reader #hajime umemiya #umemiya x reader #wind breaker week #fish does winbre week

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axelsagewrites · 11 months ago

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Roy Kent*Future Mrs Gramma

Pairing: roy x f!reader, bestie!jamie x platonic reader

Word count: 1240

Warnings: drinking, angry roy, swearing

Masterlist Here

You and Jamie were the type of friends that wouldn’t see ach other for weeks, months even, then as soon as the other came into sight you were barrelling into their arms for a hug and to jump right back into your last conversation. So, when Jamie found out you were moving to London, only a ten-minute drive from his work no less, he was ecstatic to say the least.

As much as you loved Jamie you never particularly cared about football which weirdly made your friendship better but after Jamie had come round for drinks at your new flat in your drunken haze you decided it was a great idea to go down to Richmond to continue the celebrations. It only took 20 quid and a questionable grounds keeper to get in and soon you were drinking in the stands with your best friend.

“I’m on top of the world!” Jamie half screamed, standing on top of the seat beside where you sat.

You giggled as you hauled yourself up to stand on the seat next to him, “Woohoo!”

The sun light pierced your skull as your eyes slowly began to drag themselves open. The piercing ring of a whistle burned your ear as you pulled yourself up. Looking around you remembered where you were. Fuck. You and Jamie must’ve fallen asleep last night lying on the ground in a row of seats at least 15 rows back. On the upside this meant the footballers on the pitch couldn’t see you as they practised but, on the downside, they were already here!?

“Pst, Jamie,” you whispered as you shoved at the lump whose head had been lying opposite of yours. Jamie just mumbled something as he rolled on his side. Almost as if fate you could hear a very deep, and very angry voice yell “where the fuck is Tartt?”

“Get up,” you gritted your teeth, holding back gagging as you tried to both nurse your hangover and wake up the log beside you. you sighed before pinching his nose.

Jamie began to flap, swatting at your hands, before managing to sit up and out of your grip, “What the fuck man?” he yelled before his eyes fell to the pitch, “Fuck,” he mumbled as you face palmed.

“Tartt!” the voice screamed, heavy footsteps following.

Thank god you were at the furthest away seats. “It was nice knowing you Jamie,” you sighed, patting his shoulder.

“You’re fucked if he catches you too, ya know?”

“Fuck,” you looked up over the seat to see a relatively built man in his 30s thundering over to the section you were in.

“Who the hell is there?” the gruff voice called out as he climbed into the stands.

It was now or never. thank god your parents forced you to do track you thought as you pulled yourself to your feet and began to book it. you heard Jamies cheers as you began to essentially jump down the rows over the seats, all while trying not to spew. The man trying to catch you paused, debating which person to chase first as Jamie took off running the other way.

Sadly, he chose you. however luckily for you he tried to chase you into the seats, and you were, somehow, faster than him despite him being a professional footballer. The number of times you and Jamie had to run away from the people he’d mouthed off to had apparently came in handy as you jumped out the stands, onto the pitch, and began to sprint.

You could hear the man start to chase you but refused to turn around, instead heading straight to the exit, screaming, “I fucking hate you Jamie!” as you ran. Somehow you made it to the parking lot with the worst stitch of your life and a snapchat from Jamie keeled over laughing at the side of the pitch.

You swore from then on to avoid Richmond like the plague. That was until Jamie texted you saying he needed a lift cause his car had a flat tire. as you sat in the parking lot, tapping on your steering wheel bored out your nut you heard the metal door clang as it slammed open. You looked up, half expecting to see Jamie, and instead finally seeing those angry eyes up close. “Oh fuck,”

“You!” you could see him mouth, his finger jabbing at you as you locked the car doors. He stormed over, tapping on your window.

You let it down ever so slightly, “Hello,” you said, as if nothing had happened.

“Hi,”

“Can I help you?”

“Can you fucking-I-how-I mean-you run fucking fast!” he eventually managed out prompting you to raise an eyebrow, “Aren’t you gonna roll your window down all the way?”

“Last time I saw you, you were chasing me,”

“That’s cause you and your prick boyfriend broke into the stadium,”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said, and a strange look washed over his face you couldn't quite read, “Besides he said you made him run 30 laps hungover. I think we’re even,”

This time he squinted, his weird look vanishing, “Maybe I should make you run 30 laps,”

You couldn’t help but snort at his words, “Id like to see you fucking try,” you said as a few other footballers began to walk out, all looking away when he glared at them, “Roy, right?”

“Yeah, who are you?” he asked. You figured with witnesses now he couldn’t murder you so rolled the window down all the way and stuck your hand out to introduce yourself. His shake was firm, his skin rough as sandpaper, but for some reason you were sad to let go, “Id like to say it was nice to meet you,”

“Don’t worry,” you said, turning the car on when you saw Jamie finally sauntering out, “feelings mutual,” you said before beeping your horn and leaning out the window, “Get a fucking move on mate,” you called at Jamie before ducking back into the car. “And don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. I hate running,”

“Me too,”

You tilted your head in confusion, a trait Roy found oddly endearing, “You’re a footballer?”

“I know,” he said as if talking to a small child making you roll your eyes, “What can I say? I’m a fucking idiot,”

“Alright grampa don’t be too hard on yourself,” Jamie grinned as he climbed into the passenger seat. You however turned around and smacked his arm, “Eh! What’s that for?”

“You told me three. Its fucking almost four you twat,”

“Practise ran over! blame him,” he said, pointing at Roy who was already rolling his eyes.

“Call us even then?” you sighed, turning to Roy. He nodded and started to walk away as you put the car into first gear only to be interrupted by Roy walking back over, “You, okay?”

“Yeah, just wondering,” he paused for a second, “You gonna be at the next game?”

You glanced at Jamie whose eyes were bulging out his sockets before laughing. “Dunno, should I be?”

“Wouldn’t mind it if you were,”

“Might just come then,” you grinned, “See you around Roy,” you said but all he did was nod and step away so you could finally drive off.

Jamie groaned as you drove out the parking lot, “Oh god you’re gonna fuck a grampa,”

“Not just any grampa,” you laughed at him, “I’m gonna be your step gramma.”

Ted Lasso Taglist: @gee72sstuff

General Taglist: @obx-josie18 @ravenmoore14 @tessakate

#ted lasso #ted lasso imagine #ted lasso x reader #ted lasson smut #ted lasso season one #roy kent #roy kent imagine #roy kent x reader #roy kent x you #roy kent x y/n #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent fluff #roy kent fanfic

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