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dc418writes · 7 months ago

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✨Pairing✨: felon!Ari Levinsonxblack!reader

Summary🪄: Surprisingly, you’re Ari’s first stop when he gets out of prison

🚨: 18+ NO MINORS!! Ari (first and foremost because hello☝🏾lol), angst, talks of prison, allusion to violence (male-male), allusion to childhood trauma, a few bad language words, unprotected happy adult fun times (everyone please be safe!)

A/N🎤: Hi! So this is my entry for the Cum Together Extravaganza created by the amazing, talented, wonderful, whore-mone inducing @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420 lol, and I hope everyone enjoys☺️! *This idea is loosely based off Nicolas Cage’s character from Con Air (if you know you know✨)

*DISCLAIMER!: although visual was created by me via Canva, I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP of pictures used as they were all found via Pinterest*

Prompt: Pining + Running into each other after a long time apart + Frantic Kisses

His heavy boots stop just a foot or two away from the familiar steps he’d climbed plenty of times before. A mix of emotions swirling through his brain causing a tightness in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

Not after he’d all but physically pushed you out the visitation room that day. A common tactic of self sabotage he developed over the years, along with his way of trying to protect you from the eventual hurt he knew he’d put you through.

You were so angelic that day. Your natural glow competing with the sun outside shining through the window against your soft skin seemingly made of gold. Brown eyes full of worry, yet still holding that sparkle Ari had never experienced from anyone before. This wasn’t a place for you to be. A place that would soon tarnish your purity - so white the freshest snow, having fallen directly from the sky above, seemed dirty.

“You’re hurt,” you stated wanting so badly to reach out and try to do something for the blue and purple bruise on his cheek. To clean the dried blood around the stitch in his right eyebrow, but you keep your hands to yourself following the strict “no touching” rule.

He only shrugged. Clearly uncaring of whatever happened, but there was also a dimness to his spirit.

Since your first meeting, you could tell there was something hidden behind the walls he’d built. Sense a complicated past before he felt comfortable enough to tell you some of what he’d gone through. However this was different. Past the point of reverting back to the old Ari that was known as a troubled, aloof hermit, it’s almost as if this was a completely different man.

“I uh wanted to bring you cookies, but the officer said no,” you started again, trying to change the subject since Ari wouldn’t tell you what happened. “Something about possible contraband smuggling? As if I could sneak something in a small cookie. Plus it’s me of all people! Where would I even get-,”

“Don’t come back here,” he finally spoke in that gruff voice. It takes you back at first, lightly chuckling to yourself thinking he was joking. His serious eyes - somewhat dark and with new adjoining bags from his lack of sleep - tell you otherwise quickly causing a furrow to your brows.

“Wha-What do you mean-?”

“You don’t need to be waiting for me. Just…leave.”

“B-But I love you Ari.”

He shakes his head before standing to his feet. “We’re done,” he calls over his shoulder as he reaches the metal door. Whoever was in charge apparently heard him from the pad shining green to grant him entrance back to the waiting hall where another officer met him to reapply his cuffs and escort him to his cell.

All the while ignoring your cries of his name and how you pleaded for him to talk to you.

But later that night, staring at the discolored white ceiling as he lied in his top bunk on an uncomfortable, lumpy mattress, it’s all he could hear. Those same tears that ran down your cheeks now silently running down his.

“Fuck,” he silently curses to himself while his fingers pass through his almond strands as he turns away - now hyper aware of how strange he probably looked to your neighbors just standing in your yard. He should’ve just gone to the halfway house he’d been recommended from the transfer counselor.

Try to stay far from you and this part of town for that matter.

He was slowly realizing though, that the heart he thought was closed off desperately craved attention only you could give. Only wanted your warm touch and smile that soothed a childhood ache he’d long suppressed.

Just as he moves to descend your stone path, the front door creaks open to staccato taps on your wooden porch. There’s a continuous clink of metal followed by excited barks as the black dachshund runs down the steps and around Ari’s feet.

“Barry! You can’t run-”

Beautiful as a painting in a museum, there you stood in your cut off jean shorts and some older looking shirt. Your hair much shorter than the last time he saw you eight years ago, but the pixie cut only brought more attention to your gorgeous face and adorable cheeks.

Other than that, it’s as if you hadn’t aged a day.

“A-Ari?,” you stammer stepping further out onto your porch.

He has to clear his throat to get rid of the nerves blocking his words from escaping. “I…I’m sorry for just showin’ up like this. Would’ve called, but when they gave me my phone back it was dead.”

“So..you’re out?”

“Yea,” he softly smiles. You don’t return it though looking as if you’d seen a ghost while staying planted on the top step. Even Barry had returned back to your side, circling a couple times until he felt comfortable enough to lie down. “This was a mistake. Clearly she doesn’t want you here.”

“I’ll uh leave then,” Ari says nervously scratching the back of his neck after a long - and awkward enough - moment of silence between you two. “I didn’t mean to bother-”

Before he can finish, you’re running down the steps - not caring of the dirt and grass on your bare feet. He’s prepared for your deserved anger, whether that be yelling, shoves, or even punches. Instead, your fists clasp the front of his shirt as you pull him down to meet your lips.

After years apart his hands still automatically find their usual place on your body bringing you closer. Ari’s right on the side of your neck, tilting your chin however he needed to gain the access to your mouth he missed, while his left dragged from your hip to the middle of your back holding you to him.

Your moan hitting him in a deep, long ignored place that has him embarrassed like a teenage boy how fast his blood runs southward.

The need for air has you both begrudgingly parting, while your foreheads stay connected. “I’m sorry..for everything,” he whispers letting his thumb graze along your petal soft bottom lip. It’s as if he thinks you’ll break he’s so gentle - like it’s a fragile piece of artwork he dared touch.

"I didn't-"

"Shh," you reply leaning up to peck his lips once more. "Later."

Your lips barely separate journeying the short distance from your front door to your bedroom. Both of them red and swollen, yet neither of you attempt to stop as your back hits the light blue comforter - fluffy and soft as a cloud.

His hands grip your thighs curling along his sides, yet fail to move where you need them most making you whimper as his mouth slides to your neck. Taking matters into your own hands, you pull his shirt over his muscled back - silently giggling to yourself and filling with a sense of pride hearing his pleasured groan as your nails rake against his warm skin.

They’re set for his buckle next, but Ari’s quick to use his rougher and stronger ones to pin on either side of your head. “Ari please,” you whine eagerly trying to grind your hips so your soaking core can get some type of relief. You know he’s desperate for something too briefly nudging the tent formed in front of his pants.

“I know, I know.” He unsuccessfully tries to kiss the pout from your lips. “I..I wanna take my time tonight. It’s been eight years sweetheart.”

The deprived and needy part of you wants to counter, urging him for the opposite since it’s been so long. Instead, you nod letting him completely take control.

Slowly, he helps remove your clothes before open mouth kisses and taps of his tongue flow down from your neck and across your heaving chest to your stomach. You moan arching your back to lift your breasts closer to his face when he returns there taking his time attacking one nipple with his tongue while the other is groped and plucked in his free hand.

By the time he finally reaches your waiting and wet core, it only takes one lick and your sweet release is covering his beard.

“S-Sorry,” you stammer feeling your skin heat even more from shame not wanting that to happen so quickly.

“Sorry?,” he softly chuckles before leaving a kiss on your mound. “That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

The sound nearly has you in tears knowing your Ari was back. The one you knew loved you just as much as you loved him.

Having had a taste after going so long without, he can’t wait for more switching between his skillful tongue and fingers until your juices flow again, His mouth attached to you; greedily slurping everything you could give him. Your fingers are seemingly locked in his hair as he rises enough to remove his pants. Grunting as he grabs the base - past the point of painfully hard - to direct himself inside you.

“Fuck,” he moans into your neck feeling you rapidly pulse around him. So warm and tight he has to restrain himself from taking you like a wild animal.

Not that you would mind.

“M’not gonna last baby.”

“Spose to happen,” you slur clutching around him urging him to move.

His hand tightly pinning your hip to the bed, his thrusts start slow yet hard before gaining speed the closer he feels. Simultaneously, your cries of his name get louder as well while his mouth and tongue move along your neck and earlobe.

“Shit, I feel you right there baby come on. Come with me.” You can’t comprehend anything with your brain in this foggy, love drunk state, yet somehow your body complies when his thumb finds your swollen and throbbing nub squirting against his skin and down to the sheets below. “Mm good girl.”

His final pumps have you filled until no more can stay. A small mix of both your releases leaking from your hole with every surge of his hips until he’s drained.

Exhausted, he carefully tries to pull out but your whines have him stopping. Softly smiling to himself while slowly lowering until he’s comfortably laying on top of you. “Calm down I’m here.”

Soon your even breaths fill his ears and he’s able to lie on his side - gently moving you with him- to completely take in the area surrounding him. His fingertips mindlessly tracing along your thigh as he reacquaints himself to your bedroom. It was fitting for you in every way, from the light yellow of the walls to the books lining the shelves he built for you long ago. Your few stuffed animals in a wicker basket in the corner as if they were prepared for bed themselves.

Ari notices one in particular - a white bunny with long ears and pink bows he bought you during a trip to the store one day - on your dresser next to a framed picture you must’ve secretly took. He appeared to be taking a break from something dressed in a gray tee, dark jeans, and work-boots with his utility belt on his hips. A bottle of water in his hand lifted to his lips as he looked off somewhere in the distance. Now that he thought about it, he was watching a bird peck the ground trying to find bugs or seeds to eat.

And he looked so peaceful. So calm for once in his tormented life. He had you to thank for that being kind and willing enough to share your light when he fought so hard against it.

In the bit of moonlight peeking through the blinds, he can make out ‘Home’ in the corner of the picture causing the slightest curl to his lips as he holds you closer.

“You kept putting up with me,” he quietly speaks pecking your temple. “So patient even after everything. Know I’m never leavin you again sweetheart. I’m home for good.”

#CT 2024 raffle entry #ari levinson #ari levinson au #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x black!reader #red sea diving resort #ari levinson x woc #chris evans #chris evans x black reader #chris evans x reader #chris evans x woc!reader #CT 2024 community extravaganza

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siriusleee · 1 year ago

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shot through with gold

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.

The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time.

His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him.

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive.

Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in.

“Yeah, got everything.”

Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern, the moment you had it everything would reset.

The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat.

It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.

A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different.

It should have been someone else.

You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.

Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.

Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction.

The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls. It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.

Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.

You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.

You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.

The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it.

“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.

“Already taken care of, birdie.”

After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.

You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.

A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.

They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months.

You bare your teeth at him.

You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.

Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily.

Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.

“Steady Soap?”

Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use. Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused.

But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you.

“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.

“O’course.”

It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz’s eyes linger on Johnny.

The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here.

In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.

The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.

Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.

The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.

Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.

It was something.

The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.

He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.

The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace.

Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.

Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.

Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.

Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.

“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”

He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.

His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you.

“Sparrow?”

“Johnny?”

It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower.

Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.

Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.

Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you.

“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.

“Why?”

“I healed up wrong.”

Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.

“Is it going to hurt?”

You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.

“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."

Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.

“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”

You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment.

"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips.

"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."

The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other.

For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.

The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.

It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work, bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder.

The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield.

Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.

”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor.

Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.

“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.

“Hospital procedure, birdie.”

Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags.

“Hello, Luv.”

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”

Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat.

You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.

He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.

The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground.

The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.

“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”

It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.

You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here.

The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand.

“It’s called Kintsugi.”

The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.

“What happened to it?”

“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.

Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.

“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”

You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter.

You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries.

“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”

You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders.

“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”

Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.

The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost.

You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.

You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”

Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away.

So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.

Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed.

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.

“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”

“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything.

His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.

“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”

Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.

He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.

“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”

“What about your beard?”

Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side.

“You don’t like it?”

You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had.

You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.

His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning.

Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.

His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow.

Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run.

He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.

He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.

A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.

“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.

His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave.

You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail.

The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.

Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.

You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching.

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.

“To work?”

You nod, still refusing to look at him.

“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."

Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist.

“I’m sorry, birdie.”

And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier.

“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“

Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold.

Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder.

So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow.

Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you.

In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“Are you here with me birdie?”

Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt.

“I’m here Johnny.”

You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.

Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.

“Please, Johnny.”

Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe.

The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his.

“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down.

You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before.

It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.

Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.

Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.

“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move.

You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster.

You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye.

Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny.

“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder.

You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans.

Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward.

“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.

“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”

Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness.

“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do.

“I know you’re not, hen.”

“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”

Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt.

“I’m not going to hurt you too.”

It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.

You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”

You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.

It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.

The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.

“Still with me?”

“Still here.”

Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully.

“Too much?”

Yes.

Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-

You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there.

Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.

Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.

You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.

You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been. You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.

Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.

The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.

Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.

Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge.

His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.

“Look at me.”

Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-

Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.

Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you.

Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.

Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.

He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.

“Still here?”

“Still here.”

#my fics #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish #cod soap x reader #cod imagines #cod smut #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #cod x reader #johnny mactavish

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deansapplepie · 10 months ago

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That’s the least I could do for ma girl (Drabble)

Warnings: period, cramps, pain, just that.

You laid in the small bunk located in your cell, wrapped around a blanket, you hated that time of the month. At one moment you’d feel cold, in the next you’d be burning. Right now taken with cramps you seeked some warmth around your belly to help soothe your pain. With Woodbury joining the prison, the meds were scarce and you couldn’t have the luxury ibuprofen could give you.

That was how Daryl found you, tangled in the blanket on bed. “Hey sunshine, why are ya like this?” He sat on the bed and caressed your arm.

You laid facing the wall and curving on yourself as if you became smaller you’d feel less pain. “I have cramps…” you said, your voice weaker than you intended it to be.

“Do ya want some meds?” He asked and took some hair from your face. He supported himself with one arm and inclined over you so he could look at your face.

“We don’t have meds Dee.” You said the obvious. “And I don’t want you out there risking your life to get some or none.”

“What can I do to make you feel better?” His hand on your cheek, his thumb rubbing on your face.

“Nothing, don’t worry. It’s gonna pass.” You said. What you really needed was his arms around you, and he being a human heater warming your lower back and belly.

“If I lay with ya, do I help?” He asked genuinely trying to make you feel better. It’s not like he hadn’t seen you like this before. He had, but you weren’t a thing before, so he did what he could finding meds and trying to casually give them to you without saying it was because he saw you suffering and it broke his heart.

“Ye… no, I… what if I get you dirty with my blood? No, it’s better not.” Your face heated with embarrassment and you avoided his eyes, just like a teenage girl trying to hide her period from the boys. Daryl had already even went on run just to get you some pads when you didn’t have it, and now that you were dating, here you were all embarrassed.

“I don’t care. It’s gonna be the purest thing I’ve been ‘dirty’ with. Have you ever noticed what makes us dirty nowadays?” He said already taking his boots off. “That’s the least I could do for ma girl.” He was already laying with you, your back against his chest getting the so needed warmth.

You guided his hand that was in your stomach down and put it on top of the place where you felt the pain, while he gave you small kisses on your head, cheek, neck and shoulder. Little by little he felt you relaxing against his body as you felt more comfortable and the pain was subsiding. “Better?”

“Much better”

#daryl dixon #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl #twd #twd daryl #daryl x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl x y/n #daryl imagines #imagine daryl #daryl twd #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl x you #daryl x female reader #deansapplepie

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hughiecampbelle · 5 months ago

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Little Death (Frenchie Oneshot)

Character/s: Frenchie, Butcher, Hughie, M.M.

Word Count: 1,396

Requested: hello!! I love your work!! I would love to request frenchie and the following prompts! “Gauze” “caution” “I don’t owe you anything” - anon

A/N: I hope you like it my love!!! I'm not the happiest with it. I've rewritten it three times, but I think it's just one of those fics where I'll never truly be satisfied unfortunately. Regardless, I love the idea! Thank you for requesting!!! Feedback is always appreciated! 💜💜💜

I don’t owe you anything, you spat, blood dribbling down your chin. Timidly, he slides a pad of gauze across the sink, leaving it between you. The first aid kit sat open on his lap, exposed. You reach out only when he’s let go, unwrapping it. Your head pounds. The wound on your forehead wasn’t deep enough to need stitches. For that, you were grateful. It pulsed, wet and red and throbbing. You pulled your sleeve over your hand, pressing into it. He reaches out to help, but you flinch. He forgets. That’s dangerous. I don’t owe any of you anything, you clarify a little louder. You’re sure they’re all listening. The walls are thin and that group, who hadn’t stopped arguing since they showed up, were all too quiet. The angry one with bloodshot eyes rammed the butt of his gun into your head. If only it’d been his bare fist. Not after, with a gloved hand, had he punched you upwards, your jaw bruising as you spoke. You grabbed the wrist of his coat. This one, meek and empathetic, ordered him to stop. The both of you to stop. They were guests in your home, they were supposed to act like it. He wasn’t going to force you to do anything you didn’t want to. You’d had enough of that for one lifetime. I know you don’t. His tone is gentle. Understanding. You stood, careful, cautious in the tiny bathroom, taping the bandages over the opening. What did they see when they looked at you?

You rinsed your mouth, watching the water circle the drain, pink and gooey. His knee touches you, the fabric worn thin, and you can’t help but turn rigid, still, until you can back away into the corner. Until you can make sure he is nowhere near you. He raises his hands, surrendering. I did not mean- he stops, unable to finish the sentence. I know, you say too quickly. You knew his type, his kind. Always testing the limits. Pushing the boundaries. Believing themselves different from the rest. They could try all they wanted, they could think all they wanted, they all ended up in the same shallow graves.

You were famous in all the wrong places. Death for hire. There were no signs or symptoms. There was no real reason for their sudden deaths. It was instant. It was painless. It was effective. No marks or bruises, no bullet holes or brains bashed in. No weapons necessary. It's been a long time since you took a job. There were plenty of opportunities, plenty of people looking, you just didn't want to be found. Fell off the grid. No family, no friends. It was easier than you'd like to admit. It was effortless. One day you were there, the next no one had heard from you. You didn't take calls or emails. You didn't have a phone. Customers would drop off letters, notes, envelopes of cash with names and descriptions. You'd do what you needed to. They always paid well. There was a sick sort of satisfaction. Your part was easy. Sometimes you put on a show. Got dressed up. Slid beside them at the bar. Took them to bed. They adored you. Other times, it was on the subway, the bus, in the middle of the crosswalk. Your job was done. The world went on spinning. That's just how it goes.

Little Death. La Petite Mort. That’s what everyone called you. I assume you know what I can do. He nods. They all did. It was Frenchie who'd seen you first. You weren't angry or fighting, you weren't cagey. You were very still, sitting in the middle of your cell, knees to chest. There was something underneath that. Perhaps it was defeat or shame. In the moment, it caught him off guard. Now he understands it's just who you are. Who you've become. Who were you before? Cindy opened the doors and everyone fled. You were cautious though, pulling your sleeves over your hands, your arms, keeping yourself small enough to slip by without getting caught, without hurting anyone. He wanted to follow, but it was too late. He never forgot about you. Afterwards, he asked M.M. and Hughie to dig up every file from the Sage Grove Center. You'd be useful, he just wasn't sure how important you'd turn out to be.

So why aren't you afraid? You sat at the edge of the tub, him on the toilet, the two of you staring at one another. He smiles and the act strikes you across the face. You are not so scary. He shrugs. Nine years ago, almost ten, they injected you with Compound V. You were a teenager, placed in their care by people who loved you. There were no physical changes. No outward deformities or abilities. They assumed it was mental, but you couldn't read thoughts or move things with your mind. Called you a dud. A failure. If that was true, wouldn't that mean you could leave? You begged one of the nurses, please. The words scratched your throat, tore their way from your mouth like barbed wire. Please, I won't say anything. I won't tell anyone. And then you grabbed them by the wrist, making them drop your dinner tray. They dropped, too. A pile of lead wrapped in skin. You'd never forget that sound. Someone heard and they followed. They went to pull you, drag you from the cell, punish you, but they found the same fate. There was a pile of bodies before anyone realized it wasn't on purpose. Lamplighter watched the security cameras. You never fought any of them. They found no weapons on your person after a strip search. All they did was touch you.

Ten years. Ten years of bodies. Ten years of testing. They'd learn. You'd learned too. It only worked skin to skin. Clothing, fabric, gloves, all of it could be a lifesaver. Any part of you. All parts of you. They still found ways to hurt you. Some favored cattle prods. Others went the old fashioned way, pointing a gun between your eyes until you took down an entire room of other patients. You chose to live and for that you would always be considered selfish. Who do you want me to kill? You ask, your eyes cast down at the blood drying on your shirt. No one ever wanted your company. No one ever wanted to get to know you. It was what you could do that was of interest. It is not that simple, Petite Mort. You roll your eyes. It is that simple. You move abruptly. Sitting to standing, learning into him, your faces inches from one another. His eyes widened despite himself. He is scared.

They all are.

You can say no, he says again. You're overcome by nausea, dizziness. Maybe you had a concussion. Maybe it was what he'd said, the name he whispered. Get out. You look him in the eyes and repeat yourself, but he doesn't move. Get out! You pull at his jacket, pushing him through the doorway. His friends all freeze. Get out! Leave now! You know your neighbors will complain about the screaming, but you don't care. You're furious. Frenchie tries to calm you down, but you're hysterical. This is what they wanted. This is why Vought let you live so long. Because they wanted you to be their weapon. You could kill anyone. Everyone. You were collateral. An emergency fund. An option when they were all out of options. You weren't going to be used anymore. You weren't going to be a pawn in Voughts game. Not anymore. You got out. You were free. You couldn't go back there, you couldn't put yourself in danger like that again. They would recognize you. You would never see the light of day again. They'd let you rot in a cell like all those years. Before you slam the door in their faces, Frenchie tries one last time. S'il te plaît. We would never let anything happen to you. You've become cold, stone-like, the same shell of a human being he recognized from that first day, that first moment. There is not getting through to you. Not now, at least. The conversation was over. He must let it die.

You were not going to kill Homelander.

#requested #frenchie #frenchie x reader #frenchie oneshot #frenchie drabble #the boys #the boys drabble #the boys oneshot #the boys x reader

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only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are · 29 days ago

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Redwood Psychiatric Institute - Part 7

MASTERLIST - PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4 - PART 5 - PART 6

CWs: THIS IS A HEAVY ONE PLEASE READ THESE AND PROCEED WITH CAUTION - medical gaslighting, ECT mentions, disordered eating, forced NG tube (nasogastric) intubation, description of forced intubation, IV cannula, forced drugging

"I know you're lying to me." James ground out.

"James, you are ill. You are schizophrenic, and you have trouble telling reality from hallucination. I am your doctor, and I know what is best for you. And right now, what's best is for you to continue your treatments here."

"No, no, none of this is can be real, I'm - my name isn't James, it's- it's-" James stuttered. His hand trembled in the straight jacket he had been restrained in. "Why, why can't I remember?" His unruly dark hair obscured his wide eyes, pupils dilated from the medications.

"You're making things worse for yourself, James. Take a deep breath, and take some more medications. It'll make you feel much better." Doctor Wilson held out a wax paper cup filled with pills.

James shook his head as he backed into the padded wall of his room. "No, get them away from me. AWAY!" He began to scream, and realising he was trapped there rendered his flight instinct inert, he began to rock back and forth on his heels in a desperate attempt to soothe himself.

"James. Calm down. You are being dramatic. You need to take a deep breath."

James began to attempt to tear himself free from the straight jacket to no avail, letting out a frustrated animalistic cry.

"Why-"

"You can take a nice long nap and calm down." Doctor Wilson put the cup down, realising James wasn't going to let himself be soothed easily. The doctor instead pulled a hypodermic syringe out, and the boy began to scream.

"Can I have some assistance?" He called to the orderlies standing outside the cell. They rushed in, effortlessly pinning James to the floor. The orderlies pulled James' pants down to allow the Doctor access to his patient's bottom. Doctor Wilson swiftly jabbed the hypodermic into the muscle, earning him an indignant cry.

"No.. no.." James stuttered, as they pulled away from him. He attempted to pull himself to his feet, but tripped over himself, the drug already leaving him unsteady and out of it.

"Sh, my boy." Doctor Wilson soothed, helping his patient onto the bed. "You can rest now."

James eyelids, with his pupils blown wide, slowly drifted shut as he slumped over on the bed.

----

When James awoke, he decided to make a plan. He didn't trust Doctor Wilson anymore. There were gaps in his memory, and things that just didn't make sense.

And he was sure that his name wasn't really James - but what was it then?

He started by figuring out how to stop his meds. The nurses would check that he had taken them. He started crushing one or two in the side of his jaw, and swallowing the rest. The crushed pills were small enough that they weren't super noticeable, and as long as the nurses didn't see whole pills leftover. Once they left, he'd spit out the crushed tablets. Eliminating one or two of the medications certainly help to clear up his fatigue and drowsiness, but he had other symptoms instead - headaches, fevers, sore eyes. He just had to deal with it. He needed to stop the medication more.

Then, he stopped eating. Just in case the food was also drugged. But he also did it as a protest. He wanted to show Doctor Wilson that he was still in control. It started with a sausage here, some oatmeal there. He would just cut down gradually, and one one would notice until it was too late.

----

"For the last time James, eat up." The orderly, Dan, sighed as the boy pushed his tray away from him.

"'Mm not hungry." James muttered.

"You're being stubborn. You haven't eaten in 4 days. Eat up, or I'll have no choice but to call Doctor Wilson."

James didn't look up. "Don't care."

"Fine. I give up." The orderly picked up the walkie talkie hanging from his white scrubs. "Doctor Wilson, James is refusing to eat again and he's refusing meds."

"Take him to Treatment Room 2. I'll meet you there." The Doctor commanded.

The burly orderly bent down and scooped up James in one arm.

"Dan, please, please don't do this!" James began to sob.

He screamed and kicked, but he was a fairly scrawny young man, and with the lack of food, he was no match for the orderly, who dragged him down the hall with ease.

"Here." The orderly tapped his keycard on the door reader, and pushed the door open, revealing an exam table reminiscent of a dentist's chair. He place James onto the table, and began to strap him using the standard medical restraints, straps at his forehead, wrists, chest, hips, legs and ankles.

"Let me go!!" James screamed, fighting against the restraints with all the strength he had left. "You can't do this!!"

"I'm sorry buddy. It's for your own good." The orderly patted his forehead.

Doctor Wilson stepped into the room and locked eyes with James. Dan immediately backed away, planting himself in the corner of the room.

To the doctor, Jamess looked absolutely feral, his eyes red raw from crying and sleep deprivation, his hair greasy and unkempt, and his frame thin and wiry.

"Oh James, I was so hoping it wouldn't come to this." Doctor Wilson tutted, as he walked up the exam chair. He tilted James' chin, examining the boy's face closer. "You're sneaking off your meds, too." He said - a statement, not a question. "You had been doing so well.. All that progress we've achieved. Gone."

Doctor Wilson sighed, then nodded to the orderly, who began to set up a cart with medical tools and devices. Both men snapped on nitrile gloves and then pulled on medical masks.

"What are you doing?" James asked in a high-pitched tone, clearly frightened.

"Getting you back to health, my boy." Doctor Wilson smiled sadly behind the mask. "Clearly you can't be trusted to do the right thing for yourself."

Dan unpackaged a sterile butterfly needle, which he passed to the Doctor. The orderly wiped down James' elbow with an alcohol wipe, then tied a rubber band above the area. Doctor Wilson brought the needle to James' vein, and the boy whimpered.

"Relax James, you're in good hands." Doctor Wilson hushed, before sliding the needle into the vein.

It smarted, and James winced, looking away as a drop of blood bubbled up from the wound. The Doctor removed the needle and replaced it with tubing, setting up an IV which he hooked to a bag of solution on a stand. James looked to the bag as the solution began to drip through the tubing into his vein.

"What's in there?" He asked weakly.

The Doctor ignored him, and instead began to pull more tubing out from packaging. He held it up and measured it in front of James' face, who squirmed uncomfortably against the strap across his forehead. The Doctor then covered the tip in some kind of gel, held the tube under James' left nostril, and before he could react, the tube was being shoved up his nostril.

Shocked, James began to try to wrest his head away, but the restraints held tight, even as the tube slid further and further up his nose, down the back of his throat, and further, further down. James couldn't help but cough and gag on the tubing, the foreign sensation awfully unwelcome in his system. Even when he thought it couldn't possibly go any further, it did. Finally, finally, it was over. He drew in choked, panicked breaths through his mouth as his body was wracked with silent gasping sobs.

"All done." Doctor Wilson said, his voice void of any care or emotion for his patient. The orderly stepped up and helped the doctor tape the other end of the tube against James' cheek, then attached the tubing to a container sitting on the IV pole, which was filled with an odd liquid. Before long, the liquid began to trickle through the tube and down his nostril. He shuddered at the horrible sensation of the cold liquid sliding down the tube, straight into his stomach.

Doctor Wilson then adjusted the settings on the IV. "Get some sleep. You'll need it."

The Doctor left. Dan stayed for a moment, making sure the Doctor was out of sight before he bent down to whisper in James' ear. "I'm sorry it had to come to that. But you left me with no choice.." He wiped a tear from James' cheek. "Get your rest while you can."

Dan stood, and with a sad sigh, shut the door behind him as he left the room.

James was left in silence. He stared up at the cieling, the odd tear slipping down his cheek, James felt his head becoming cloudy. His limbs felt light, as though they weren't tethered to his body anymore. He was floating. His eyelids however, were heavy as lead. The longer he stared, the harder it was to stay awake, and before long, his consciousness faded and he slipped into darkness.

Taglist:

@jazatronasmr @onthishamsterwheel @bumpthumpwhump @bloodsweatandpotato @whatiswhump @jancameforthewhump @dream-whump @ratking-whump @inkstainsonmyhands12 @halsteadshaw13 @sparrowsage @sowhumpful @whatwhumpcomments @caspersdelusion @everythingsscary

#whump community #whumpblr #medical whump #noncon drugging #whump fics #pyschiatric hospital whump #asylum whump #medcore #forced psychiatric treatment whump #forced medical care #forced drugging #forced sedation whump #redwood psychiatric #forced intubation whump #eating disoder trigger warning #disordered eating mention #nasogastric tube whump #whump

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 1 year ago

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Whumptober 2023

No. 3 “Make It Stop.” | No. 30 Bridal Carry

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Pre-relationship)

Setting: Prison Era

Warnings: Gunshot wound, mentions of blood

“It… hurts.”

“I gotcha, Y/N. Ya jus’ hang on fer me, girl, y’hear?” Daryl was running as fast as he humanly could with you cradled against his chest in a bridal carry, desperate to get back to the prison. You needed Hershel and you needed him now.

He should have never taken you out with him. You were inexperienced, clumsy. He had really just wanted to spend some time with you away from the prying eyes of your home. Those knowing smiles and giddy whispers were enough to set his nerves on edge.

He couldn’t have known someone else would be hunting the same area. He couldn’t have known they would be tracking the same buck. He couldn’t have known that they would lay claim even though it was his bolt that took down the animal. And he definitely couldn’t have known the man would aim his gun at an innocent woman and pull the trigger before Daryl could even blink. The man went down fast with a bolt to the brain but the damage was done.

“Make it stop. Please, Daryl.”

His heart felt as if it were being crushed in a vice, your strained pleas tearing away at him like a walker on flesh. “Almos’ there. Doc’ll fix ya righ’ up.” He could feel the warm, sticky blood spreading onto his own shirt and knew he was running out of time. His legs were burning, threatening to give out. He could barely manage a full breath. But he couldn’t stop.

When the gates of the prison came into view, he nearly sobbed with relief. It was short lived. “Y’see? We made it.” You didn’t respond. “Y/N?” Your eyes were closed, face pale. “Fuck!” He was stumbling with exhaustion as he rushed past the few walkers shuffling around in the grass. “Open the gate!” He didn’t have to say it twice.

Daryl made sure to stay close enough to the make-shift infirmary to be called if needed but far enough away so he couldn’t hear the urgent demands of the veterinarian as he tried to save your life. The archer sat on the floor, face in his hands, kicking himself for ever putting you in this position. He had been selfish and you were paying the price.

“Daryl.”

The bowman quickly met Carol’s exhausted gaze. The weariness made it hard to read whether she was bringing good news or coming to tell him you were gone.

“She… is she…?”

“She’s alive.”

Daryl let himself fall back against the wall. He felt a familiar sting behind his eyes and did his best to push it back, but the shine of tears was already evident.

“Hershel says any longer and…. Anyway, she’s going to be fine.”

The archer nodded, not trusting his voice. Carol, ever vigilant, noticed his plight and slid down the wall next to him. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Pfft.” He responded too quickly. There was one of those knowing smiles he couldn’t stand. “She ain’t the wors’ person ta be ‘round.” The silver haired woman hummed and nodded.

“She was thrilled you asked her to go with you.” She offered, twisting the bloody cloth in her hands. Daryl looked over at her but quickly looked away when she tried to meet his eyes. “She’s sweet on you. Has been for a while.”

“Stop.”

“She really is, and what’s so terrible about that?”

Daryl’s face burned hot. “She can do a lot better than me.”

Carol reached out to brush his longer hair away from his face. He never flinched from her touch anymore. Hers or yours. “I don’t think so.” And with that, she stood and padded across the concrete to disappear back into the cell where you currently lay resting.

Daryl let his friend’s words tumble around in his head, equal parts hope and fear spreading throughout. There was no way a classy little thing like you could ever be interested in a grumpy old redneck. But…maybe you had said something. Carol seemed so sure of it.

With a shaky breath and trembling hands, the archer climbed to his feet and forced himself forward. He would sit with you until you awoke. And when you were stable enough, he would talk to you. Maybe. No, he would. He would.

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honey-worm · 2 months ago

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A fanfiction I wrote about 10 years ago. You can find it on Wattpad here https://www.wattpad.com/story/51392437-all-my-love 🫶🏻 More chapters will be published soon! **Please be aware that this story is RATED-R. Viewer discretion advised. It is full of ups and downs. A rollercoaster full of vulgar language, alcohol, sex, passion, kindness, confusion, pain, anger...but most importantly, love. I would like to warn you that it is a toxic relationship where love overpowers all. I do not advise that you romanticize toxic relationships in real life. This is strictly for entertainment purposes only. It has been a way to escape from the real world for me and to use my creativity.**

Rebecca Bowman is the soft and sweet type of girl. Her world is turned upside down as she finds herself in a sticky situation with one of her best friends, Harry Styles. She never would have thought she'd end up being friends with benefits with someone. That's not how she values love… Only something in her changed as she decided it was time to move out and live with her best friend, Stella Paxton. Over the next year, she found herself mesmerized by Harry and his unusual, mysterious ways. He's charming but arrogant. Sweet but angry. Cold but hot… All the traits her mother always warned her about as she was growing up. "Stay clear of the misunderstood and unemotionally available men, they'll only cause you pain." Angie would say. Rebecca knew she was in deep for a rude awakening once she made up that irresponsible label with one of her best friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Viewer Discretion Advised For Mature Audiences Only 18+

Chapter Word Count: 2.2k Chapter Includes: Oral Sex

CHAPTER 1 I wake up to my cell phone ringing and vibrating out of control somewhere in my bed. I keep my eyes closed for as long as I can as I search for my phone that seems to be lost between the sheets and blankets which only frustrates me. I groan and sit up, leaning over to turn on the light that sits on my night stand next to the bed. It feels more like a cloud right now. I shuffle the blankets once again and my phone appears, face down, still going off. I grab a hold of it, flipping it around to see that Harry's name is across the screen. I roll my eyes and click the green circle before bringing it up to my ear while I fall back into my pillow.

"Open the door." He blurts right when he notices I answer without getting a word out.

"What?" I say, scrunching my eyebrows together in confusion. I wait for an answer from him but hear nothing so I take the phone away and sure enough it's my lock screen.

I rip my blankets off and step out of my cozy bed, looking over at the alarm clock that tells me it's two-fifty in the morning. I roll my eyes at the fact that Harry likes to pop in at any time during the night. I pad my way across the quiet apartment and get on my tip toes to see through the peephole. I quietly open up the door when I see Harry standing there and he smiles at me, snaking his way in.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper, looking towards my friend's bedroom. I shut the front door, locking it and out of nowhere I'm pushed up against the wall. Harry grabs ahold of my arms, putting my hands above my head and stares at me with hooded eyes. His famous smirk appears.

My eyes glance over at my friend's shut door once more before looking back at Harry. He brings his lips to mine the same time he lets my arms free. His arms snake around the bottom of my back, lifting me up where my body naturally knows to wrap my legs around his torso. He begins walking us to my room as my hands run through his lion's mane. He takes a breather, looking at me with a sloppy smile.

"I missed you tonight." Harry's voice is husky already and the sound of it is making me melt in his arms. "The party was boring, I had no one to make fun of." He adds in a whisper and I roll my eyes at him, playfully.

"You need to stop coming in the middle of the night." I try to hide a smile but fail as he playfully rolls his eyes just like I did. We finally make it to my room and he shuts the door with his foot before dropping me on the bed.

"Really? Are you sure? Because I know you love how exciting it is to sneak around." Harry's hovering over me and I can already feel my heart beat increasing rapidly. His hair is falling next to his face, making me take my hands and push it back before cupping his face and pulling him towards me. Our lips connect a couple times before he goes back to looking down at me. "That's what I thought." Harry licks his bottom lip, looking into my eyes with seductive emeralds and I can't help but be excited for what's going to happen. "You missed me, right?" Harry asks, dipping his head in the curve of my neck and planting a soft kiss. I suck in a breath right as I feel his right hand slip under my old high school t-shirt. "Did you?" He asks, planting a kiss underneath my ear where I like it and I hesitate a nod.

"Yes." It comes out more of a pant when Harry cups my left breast. I bring my hands to his back, gripping the bottom of his shirt while I start to pull it up. Suddenly, he takes his hand away from my breast and grabs mine.

"Nuh uh." Harry shakes his head slowly, putting my hand above my head. "You know what to do." He adds and I release my right hand that still holds onto his shirt. I slowly bring it above my head, connecting it with my other.

He sits up on his knees, untying the blue bandana that's around his neck. His eyes meet mine and I knew at that moment I had to bring my hands to him. Harry smirks before licking his lips while he concentrates on tying.

After it's tight around my wrists, he pushes my hands back above my head and moves his knees to reposition himself even lower.

I take a deep breath through my nose and suck in my stomach as he slowly pushes my shirt up, scrunching it up before placing it in my mouth to keep me quiet. I don't doubt that my eyes are glistening at the sight of him above me, staring down at me with the most seductive body language.

Harry takes his left hand, dragging his fingertips from the top of my chest, down to just above my waistline of these cotton pajama pants. I wiggle underneath his touch, goosebumps rising all over my skin. I earn a small chuckle from him. My breathing is already ragged and my skin is on fire.

Harry's sitting there with his knees on each side of me, staring down at me with an evil smirk on his face. I'm practically begging him through my eyes and he finally decides to bring his hands back to my body.

His large hands run over the curve of my torso, moving from the bottom of my stomach to just below my breasts. Harry has always loved to tease me, no matter what it is. Sexual or not. It's his favorite thing to do. Within a blink of an eye, I feel his mouth on the middle of my chest.

Harry plants soft kisses in a straight line down the middle of my breasts before taking a detour and covering my nipple. My chest drops from a breath I didn't know I was holding and I close my eyes once I feel him take my other in his hand. I force open my eyes and look down at him.

Dark greens make their way up to look me in the eyes once his tongue starts circling around my nipple but rips away to give kisses down my stomach. My breathing has been getting heavier by the second and he loves it. He loves knowing he can completely take over my mind and body by his touch.

I wiggle under him, begging him with body language that makes him smirk. He moves closer down towards my legs, running his fingertips down my torso to my shorts. He curls his fingers underneath the waistline of the shorts, pulling them down ever too slowly, keeping his eyes on my skin to watch bumps appear.

Harry licks his lips before sucking them in while he tosses my shorts onto the floor, showing off my hot pink panties. His left thumb and pointer finger take ahold of the little white bow that's sewn underneath the laced hem and twists it while having a cheeky smile.

"Cute." He says, looking me in the eyes. I swallow hard getting impatient at the lack of touch I'm getting from him. I begin to spread my legs underneath him and he goes to look from the eagerness. "Wet already?" His head lifts back up and he moves his knees back, getting himself off the bed away from me.

Harry runs a hand through his hair before taking in his view. I watch as the corner of his lip comes between his teeth and it causes me to move my legs back and forth for a few seconds from the throbbing I'm getting down there by just looking at him.

"You have no patience, do you?" His voice is so low, I'm dying to feel his tongue and fingers. I'm hungry for him and I can tell he's hungry for me. "Do you want me to touch you?" He asks, stepping closer to the end of the bed. I nod quickly, keeping my eyes locked on his. He takes my knees in his large hands, spreading them far apart before opening his mouth to speak. "Here?" Harry asks bringing his middle finger to my clothed clit, putting pressure on it. My eyes close and I raise my back from the bed then feel his hand press down on my stomach. My eyes go back to him and he's staring down at my panties that are probably showing off the prominent wetness. He brings his middle finger back to the most sensitive part of my body but runs it slowly back and forth a couple times before looking me in the eyes.

Out of nowhere, he hurries to get my panties off, tossing them to the floor next to my shorts. Harry doesn't waste another second, he gets on his knees the same time he wraps his arms around my thighs to pull me closer to the end of the bed. A mixture of a giggle and squeal escape against the fabric of my shirt and I stare down at him, waiting. Waiting for the sensation to finally take over my body completely. I'm waiting for the build up in my stomach to burst. The feeling of his curls tickling my thighs causes my legs to already stutter a shake which causes him to chuckle.

"I haven't even tasted you yet and you're already shaking." Harry keeps his right hand on my stomach, making sure I keep still once he brings his tongue between my folds.

My head rolls back in the pillow, pinching my eyes shut. I feel my mouth part open and I gasp the same time I look down at him in between my legs. The more his tongue moves, the more I move my body which is only aggravating him. His hand isn't doing a very good job keeping me still that's for sure. Harry's head lifts up from my folds and he licks away my liquid on his now swollen red lips. "Stay still." He almost demands with hooded but seductive eyes and I nod before looking up at the off white colored ceiling, trying to concentrate more on not moving. I try my best to keep my back on the bed once his tongue finds its way back onto me.

The tip of his tongue goes in zig zags, up between my folds and I give a small moan which cause Harry to give me a smirk from being proud of himself. His mouth finally moves to my clit and that's where I begin to feel myself building up to lose it all together. I lift my head from the pillow, still trying to keep still, and look down at him. Seconds later, his eyes look up, piercing into mine all while his tongue goes into sloppy circles. My thighs tense, almost magnetically pulling back together but Harry keeps them separated, his arms still around them. I'm suddenly falling back into the pillow, moving my arms away from above my head not being able to handle the pleasure I'm receiving. I swipe my hands across his hair wanting to pull but stop myself, knowing that he's not allowing that tonight.

Without warning, I feel a finger enter me, moving in and out while he's still working on my favorite spot. That's where I lose it, my lips part and my back lifts up off the bed.

"That's it, come for me. Only for me." I hear his husky accent and feel his breath against the wetness down there. I obey his command, letting go for him. Electricity fills my veins, my toes curl, and my legs begin to shake under his grip. As hard as I try to bring my knees together, Harry doesn't allow it. His arms keep my thighs apart so he can keep going, watching my high until I'm having to take my shirt out of my mouth and beg him to stop from the sensitivity.

I watch as he stands up straight, licking his lips and wiping away my high with the back of his hand after cleaning me up with his tongue.

A smirk, showing off some teeth appears, while he watches me try to catch my breath. My head falls back in a sharp breath and I take a couple deep breaths to control my heart rate. I feel the bed shift on the side of me and I look over at Harry who plops on his stomach, grabbing the pillow. He closes his eyes and smiles at me when he senses my staring.

"That's it? You're just going to go to bed now?" I ask in a laugh and his right eye opens to look at me. A dimpled smile appears once he recloses it and yawns.

"That's all the fun I have the energy for." He tells me, sucking in his beautiful red lips. I roll my eyes to myself in a smile and get up to get on a pair of new panties after tossing the others in the hamper. What an interesting thing to wake up to in the middle of the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thank you for taking the time and reading the beginning <3

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stabbyfoxandrew · 2 months ago

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mer au🙏

WIP Wednesday (9/18) | Mer Roadtrip AU (Part 68)

Abram stares at Andrew for a moment. Then finally accepts the call and holds the phone up to his ear, still looking into Andrew's eyes. The blond seems a bit amused by the whole situation. It's almost offensive. But Andrew doesn't know his history with cell phones, doesn't understand how scary this is.

"Can you hear me?" Andrew asks, his real voice mixing with the phone coming through the speaker. Abram nods. Andrew closes his eyes. "I can't see you, Abram. We're on the phone so you have to answer with words."

Abram closes his eyes as well before whispering, "I can hear you."

"Then listen to me," Andrew pauses for a second and Abram hears him rearrange his shopping on his arms. "We're a pod now, right? We will stay together and keep each other safe. And if we ever get separated, I will call you and you will answer. Say it."

"If we get separated, you will call and I will answer." Abram repeats, eyes still closed. He's sure they look like a couple of idiots, talking on the phone when their arms are a breath away from touching. "And then we'll find each other. And it'll be okay."

"Good." Andrew's arm knocks into Abram's. "We found each other. You can hang up now."

Abram snaps the phone shut, ending the call, and opens his eyes to find Andrew staring at him intently. He's immediately defensive. "What?"

"You have really long eyelashes," Andrew says, sounding perturbed.

Abram blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"It's fine." Andrew says, making Abram snort. Then he gestures with his shoulder towards a sporting goods store. "One more stop then I'll quit bleeding you dry."

"What do you need there?"

"One of these," Andrew says, tapping Abram's duffle bag. "I'm not living out of a dozen plastic bags."

"Oh, right. Okay. Let's go." Abram watches Andrew slip his phone into his pocket and copies him before leading the way. It doesn't take long to find the duffle bags. Andrew grabs one without copious branding and starts towards the checkouts, but Abram vetoes it. "Not that one."

Andrew blinks down at his selection. "What's wrong with it?"

"Look at it," Abram says. Andrew does, then shrugs. Abram sighs. "The material is flimsy, the strap is 'padded' but that just makes it more annoying— trust me—, and the zippers don't look sturdy. It'll last you a week. Tops."

Andrew clenches his jaw, but puts it back. "Which one do I get then?"

Abram walks along the wall of bags, feeling the fabric of each until he comes across one made of thick canvas. He takes it down and yanks the zippers back and forth a few times. Then he sits it on the ground and plunks his own bag beside it. They're almost the exact same size. Since Andrew picked out an approximation of Abram's wardrobe it should hold all of Andrew's new things. Except... Maybe his second pair of shoes.

"This one." Abram says, passing it to Andrew before slipping his bag back over his shoulders. Andrew tests it and nods.

"Cool."

#andreil #aftg #WIP Wednesday #Mer Roadtrip AU #🕊️#answered #anon

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jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear · 6 months ago

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Helping you overcome your fears of mental hospitals || ScarecrowXoc Prompt

Imagine being afraid of the very place designed to help you. That was your problem, you didn't want to be admitted, not again, not ever.

This fear hid in your heart for years as you struggled mentally, and little did you know, but one day someone was going to change your outlook. His name is Jonathan Crane, and he's your partner.

You two have been dating for some time, and while you've told him bits and pieces, you never gave the whole story. You didn't think this would last. Luckily for you, it did last and Jonathan knew more than what you were letting on. He's quite good at that.

One day, while the two of you were having some lunch in your apartment, he asked you a series of questions, prodding you. He's not the BEST at helping, but he doesn't see it that way. He's the type to put a spider in someones hair to help them overt come arachnophobia. It doesn't work that way, unfortunately.

He suggested you see a doctor at Arkham, which to you, seemed like too much and made it confirmation that he thought you where crazy, or at least too depressed to deal with. You didn't want to be admitted to a mental hospital, but especially NOT ARKHAM. In your mind, that was a real fear, and the loss of autonomy would be paralyzing. You knew those doctors used dirty tricks. Even Jonathan uses the same tricks. Wait...was this a trick? He seemed genuine in his words, but you know better.

Jonathan assured you that he would stay with the doctor during sessions, and that you could trust him. You don't have to unload your whole life's story, it's -just- an intake.

That didn't help much, you told him. You hated those places, the grey walls and dingy floors, the padded socks and the whole, only the irredeemable end up here, vibes.

But Jonathan was determined to help, he actually LIKED you and that's saying something for doctor no friends Crane.

Later that week you two walked into the asylum, nicely enough, hand in hand. He handled the paperwork, he talked to the receptionist. He made it easy. Well, as easy as being admitted to a mental hospital can be.

What helped in the moment, aside from some fidget toys, was the fact that you went to a part of Arkham reserved for the general public. It's not like you're in a cell next to Joker. You're in a room with a couch, some toys, low comfortable lighting and a box of tissues and mints. It doesn't seem so scary, yet.

Your therapist was nice, lotta questions, but anytime you felt anxious you squeezed Jonathan's hands and he comforted you with a forehead touch or soft cheek kiss. He even asked you if you wanted him to attend future appointments, or if you would rather go alone.

You'd make that choice later, but either way, you knew he was on your side. Arkham now, doesn't seem so scary. It's not as sterile as other places you've been, and perhaps not nearly as bad as the public and rogues make it out to be. Maybe the doctors truly do care. At least, the one assigned to you did.

They reassured you that you are not being admitted to a room at the end of the session, but that they would like to see you make a few appointments for future visits. This is YOUR choice. You can even go somewhere else around the state, should you desire. You could go private practice, or whatever you are comfortable with. They made it clear that you are not in danger or being trapped in this place. You are a human with rights and needs. They simply want to help

And Scarecrow? Well, he wouldn't don a costume unless you were in danger. he was going to support you in this journey, and thankfully no additional spiders in your hair!

You knew that day, as you stepped out into the sunlight, that he loved you.

#Jonathan Crane #Scarecrow #The Scarecrow #Scarecrow x OC #Mistress Writes

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odycal-pbarnes · 5 months ago

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Gochi week - napping

ChiChi had learned very early on in their marriage, that as much as her husband loved to be active, traversing even the most remote parts of Mount Paozu to find the best hunting and fishing spots, or training with seemingly reckless abandon, Goku was an absolute stickler for proper rest time.

Taking Gohan with him when he’d leave to go fishing or to spar when their boy had hit a wall in his studies; even Piccolo hadn’t been safe from his watch while he stayed with them while they were preparing for the androids. The Namekian would often find himself being dragged back to their home whether he was conscious or not after an exhaustive training session.

She'd lost count of how many times he'd literally swept her off her feet only to plop her down somewhere comfortable to take a break whenever he noticed she was overworking herself again.

So, even after he’d been gone for those seven years, she was only mildly surprised when she suddenly found herself cradled against his chest as he carried her to the living room and gently deposited her onto the couch before pressing the remote into her hand.

“All these years and you’re still the same, ya gotta learn how to take a break Chi.” Goku chided lightly, a hint of amusement in his voice and pressed a quick kiss to her lips before she had a chance to argue and straightened, heading back into the kitchen where he’d found her, finishing her task of clearing the table and counters before he started on the pile of dishes in the sink.

She was still tempted to argue with him, to insist she was fine, that she was used to the work, but this was one of the few things that he put his foot down over and knew from experience that he had no issue returning her to where he put her as many times as it took for her to eventually give up.

With no choice but to admit defeat, she huffed and called out a thank you, a small laugh escaping her when he flashed her that beaming smile of his when he knew that he’d won before turning back to his task.

Finding the sight of her husband far more interesting than whatever was on the tv at this time of day, ChiChi readjusted herself to a more comfortable position, watching him contently as he rocked from side to side, humming the theme song of a cartoon that Goten was currently obsessed with as he worked, almost entranced by the way his muscles bunched and relaxed under the thin material of his shirt.

He’d been back for weeks now and it still seemed so surreal to see him here, living and breathing, looking just as he did the morning he and Gohan had left to battle Cell.

It hadn’t been seamless of course, seven years was a long time to be away after all; but somehow he’d managed to slot himself back into their lives almost naturally, making moments like these feel like he’d never been gone in the first place.

A sense of peace washed over her, the feeling reminiscent of their first five years together before all the chaos that Raditz’ arrival had triggered and felt her eyes begin to droop; the running water, soft clinking of china and Goku’s soft baritone more potent than any lullabye.

Goku smiled softly as he felt ChiChi’s ki settle and even out, stifling a laugh when he peeked behind him to find her asleep, her head resting in the crook of her arm, leaning over the arm of the couch, the remote still hanging loosely from her other hand. He decided to let her sleep as long as she needed, knowing the adjustment to keep not only their boys fed, but now him as well was taking its toll on her, no matter how much she tried to deny it.

He quickly finished what was left and turned off the faucet, flicking the excess water from his hands before drying them and padded over to her, admiring his wife for a moment before gently scooping her up into his arms and settled himself onto the couch, repositioning her on his chest, taking care not to wake her.

He hummed his contentment as ChiChi snuggled into him further after he’d draped a blanket over them, the weight of her on him reminding him of just how much he had missed this while he was in Other World.

While he had stuck with his decision to stay among the dead, adamant to keep his family and friends safe, he’d regretted it so many times over the course of those seven years. Training and fighting in the Other World tournament had been fun and welcome distractions, but ChiChi and Gohan would always be on his mind whenever he’d had time to himself.

He’d always wonder how big Gohan was getting, if he was happy, how he was doing with his studies; he missed hearing about all the things he’d learned, his sweet boy excitedly spouting facts about some cool bug they’d found while out on a hike and him listening along eagerly, despite not knowing any of the terminology he’d used.

And then there was ChiChi; thinking about her had always been hard. She had been hurting so much the last few years before he’d died the second time, crisis after crisis popping up, always tied to him in one way or another and he realized not for the first time how lucky he had been that she’d decided to stay with him through all of it.

He knew she’d be angry and heartbroken when she learned of his death, but often wondered if she’d also been relieved when he’d decided to stay away.

Wondered if maybe she’d even found someone else who could give her the kind of life she’d wanted; a life of peace and safety, a life that despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to provide while alive.

The thought of her moving on had always brought a tightness to his chest that made it hard to breathe despite not having the need to do so. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted her to find happiness after his passing, nothing could be further from the truth; but the thought of another man holding her in his arms, being intimate with her in a way that only he’d known and her returning those affections drove his instincts haywire.

He couldn’t help the rush of emotion that coursed through him when he showed up at the tournament and there she was, just as beautiful as the morning he’d kissed her goodbye for the last time, teary eyed and happy to see him, making a point to tell him that she’d missed him.

And Gohan, his sweet, smart, amazing little boy, who was now just shy of being a man and nearly as tall as he was had quite literally thrown himself into his arms with a force that could’ve easily sent a lesser man flying, strong arms and legs curling around him in a bone crushing hug that was returned in equal fervor, no words needed in that moment as he held his boy, relieved that he hadn’t grown to hate him for his choice.

That relief had been short lived however, only to be replaced with guilt and regret after he’d put Gohan back down on his feet and caught the gaze of a tinier version of himself peeking at him from just behind ChiChi, his little hand gripping the fabric of her pants before he’d shyly ducked behind her legs.

He’d felt like his head was underwater, the excited ramblings from everyone around him suddenly muffled, his knees going weak as the realization slammed into him harder than any opponent ever could.

She’d given him another son and he’d never known; never got to hold him in his first moments after he came into the world, never heard him say his first words, never seen him take his first steps, didn’t know his name, what he liked to do for fun, his favorite food, his favorite color, what he wanted to be when he grew up, or any of the other important things that a dad should know about his little boy.

When Goten had rushed into his arms after they’d introduced each other, he’d barely been able to keep the tears prickling in his eyes at bay as he scooped him up eagerly, overjoyed that his little boy had accepted him and wished that he’d had more time to be with his family than just the twenty four hours Baba was able to allow him.

In the aftermath of their fight with Buu, after the dust had settled and the adrenaline had faded, the realization that he’d been given another chance at life had finally started to sink in. He was eternally grateful for the Old Kai’s sacrifice, especially after ChiChi had quite literally sobbed with joy at the news that he was coming back for good, his boys clinging to him for dear life, tears in their eyes while they excitedly chattered over one another, telling him about all the things they wanted to show him.

“Honey? Wha’s wrong, you okay?” ChiChi asked, her head popping up from his chest after she’d felt the uptick in his heartbeat, her voice thick with sleep and laced with concern.

“I’m fine Chi, just thinkin’, go back to sleep.” He reassured sheepishly with a smile and ran his fingers through her hair that she’d tied back into a low ponytail, reminding him of when they were younger.

“Ya sure?” She prodded gently, knowing he had the habit of keeping his feelings hidden behind that goofy smile of his.

“I know ya say tha'cha ain't good at readin' ki, but I’m thinkin’ ya got a natural talent for it.” He praised in an attempt to distract her, delighting in the soft blush that dusted over her cheeks as she scootched herself further up his chest and met her halfway when she leaned in for a kiss.

“Or maybe, I’ve been wit'cha long enough to be able to read ya; now what’s on your mind?” She teased lightly when they parted and tapped him on the nose with her finger, looking at him expectantly and waited patiently when he sighed and his eyes softened.

“Just thinkin’ ‘bou'cha an' the boys an’ how much I missed out on; musta been hard raisin’ our boys all on your own for so long, ‘specially with them bein’ half Saiyan to boot. I shoulda come back when I had the chance and been there for ya.” Goku answered after another heavy sigh and let his head fall back against the arm of the couch, his eyes tracing invisible patterns into the ceiling.

“Hey,” ChiChi called out to him softly, her hand coming up to rest on his cheek, waiting to continue until he lifted his head to meet her eyes again. “I already told ya that I forgave ya when we talked after ya came home, an’ I meant it. Ya did what ya felt ya had to do in order to keep us safe. Now you’re back and have the opportunity to make up for lost time, ya shouldn’t waste it by getting stuck in the past and dwelling on what coulda been.” She reassured, tracing her fingertips over the lines of his face, her lips turning up into a smile after he’d given her a genuine smile this time.

“I love ya.” He said, catching her hand to press a kiss to her fingers.

“Love ya too; now, ya gonna tell me how long I’ve been asleep for?” She replied playfully, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“Not that long, maybe an hour?” He answered, humming thoughtfully after taking a look at the clock on the wall.

“An hour?! Goku you shoulda woke me up instead of comin’ to lay down with me! I’ve got cleanin’ to do and lunch an’ dinner to prep, and we still gotta meet with Old Mr.Taro about gettin’ that tractor; I’m gonna be so far behi-” ChiChi listed off worriedly, nearly scrambling to get off the couch when Goku’s arm wrapped around her securely, pulling her back into his lap as he sat up.

“Hey, hey, take it easy Chi! There’s no rush; I’ll help ya with the food, the house is already clean enough, it don’t need to be spotless an’ we don’t gotta meet with Mr. Taro ‘til the boys are almost outta school, we got plenty of time.” Goku countered, his tone filled with reassurance, his hand running up and down her back soothingly, easily coaxing her to relax back against him.

“But-” she tried to resist and went to push herself away from his chest when he cut her off, much to her annoyance.

“No buts, ya promised me that you’d stop gettin’ all worked up over the small things; you’re gonna end up givin’ yourself a heart attack from all that stress, an’ speakin’ from experience, it ain’t fun.” He argued lightly and pointed her with a look that made her deflate and lean back against him with a sigh.

“I’m sorry.” She apologized, her voice small as she tucked her head under his chin, feeling guilty; so far Goku had been holding up the promises he’d made and yet she was still struggling with keeping up just the one he’d asked of her.

“S’okay, I forgive ya. It’s gonna take practice, but I know you’ll get it eventually.” He encouraged, a slight teasing air to his voice and pulled her back just far enough to press his lips to her hairline, breathing in her scent deeply, humming contentedly as she calmed.

“Promise?” ChiChi asked, her voice lilting with affection as she rested back against his chest and wrapped one arm around him as much as she was able while her other hand traced patterns against his chest.

“Promise.” Goku answered, humming his pleasure when she kissed just above the collar of his shirt after he’d wrapped his arms around her, giving her an affectionate pat on the bottom before rubbing circles into her back until her weight once again sank against him fully.

He didn't bother to resist when he felt the need to yawn and scooted himself a bit lower so he wouldn't have to worry about having a crick in his neck when the alarm Chichi had set would eventually go off and let sleep claim him.

#Gochiweek24 #sleeping #gochi

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peachiebeann · 9 months ago

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Lovesick (Villain!All Might x OC)

———

@huicitawrites here you go!~

This will also be on Wattpad!! I will likely not post every part here, but I will definitely be linking them!

Obsessed was probably an understatement. He was far more intense than even the most diehard fans out there.

He was devoted to this woman, she was his everything.

Rhed, the Panda Hero.

He had met her once before.. and she was even prettier in person. Strong, too.

He had robbed a bank that day, and was so very close to getting away with his earnings.. before she stepped in.

He could have easily won that fight singlehandedly. But he was captivated the moment he laid eyes on her. He wouldn't dare hurt her.

Her adorable red panda form, her breathtakingly stunning features, her graceful mannerisms.. he loved it all. He would spend hours watching news clips and interviews galore. But seeing her in person, let alone using her strength on HIM, was a sight to behold.

So he played nice. He played nice and he let himself be arrested.

While he sat in jail, however, he had a thought.

He wouldn't let this meeting go to waste. He had waited for over a year to finally see her.. but what if he could see her.. every day? What if he could wale up every morning and see her beautiful face next to him?

Why not just.. make that happen?

All Smite sat in his dark cell, beginning to grin like a madman as his eyes widened in inspiration.

"I'm coming for you, My Sweet Little Panda...not to worry. Life will be so

much better once you're in my arms.." He rumbled to himself, beginning to chuckle.. and then laugh as he laid back on his metal sleeping cot. With his hands behind his head, he closed his eyes with a blissful smile.

For he would need as much rest as he

could before he could put his plan into action.

~~~~~~

He found her. He couldn't believe it, it was really her again. And she looked just as perfect as before.

She was sitting in a news booth, getting ready to film a live interview. He wanted to storm in there and shoo the makeup artists away.. she looked just as beautiful without it. But Smite growled to himself, knowing he had to be patient and wait.

He would wait until they started filming.. and then jump in to rescue her. He knew how much she hated interviews, especially on the news like this. Once she was with him, she wouldn't have to ever worry about this stuff ever again.. her life is going to be so perfect and peaceful. He couldn't wait to have his lover in his arms at long last.

He stared through the window with the other fans, adjusting his gas mask. He was genuinely surprised at how stupid some of these civilians were. He was just openly standing there in his villain getup and not one person thought anything of it. Maybe they thought he was a new hero of some kind? Though with all the ominously long spikes on his mask and shoulder pads, that theory likely should have been null and void. One idiot even commented that he looked cool.

Soon enough, the interview started and Smite watched, just in pure shock for a few moments. She was in her half-panda form, which she didn't show as often as the full panda or her human form. Though.. He didn't like the fact that the interviewer was a male. And that he kept scooting so close to Hei like that. His little Hei.

And then it happened. He touched her. The interviewer took Hei's furred hand and seductively ran his hand up her arm. It drove Smite crazy. He began to shake as he balled his hands into fists.

Wait. Wait. WAIT.

He couldn't do it. He stepped away from the window to initiate his plan. He needed to save her from that disgusting hog of a man.

He approached the exit door at the back of the building, simply kicking it in, though it did take a few tries. The loud banging did indeed spook Hei and her anxiety spiked slightly.

Smite, now in the building, looked around for the filming room. He made sure to punch a few ginormous holes in the walls and make as much loud noise as possible. Once he found the room, he was swarmed by security, which he very easily flung off of him before punching his whole fist through the metal door.

Hei, now shaking with immense anxiety, jumped up from her seat. "What's going on?!" She asked, quickly kicking off her heels.

Once the door had been ripped off completely, Smite reared it back and threw it in the direction of the interviewer that touched her arm, hitting him with it.

Hei stood took a few steps back as the massive villain approached her. Her hands were up in a fighting stance, but one could tell by the look on her face, she was petrified. "Who are you?!" She asked.

Smite stopped in front of her, crouching to one knee (although he was still WAY bigger and taller than she was) and gently brushing his knuckles against her cheeks. "I've come to save you, Angel..." He spoke.

His mask obviously had a voice changer of some sort, his voice coming out much deeper than normal.

"S-save me..?" Hei asked softly, her hands now clutching at the collar of her dress.

Smite gently cupped her cute round face before standing and approaching the interviewer, who was struggling to get up from under the door. Smite kicked the door to the side, reaching down to grab the man by his throat.

He lifted him into the air and began to squeeze. When the man began gasping for air, Hei grabbed at Smite's arm. "Stop!! Let him go!!" She tried climbing on his arm, but he simply grabbed her with his other arm, setting her on the ground. Trying to physically force this man to do anything at all was pointless. She needed someone that was at least remotely close to being his height and weight, which she obviously was not.

"I would kill you.. but the world is watching. And I only have about 3 minutes to spare before the cops arrive. So I'll leave you with a warning." Smite squeezed even harder, watching the man struggle to breathe and grasp at his massive hand.

"If you lay a finger on her ever again, I won't be as merciful next time." With that, Smite dropped the suffocating man on the ground and turned, snatching Hei up into his arms and bursting through the large window to make a run for it.

The sirens grew louder, but Smite was way ahead of them. He had meticulously planned every single aspect of his plan. And unless some freakish thing happened, he wasn't going to get caught.

He stopped in an alleyway, quickly charging up before moon jumping up onto the building and escaping that way.

Hei, obviously not wanting to fall and die from this height, clutched onto him as she turned back to her human form. "Where the hell are you taking me?!! Let me go!!" She hissed at the man, who kept his gaze straight ahead. He was far beyond the cops on foot, now he just needed to escape the helicopters and he would be home free.

Or..

Smite skidded to a stop and set Hei down. "Get behind me." He commanded, pulling a pistol from his belt and aiming at the helicopter blades. "No!! I don't take orders from a vill-" "I SAID GET BEHIND ME."

He hadn't even finished his sentence before Hei followed his orders in a snap. He fired a few times, managing to destroy the blades of one chopper. As the aircraft went crashing down, Smite turned to focus on the other helicopter behind him.

A glint flashed in his eye as he noticed his little Hei running towards the chopper as it lowered to pick her up.

He snarled, making a mad dash for her.

Hei reached out, nearly ready to jump.. and a massive tricep snaked around her waist, yanking her back.

"No..!" She covered her face as Smite took a few shots and destroyed that helicopter as well.

Once they were alone, Smite set his gun back in his waistband and took out something else. "I don't want you to hurt yourself, Angel.. it's for your own good." He panted, pinning Hei to the ground with one hand. "What are you talking about..? Get away from me!!" She tried to fight against him. Her blood ran cold as she felt cold metal around her wrist and she heard that familiar clicking. He was handcuffing her!!

"Let me GO!! You sick bastard!!" She thrashed even harder as Smite forced her other wrist into the cuffs. "AAH!! They're tight, you asshole!!" Hei hissed, being picked up by him.

Smite gently brushed her hair from her face, cupping her cheeks in his massive hands. "They're not tight, Dear. Maybe if you'd be obedient, I wouldn't have to restrain you this way. I'm sorry, Angel." He told her, leaning down to gently hoist her over his shoulder, careful that she didn't get pricked on any of the spikes on his outfit.

He still had to be relatively quick about getting Hei to his place. If he lingered too long, she would calm down and be able to shift into her panda form. Which.. he could still absolutely overpower physically, but it would be more of a hassle.

Lightly bouncing her to adjust her position, Smite was off, still leaping from building to building until he neared his apartment.

~~~~~~

He actually lived in a pretty nice and spacious apartment. Likely not what one would expect from a villain.

Closing the door behind him, Smite gently set Hei on the floor, giving her head a soft ruffle as he walked further into the house to undress.

Hei, still shaking and slightly dirtied from their journey here, just stood in place. This place could have been booby trapped, there was no way she was setting a foot anywhere.

She whimpered and looked around like a lost puppy. This guy wasn't planning on keeping her, right? She would much prefer to just be killed outright.

Smite returned to her, maskless and shirtless with a small key in his hand.

It's safe to say that Hei... probably wasn't expecting to see a fairly attractive, blond haired, blue eyed man under there. He had two long, slightly krinkled strands that framed his face, one of which tucked behind his ear.

"Come here, Angel. Let me get those off you and patch up your injuries." His voice at a normal pitch now, he sat on the couch and beckoned for her to come closer.

She didn't move, only staring directly at him in resistance. Smite sighed and leaned back, exposing his abs to her. "It's either you come here and let me get those off, or you can keep them on and continue to hurt yourself." His brows furrowed.

Still not an inch. Leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling as he mumbled to himself, Smite stood up. "Sweetheart. Look, when I tell you to do something, it's for your own good. Not mine." He approached her, crouching to one knee and spinning her around to unlock the handcuffs. "So it's in your best interest to listen to me. Refusal only makes this harder for you. Do you understand me?" He asked, spinning the cuffs around his finger.

Hei turned back to face him, staring at the surroundings behind him. Those were some pretty big windows.. she could smash through those.. or maybe pick the lock on the front door-

Her thoughts were interrupted by the man cupping her chin. "Use your big girl words, Princess."

"Fuck you."

Smite snickered, letting her face go before roughly grabbing her arm and yanking her towards the couch. "You've only been here 5 minutes and you're already pissing me off. That language will not be tolerated, Angel." He sat down, setting her over his lap and hiking her skirt up. One hand on her back kept her from thrashing while the other reeled back slightly for a swift spank.

Hei squealed, digging her claws into his leg as she tried to escape his death grip. And for that, she received yet another spank. "Apologize. Now." Smite ordered, glaring down at her.

She had no choice. He would continue if she didn't. "I-i'm sorry, please! Stop!"

His spanking stopped. He sat her up, gently pulling her skirt down and looking over her. "Have you learned your lesson? Use your words." He asked, resting his huge hands over her hips. Though barely audible, Hei responded. "..yes."

"See? Wasn't so hard, now was it? Now.. I'd like you to see your room. I think you'll really like it." Smite stood up, carrying her with a hand on her still stinging bum.

In all reality, what could she do? What could Hei really do to escape? This man was probably twice, if not 3 times her height, about 10 times her size, and he could lift her above his head with one hand. The windows were thick and the only exit door was babyproofed. Sure, the windows could open, but not by very much at all. Even if she could hypothetically get out through the window, she was about 15 floors up, a fall that would absolutely kill her. She was still a quaking mess and her panda form, probably the one thing that could at least remotely fight against this beast of a man, was completely out of the question until she calmed down.

Smite entered the room, flicking on the lights and gently setting her on the ground. "Turn around whenever you're ready, Dear." He smiled warmly.

Hei took in a breath, slowly turning around.

The room was actually really well decorated. And to her liking as well. Almost as if he had known her and her tastes personally.

A huge bed, thick fluffy blankets, even a little area in the windowsill for her to sit. There were also plenty of massive gift bags on her bed… likely clothes, perfumes, and other miscellaneous stuff.

She stood, speechless for a moment before she felt a large finger scratching behind her ear. “What do you think?” Smite asked, lightly nudging her to walk forward. Hei flinched her head away from his scratches and stepped away from him, going to look in the bags.

When the hell did he have time to do all this if he was in jail just yesterday?

As she looked through the bags, she could hear his heavy boots approaching her from behind. “How did you get my hero suit..” Hei asked, now feeling VERY creeped out, if she wasn’t before.

Smite chuckled deeply. “That’s not important now, Angel.” He replied, now reaching down to feel her tail. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m a really big fan… I’d love to know absolutely everything about you.. whenever you’re comfortable telling me, of course.” He murmured huskily, wiggling and lightly bending her tail around curiously.

Hei very rudely reached back to snatch her tail from him, huffing as she continued to shuffle through the bags. While she had come to the conclusion that this man had been physically stalking her in order to take notes, she had to admit, he got her taste in clothing and decor perfectly.

“If that’s the truth, then the first thing you should know is that I bite when my boundaries are crossed. Don’t touch me again.” She snarkily replied, pushing the bag away and crossing her arms.

“It looks like someone needs another spanking, hm? Still not over your bratty attitude?” Smite asked, pushing her to bend over the bed. Hei shuffled, holding her hands over her ass to shield it. “No! Nono, I’m sorry!” Hei panicked. His hands were big, calloused, and they HURT.

Smite sighed, letting her go. “I don’t like having to hurt you like that, Angel. Please be more respectful to me.” He told her, looking over her face.

He knew that now, she was scared of him. But soon, she would come to love him just as much as he loved her. He reached out and brushed some hair from her face, gently pinching her cheek. “..You’ll understand in due time, Dear.”

Hei growled and flinched away again. “I want one of your shirts.” She mumbled. “Hm? My shirts?” Smite asked, tilting his head as he stared at her. He was honestly still a little stunned at himself. He really managed to pull this trick off and the prize was the love of his life standing in front of him. No other villain could say that they managed to kidnap a large hero like Hei.

“Of course, Angel. Come with me. I’ll run a nice bath for you so you can soak some of these bruises.” He told her, gently taking her right arm. When Hei flinched at the sudden movement, he raised a brow, looking down to her wrist.

“Oh.. Angel, you’ve hurt yourself..” He frowned, still eyeing it for any open wounds. When he saw there was none, he suspected the pain would obviously be coming from inside. She had likely, sprained, twisted, or even broken her wrist in her struggle to escape.

“I told you the handcuffs were too tight..!!” Hei barked, her voice breaking as tears welled up in her eyes. She wanted to call him all sorts of derogatory names, but she knew this kinky fucker was looking for any reason possible to spank her again.

Completely ignoring her statement, Smite cupped her cheek, using his thumb to carefully wipe a tear. “Don’t cry, Darling… Tell me, how bad is the pain? 1 to 10.” He very carefully lifted her by her armpits, setting her onto the overly soft bed. Hei sniffled, using her non injured hand to wipe her face. Why was she even engaging with this man? HE was the reason her wrist was injured!

“Please.. just give me a shirt so I can go to bed… I don’t want a bath.” Hei responded, sniffling. “No can do. Come along. I’ll help you clean and get you a wrist brace.” Smite went to pick her up, but Hei snatched away. “I can walk.” She grumbled, hopping down and leaving the room.

Smite watched with a dreamy sigh, smiling softly. She was just so cute when she was cranky. He would feed her a luxurious dinner and send her off to bed with the biggest hugs and kisses. He wanted her to feel better and he was going to do everything in his power to make her happy. Because she deserved nothing but love and happiness.

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