#pathetic man syndrome | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nereidprinc3ss · 21 days ago

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trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago.

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out.

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy.

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere.

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death.

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death.

Just… not yours.

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial.

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job.

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns.

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to.

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well.

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital.

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.”

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat.

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words.

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle.

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that.

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good.

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now.

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago.

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa.

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps.

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was.

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door.

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking.

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before.

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now.

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed.

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one.

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing.

The door closes as quietly as it opens.

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse.

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get.

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough.

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth.

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall.

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain.

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly.

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in.

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night.

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise.

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention.

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern.

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place.

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking.

“Hm?”

He hesitates.

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog.

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it.

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone.

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel.

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand.

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight.

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass.

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass.

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead.

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did.

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things.

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore.

And yet.

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful.

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever.

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour.

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now.

You doubt they ever could.

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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dmitriene · 2 days ago

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cw: dubcon, kidnapping, probably stockholm syndrome, mentions of blood.

mafia könig, a man you met by a typically unfortunate coincidence, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in a dark alley, you didn't want to see a murder so clearly, with blood spilling on the asphalt under your feet, with men in suits that instill chilling fear, hands in gloves, shoes now covered in crimson spots, and icy eyes staring at you from the clogging darkness.

and he didn't want to get his hands dirty again, to persuade someone to close his mouth, and so luckily, könig didn't have to do any of that, not with the way you stood with your lips pressed together and shook, and not with the way your wide, wet eyes looked when you met his gaze, making his cock stir in his trousers so pervertedly, his hand swinging rudely to indicate the men around him to keep behind, as he doesn't want to scare off his new trophy.

könig won't let you run away, hide, and won't even pay for your silence, he easily closes the distance between you in order to pick you up in his arms, and, with a predatory squint, covering your mouth gently with his leathery glove so as not to let out your pathetic, sweet sobs, he carries you away with him, towards the tinted car parked just nearby, to introduce you to your new life as soon as possible.

the life of an obedient doll of flesh and blood, you don't know if you're so scared, or if he managed to bribe you somehow, since you don't try to escape, even when könig leaves you alone to go take care of some business, as if sure that you will stay where he left you, and so you are, stay where he placed you, greet him with a rounded gaze and a nervous shake, squeaking pathetically when he tries to get a welcome kiss out of you, rugged face nosing against yours.

könig will wait for you to warm up to him, will make an excellent ground for this, with expensive gifts, gentle treatments, promises that he will never forcibly touch you, even if you harbor only hatred for him, but you do not push away his careful kisses on the crown of your head, on the soft, warm cheeks, only whine when he moves down to the neck, clinging to his back with sharp, clawing nails.

and in the end, you let him find a respite between your supple thighs, each time he comes back after another bloodied meeting, you let könig's dirty hands taint your body, knead and bruise at your silken, delicate skin while his rough, curling tongue laps over your soppy cunt, coating his stubbled chin with strings of your endlessly oozing slick, so sweet and wet, spread out for him.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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snowsinterlude · 11 months ago

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overprotective, lovesick, deranged.

(yandere coriolanus x reader)

summary: your ex boyfriend couldn't seem to let you go.

if i can't have you, no one can.

trigger.warning: yandere coriolanus, obslove (obsessive love), stockholm syndrome, drugging (no its not for sexual purposes), pregnancy, marriage, horror, depictions to murder (explicit), dubcon, p in v, cockwarming, extremely toxic behavior, unhinged coriolanus, this fanfic contains extreme toxic behavior and too much blood, if uncomfortable with that content, please, don't read it.

"This might get a little messy, I'm sure.

Heads rolling for the one I adore

This may become a little brutal if I'm honest

But it's any-anything for you my dear, I promise"

overprotective.

coriolanus snow was a man of ambition; one of those who won't quiet down until the moment he had what he wanted. this was something that happened to the women he got involved with too.

lucy gray baird was one of those. the moment your now ex-boyfriend was sent to district 12 you could tell something was wrong. you could not care less, though. he wasn't your boyfriend anymore and in your most honest opinion it was something good.

when he came back you were with a different man; one named valentine, who stayed with you when you saw coriolanus kissing lucy gray. who comforted you during this time and who hugged you everynight when the thunders during rain times echoed so hard that made you feel like being killed by one of those.

valentine, who's head was decapitated in front of you.

coriolanus, who was smiling to you as he opened the 'gift' he had prepared to you.

you, who couldn't help but throw up at the sight of your dead boyfriend. you, who passed out by the sick sight of his decapitated head, his eyes opened by strings of a red line, needled carelessly. the same eyes who used to look at you with so much affection and love, now weren't looking at you at all.

when you woke up, your hands were tightly wrapped up in a tight knot that he learned to do as a peacekeeper. strung up reasons.

"good morning, my love." he smiled, kissing your forehead. you were still in the kitchen, dressed in a white dress, you didn't remember putting it on. you didn't like the fabric nor the color of white- it would always get stained too easily. "you finally woke up."

you didn't had to think much to know that what happened wasn't a dream. it was real. he killed your boyfriend.

you opened your mouth, and the scream you left was enough for him to slap you across the face. once you begun to cry, he kneeled in front of you, hands cupping your face as you shaked.

"it's okay baby, snow's here for you,"" he kissed your face, making you melt into crying as hard as you could, sob after sob making your doll heart heavy. "remember you used to call me snowflake?" he asked, and you nodded cowardly, afraid of saying anything that might make him furious. "i'm still your snowflake."

and he hugged you, caressing your scalp as you ugly cried in front of him, but to him, you would never look ugly.

lovesick.

with your face pressed against the mattress, you stared at the gigantic mirror that covered an entire wall, watching yourself.

it's been three months since valentine died, and two months since snow untied you, carried you like a princess bride and bathed you, always murmuring the waltz that played when you both met.

maybe it wasn't so bad after all. he took extra care of you, never slapped you again- it was a relapse. he took care of the red slap mark in your cheek, apploed ointment on you everyday, prepared your favorite meals and left you to your own peace, let you mourn the death of that pathetic boy you decided to date.

it wasn't his fault, right? no- it was. why the hell were you thinking that the victim was the one to put to blame for their own death? are you dumb?

well, you aren't- but you're starting to become.

why were you smiling at him as he showed you the dress he brought you? why did your heart flutter when he made you desserts? c'mon now, he killed your boyfriend. ex-boyfriend?

he wasn't there to protect you now, was he? why would he be important in anyway? of course, he was the sweetest to you, never questioned when you moaned coryo's name instead of his, he knew how hard it was to you.

for fucks sakes, what were you doing? what were you thinking?

coriolanus entered the room he made to you after three knocks, a tray with golden white details on his hand, with two toasts, less than a dozen pancakes that he knew you liked, a cup of strawberry juice and a small bow of green grapes.

once you ate at least half of it and drink the juice, he was by your side, caressing your hair.

"bunny?" he called, taking you off your own state of blankness.

"yes?"

"do you hate me?" you wanted to say yes. wanted to spit on his face for asking such a dumb question after holding you hostage and killing your boyfriend, you truly wanted to.

but you didn’t. "no," and maybe you didn't hated him at all. maybe that juice with the truth-telling pill didn't had much of an effect on you

"hm." he hummed, lips curling into the pretty smile he had. "it's good to know that."

he put the tray aside, laying by your side. why have you been laying like a sick woman at it's death bed? ah. yeah, he didn’t liked the idea of you going away, he said he didn’t want you to leave him. how cute.

you smiled at the thought. then you had to gather all the senses you had left to scold yourself.

it didn't last long though, the moment his hands found your hips and started grinding on you, you felt aroused. you shouldn't be, this was the man that killed your boyfriend. this was the man who slapped you. this was the man who didn't let you go around the house with the excuse that he didn’t want you to leave him.

but of course, your cunt didn't had the same thought that you did. so, by the amount of teasing and the way his soft, slender fingers found your clit almost immediatly, you couldn't help but moan and grind back, feeling as if you were humiliating yourself.

"s-stop that, coryo. please." you said. "i'm still mourning valentine's death-"

"i'm sorry, dove, but your pussy doesn't seem to agree with that." and he rolled your nightgown up, pulled his pants down and finally his dick was grinding against your wetness, the tip teasing your clit as he didn’t went inside, why he wasn't going inside? you needed him in.

your breath hitched at the thought, your hand gripping the sheets as he slowly thrusted, but never inside of you.

"tell me, dove, do you want it in?" he asked, his index finger teasing your clit.

"n..no, i-i don't-" he chuckled at your own lies, you felt like laughing too, the exact moment he kissed your shoulder you had to close your own lips, aware that you would end up smiling at him.

"i don't think you don't want it. tell me, baby, what do you want exactly?"

your breath hitched, you could feel how harder your nipples were compared to before. you shouldn't be wanting this. and you knew that. but you loved him so much.

"y-you. please, i'm sorry, coryo." what were you sorry about? you didn't do anything wrong other than mourn and cry.

"you're forgiven, baby. now, just let me enter you, okay?" you nodded. you were pathetic, that nod was pathetic, looking at you in the mirror was pathetic, seeing how you surrendered so easily to his touch was pathetic- the fact that you were ovulating was pathetic. the fact he knew you were fertile was psychotic, and mostly pathetic cause it was you who let him know about it when you were both dating.

you slurred a long and low moan out of your mouth, your eyes closed shut the second your walls were slowly stretched by his dick, it wasn't as painful as the first time, but you felt like being ripped apart.

dubiously, you let his dick kiss your uterus like never before. you felt so ridiculous when his dick went further into you, when your warm walls squeezed his dick into you, when your pussy felt like gushing and you cockwarmed him with pleasure, and you fucked him back, moving your hips almost like you didn't want him to see you moving.

"you would look so good pregnant, don't you think, baby?" he asked, his hand going upwards and abandoning your clit to pass on your belly. "you'd be so pretty. more than you are already"

you shook your head, panic taking over you.

"p-please, coryo. don't do it, not inside, please. not inside" of course, he didn’t even cared about your mewls, thrusting harder into you, earning a bunch of moans out of your mouth, your voice echoing as he spread your legs and made you look into the mirror to see the mess you were.

your boobs bouncing out of your nightdress, your pussy beautifully welcoming his dick inside your cunt, his balls slapping against your clit due to the pose, and the more you concentreated on the pleasure, you were closer to cumming.

"yeah, keep squeezing me like that, dove" he said into your year, sucking on your neck. you moaned as an answer "i'm gonna fuck my baby's into you."

you squeezed him too tightly, your pussy gushing around him before finally cumming. too good, too good. were all that you could think of.

"such a pretty girl, baby. you will be such a good mom." he said, finally cumming inside of you, the hot seed flowing inside you and leaking a bit.

you turned to see his face, recieving a kiss that you promptly deepened.

you were doomed.

deranged.

his grandma'am was the one to acompany you to the altar. the entire panem was there or outside waiting to see the marriage of the new president snow.

you smiled at him under the veil, your swollen round belly being the one that claimed attention more than anything. you were in fact a beautiful mom, carrying his twin girls in your heart and stomach.

you still loved him after all, who would know?

not even him expected you to say yes, not in the marriage, not at the proposal, and not at any other situation, specially when he was impregnating you.

"do you, mr. snow, accept mrs. y/n as your wife?" the priest asked, a sweet smile on his elderly lips.

"i do."

"and you, mrs. y/n, accept mr. snow as your husband?" he asked to you, and you smiled, cherry lipstick covering your lips.

"i do."

you caved your own grave, and you knew it. but if you died, you would take him with you.

that's what love is about.

#coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow #tbosas smut #coriolanus smut #yandere #obslove #obsessive love #x you #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow imagine #young coriolanus snow #the hunger games the ballad of songbirds & snakes #young president snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus x you #x reader

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bluewaterhigh2005 · 2 years ago

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do you love me? you imbecile

#SORRY for having aegon derangement syndrome. as if it's MY fault he's a pathetic loser and tgc (aquarius) has the wettest eyes known to man #what does he want he wants his mother!!!!!!!#ripping out my hair rn. crawling around in tgc's walls. i am going to study this little FREAK like a bug.#shut up lil

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phyrestartr · 5 months ago

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Their Burning Bodies Keep Us Warm (1/2) | Sukuna x M!Reader

W/C: 3.4k #NSFW, top!Sukuna, bottom!Reader, ABO dynamics, cannibalism, mentions of sex trafficking, mentions of cults, questionable relationship, suggested Stockholm syndrome, post-apocalypse, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, drama, gore, typical zombie shite, not rlly edited kekw SORRY

tags: @flowersatwork @tr4nniez @kamote-kuneho @prettorett @better-imagination-9

You ran. Even when your lungs tore apart, your legs burned to ash, your mind split and ruptured, you ran.

The destination was simple: anywhere. Anywhere away from the hell hole you'd been swept up into–a camp full of soldiers getting hopeful little bugs stuck in a honeypot with promises of safety and a life well-lived despite the end of the world. A colony. A chance to stop hoping to simply survive.

But that wasn't what happened. You and so many others were victims of a breeding ring–a puppy mill, so to speak. One where those able to bear young were forced to. One where a hivemind fooled the naive into thinking this was all for the ultimate goal of repopulation, for a chance to reclaim the world should the infected finally fall.

Yet humans, as smart and powerful as the hive claimed, had already lost once, and now twice as they lit their humanity ablaze for the greater evil of satisfying twisted desires under the guise of necessity. You couldn't take it anymore.

So, you ran.

Then, you saw a light. Just faintly. It whispered promises of warmth in the cold deadness of Winter's night; you couldn't help but be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

But that meant someone was inside, too, which could be a blessing or a curse–if they found you, sidling up to the house, listening for signs of life or unlife, they could turn you in to the men chasing you; on the other hand, you might find a friend. A companion. A safe person to sleep by at night. To eat with. To talk to. That'd be nice.

Your daydreams shattered when the voices of those soldiers echoed in the empty streets of the town you'd found yourself in. You peeked from your perch by the front door of the house, and ducked out of view when you saw two bobbing lights flicking and scanning over the snow.

Shit, shit, shit. You swallowed thickly, trying to thick through the frost biting you and the snow melting on your bare arms. What were the odds they'd be able to follow your scent? All the way down to the spot where you hid beneath the front steps? It was hard to track another when it was raining, so snow had to be the same, right? So why were they coming closer and closer, why were their voices becoming hushed and their words rushed, why were they–

The door above you slammed open with the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. You covered your mouth with a shaky hand, hoping the boom coupled with your stalker's shocked, angry barking (just one voice?) stifled whatever pathetic squawk you garbled out.

It must've. Because the person--the man--standing on the weather-worn deck above you laughed, and stepped down the creaky stairs with heavy, lazy steps before following that soldier's voice.

Go, go, go. You forced yourself to move, pushing yourself up the steps under the cover of barked threats and the outbreak of a fight. You thought men like that stuck together. That they'd help each other out with delivering omegas back to one another. That they'd invite him to join their diabolic cult–especially when the thick scent of alpha filled your lungs.

You swallowed thickly, your inner omega going wild with curiosity and wonder and a need to curl up in the musk and laze in it all day, but your petrified self picked up the slack and kept you in motion, kept you scrambling for a place to hide. Staying the night was the plan–you wouldn't be able to survive outside, not like this. Not with a t-shirt, worn joggers and runners being your only defense against the cold.

What happens in the morning? He'd no doubt catch your scent. He'd no doubt realize he had an unwelcome guest. What would he do with you? What would he do to you?

“I don't care,” You breathed as you jammed yourself into the darkness of a bedroom closet and burrowed into whatever lay on the floor. “I don't care.”

And that was true; being a slave to one was better than being a slave to many.

–

His eyes shone red.

You weren't sure if you woke in the night to find the demon. You didn't know if your dreamscape simply enjoyed tormenting you. But the burns left by that searing, glowing gaze were real.

He stood there. Features melded with shadow. Body engulfing the snowy light of night. Staring down at you. Quiet. Still. Inhuman.

Only your shaky breathing filled the thick, damp void of silence his presence brought. What were you supposed to do? What were you supposed to–

He closed the closet doors, and his lumbering footsteps sauntered away.

–

When morning came, the stranger was not so willing to leave you alone.

You thought you were being quite crafty, quite sneaky with how you planned on escaping; you waited for sounds of his to stop in a far-off room, then you donned yourself in whatever gear and warm clothes you could find in the closet, and then you carefully, so so so carefully, opened the closet doors and–

“Leaving already, little omega?” A deep, playful voice taunted from the doorway of the room, just out of sight; if you pushed the doors all the way open, you'd see the man standing in the doorway to the left.

But your hands fumbled alongside your heart. Your voice died in your throat.

You were caught.

A large hand gripped the side of the closet door and pulled it open. You stumbled backwards, heart shattering from its frosted paralysis to jump into overdrive.

Because the man, the alpha standing before you, was unlike anything you'd seen before.

He was tall. His shoulders stretched wide and, judging from the strain of his shirt, his build was formidable and downright predatory. Muscle shifted and adjusted under an expanse of gilded skin everytime the beast moved, changing from looming over you to leaning against the doorframe. Maybe in an attempt to make himself smaller. More likely because of his cocky laziness.

The smirk plastered on his face bore the same arrogance, too. As did the care in brushing back his hair and actually looking presentable in the guts of a fucking apocalypse. But maybe he relished in the anarchy. You could only assume so much from tattoos marking his skin and the mirth gleaming in hellborne eyes.

“Go on,” the man drawled, hooking a thumb into his belt, bringing your attention to the thick knife strapped to his side, “Let's hear your pretty voice.”

“I wasn't gonna stay,” you choked out, and the demon in front of you smiled wider. “I just–I saw your light, and–”

“And you walked on in without even knocking.” He sighed and shook his head. “Kids these days.”

“M'not a fucking kid,” You bit out, surprising the both of you with your venom. You thought you'd lost it long ago, but maybe not.

The man laughed, showing off his brutal, jagged canines. You swore you saw red staining them.

“You've got some bite, huh? Like that in a bitch.” He stepped closer, and you tried to meld into the wall of clothes behind you, but failed to escape the calloused hand that grabbed you by the jaw and forced your head up, down and around as he inspected you like a piece of meat.

You tried to pull away, tried to turn your head to break free from his grasp. “Don't fucking touch me–”

“Hah. This how you tried to get those alphas off of you?” He taunted, grinning at your sudden wide-eyed stare. “No wonder they used you up like a–”

You headbutted him and kneed him in the dick before pushing past him and running. Your head pounded thanks to your stupid opener, but at least it worked. Now, you just had to get out of the damn house and–

“OMEGA.”

–and escape from the devil chasing you.

His growling voice ripped through your skull like a chainsaw revving to life as you threw yourself down the stairs and out the front door. You slipped and slid, nearly falling and breaking your fucking neck on the porch, but you caught yourself and made a break for the street as the thundering of footsteps clamoured after you.

Churned snow painted in sour shades of rusted red greeted you. You could almost envision the struggle, the stabbing, the warmth bleeding from their bodies as they died for their selfish desires. It chilled you, gave you pause–and that's where you fucked up.

The horizon reeled and spun when a heavy body crashed into you and pinned you to the ground. You gasped, straining to catch the breath that'd been punched from your lungs, failing to stop the burning in your chest as your face froze against the pavement.

“Wily little cunt, huh?” The stranger breathed, rage and amusement fighting through his words. “You bring that much fight to the sack, omega? Hey?”

You tried to rip free or push him off or something as he taunted you, but you couldn't. You were trapped. Again. Again.

“Fuck you,” you spat. “I'd rather fucking die than–”

You froze. The slow, stuttering shamble of footsteps pricked your ears before low, ungodly moaning and wheezing rattled through the streets. The noise was quiet, but so loud to a frightened deer.

“Lookit that,” your captor whispered, leaning down to your ear, “Guess God heard your prayer.”

Your heart hammered. “Get off, get off.” Your voice quaked and broke as you thrashed beneath him. “Please.”

“Thought you said you'd rather die.” His knee ground into your back and you bit back a yelp.

“Please.” The diabolic gasping came closer, became more frantic as the thing saw you. You couldn't see it, but they always got so fucking excited and loud when they saw fresh, living meat. You knew it was coming.

“Ah-ah, can't let you go. Your buddy won't be able to catch up and end things for ya.” The stranger cackled something hideous and unnerving. “That'd be a right fucking shame.”

“Let me up,” You begged.

“Not yet.”

It got closer.

“Please!”

“No.”

Just a metre away, now.

“I'll stay.”

The scent of alphan approval washed over you.

“Good pet.”

You were pulled up and off the snowy ground with ease as soon as you submitted. You even vaguely saw the man kick the undead back with ease, sending it toppling over into the snow and stuck on its back like a helpless turtle. Its motor functions were shot in this weather. It probably wouldn't be getting up for a while.

You wondered if you were going to suffer the same fate: stuck on your back, unable to move, at the mercy of a sick freak you accidentally met while running away from other lunatics. You were doomed. But at least you were alive. At least you'd be warm.

The pink-haired menace locked up the door before throwing you down onto the couch with little grace. You would have been more mad if the purring roil of the fireplace didn't breathe warm gusts of comfort over you. And, well, you weren't being dragged into a bedroom and tied down. Not yet, at least.

The make matters worse, the man didn't really say much. Just closed the blinds and ensured the entrances and windows were secured while you sat still and quiet, patient lest you suffer a worse fate.

He glanced at you over his shoulder before returning to the task at hand. “If I wanted to kill your sorry ass, I woulda done it last night,” he said into the quiet of the room.

You remembered those eyes staring down at you. How inhuman and evil they were. How much fear they bred in you. And now, you had to accept how real that was.

He sat down on the coffee table in front of you and leaned towards you, resting his elbows on his knees, holding your gaze with his own.

“Here's what's gonna happen,” he said, low and dangerous. “I'm gonna let you stay. Real nice of me, yeah? I'll give you food, water. Keep you warm, keep you safe from all the bullshit going on outside. Sounds good, doesn't it?”

You looked over his face, brows furrowed, heart pounding so loud you almost couldn't hear him. But you nodded for fear of what he'd do otherwise.

He smiled, satisfied. “Good. And in return,” he started, letting a hand slip up to your knee, “You'll make like a good little whore and keep my bed warm. Fair deal, don't you think?”

You nodded. It wasn’t like you had a choice, anyway.

–

Sex with the man–Sukuna, as you’d come to learn–wasn’t the worst thing imaginable; for one, he had some level of patience and tact when it came to stretching and lubing you up for your occasional “duties,” which put him in your “good book” right away (Christ, your standards had fallen so low).

Secondly, he didn’t make you participate. He’d command you in the same way each time (“face down, ass up, don't bite”), and he'd have his way with you. He never made you kiss him. Never demanded you speak. Never bullied you. He seemed like he just wanted to stuff his cock somewhere warm and forget about the world for a bit.

And you didn't really mind it. Sometimes. you almost looked forward to it. Sometimes, you let little noises escape when he railed you into the bed with reckless abandon. Sometimes, you wanted his hands on you just a little longer.

Because when he wasn't fucking you, he might disappear out of the blue and leave you all alone, only to return a week later with supplies and clothes, unperishable goods and other random odds and ends he found along the way. Once, he even found a retro game store and scooped up an endless supply of gameboy advance and colour games and consoles. Another time, he carried home a bag full of weather-worn books.

What'll it be today? You wondered when you caught sight of the man wandering back up the steps. He cursed under his breath as he messed with the lock for an eternity, and you took the opportunity to scurry away from the living room to put some distance between the two of you just in case; at this point, you didn't expect him to hurt you, but wild animals were unpredictable, even when seemingly domesticated.

“Fuckin' shit-ass door,” Sukuna grumbled as he nudged it open before kicking it closed and locking up. “Need to fix that shit.”

You peered down at him from your perch halfway up the stairs and watched him saunter around, heavy boots clunking on the floors you just washed as he looked around. You had to wonder who the hell had taught him shoes inside was okay.

“Where the fuck is that little bitch,” he mumbled, walking out of your line of sight. He traipsed through the bottom floor thoroughly before walking past the stairs again, pausing, rewinding, and meeting your patient statre. “The fuck are you doing?”

I don't want you to bite me; I don't know if you'll randomly kill me if you're in a bad mood; I don't trust you like that, all ran through your head, but none felt like a good option to admit to. So, you shrugged.

Sukuna sighed, loud and laced with an aggravated growl. “Downstairs. Now. Need you to do something.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. Normally, you weren't asked to do much. The sudden command had your skin itching.

“Now.”

“Coming.” You tried to control the quivering of your legs on your descent to him, and just prayed he didn't notice.

He stared down at you with narrowed eyes and a bit of a sneer before he leaned over, sniffing for your scent, circling around you a few times, and finally rubbing his wrist against your neck to half-heartedly re-mark you.

You cleared your throat. “Is that it?”

Sukuna scoffed and turned away, grabbing the medical bag from the kitchen cabinet and dumping it on the counter. “You know how to sew, yeah?”

“Well, yeah. I can sew.” You approached warily as he gestured you closer.

“Hah. Good to know you're not completely fucking useless.” He sat down heavily onto a bar stool and shrugged off his jacket and shirt before turning his back to you; a long, jagged gash marred his skin with trails of dark, gooey ichor and scarlett smears. Whatever had happened was serious.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, scrambling to look through the medical bag to find something, anything, that seemed like it'd help. You found some essentials: gauze, tape, bandages, antibiotic cream, disinfectant wipes. But you'd definitely need more than a few dinky wipes to deal with his back.

You felt his eyes on you as you puttered around the kitchen, grabbing this and that and some other things before returning to his side with salt, bottled water, and booze in-hand.

Sukuna quirked a brow. “The fuck is all that for?”

You jumped a bit when his voice interrupted your whirling thoughts. “I–gonna, um, try to make some kinda…saline. To clean it.” You cleared your throat again and set the mostly-empty bottle of sake by him. “That's for…y'know.”

“Loud and clear,” Sukuna sighed, dreading what was to come, and took a long, long drink from the bottle.

You pursed your lips and nodded to yourself before starting to mix the salt and water together in the bottle. You weren't sure what the ratio should be, but you figured there wasn't necessarily a limit, not when you were lacking isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. You'd be sure to mention it to him next time he went out.

“So. This'll…suck,” you warned, voice nervous and weak.

Sukuna sighed again. Took a swig again. Then ripped his belt from his waist, folded it a few times, and bit down.

He gave you an unenthused thumbs-up, and you found the nerve to jab a hole in the plastic bottle cap before spraying your makeshift saline solution against the wound.

You nearly shit yourself as Sukuna growled with the force of a jet turbine. Faintly, you heard the creaking groan of leather crackle from his mouth as his teeth sank in deep. His canines probably already pierced through the material.

“I know,” you whispered, actually feeling badly for the animal keeping you prisoner. “I know.”

You took your time cleaning the wound out, being sure to remove any sort of gravel or shrapnel embedded into his flesh. Luckily, the gash looked worse than it actually ended up being. It bled a lot, but it didn't cut all the way through to his ribs or beyond. Talk about lucky.

When a majority of his trembling and snarling ebbed, you hazarded the question: “So…how’d this happen?”

Sukuna groaned, and you almost smiled. “Fell off a fucking roof. Hit a sign on the way down.”

You cringed at the thought. “Well. It's…not that bad.” You drenched the wound with another round of salt water before patting it dry.

“Yeah? Then no stitches,” he half-declared, half-asked.

You gave his back a pitying look before reaching for the needle. Sukuna scoffed and muttered colourful obscenities when he saw your fingers snatch up the tool before disappearing behind him again.

“Fuck me.”

“Sorry,” you offered softly, trying not to laugh.

You saw his knee bounce in trepidation as you wiped his skin and the needle down with those cute little towelettes. You kinda felt bad for him. Healthcare in the apocalypse was a bit lacklustre.

As carefully as you could, you pushed the needle through his skin, and tried not to gag at the obscene feeling. The sound of his fist hitting the countertop helped ground you, though, and helped keep you on task stitch, after stitch, after stitch, after–

You set aside the tools and cleaned off your trembling, crimson-stained hands as best as you could before applying whatever ointment you could under gauze, and finally bandaging his torso up. Sukuna's eyes followed you, but you couldn't bear to look at him, quietly afraid of what he might do if your unsteady gaze met his; but that wasn't acceptable, judging by how he grabbed your arm and stopped you from turning away to clean up the mess.

You looked at him, then, eyes laser-focused. Every shift pumped your veins with ice. Every flick of his attention sent electricity down your spine. Every silent word his lips failed to commit to filled you with dread.

“Thanks,” he said. And he let go.

#male reader insert #sukuna x you #sukuna x m!reader #jjk #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #reader insert #ryoumen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk smut #jjk x male reader #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #itadori sukuna x reader

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ghulehunknown · 1 year ago

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Papa Headcanons - 🐱👅

WARNING!! - NSFW

All the Papas love going down, but they each have their own style

Primo

Prefers to get you nice and worked up, so he’ll spend a painfully long time kissing and caressing you before actually going down on you (so when he does use his tongue it feels explosive)

Says “My, my aren’t we a wet little thing?” everytime, knowing FULL WELL he did that to you

Soft and slow, very gentle

Long, painted strokes along your entire area

Massages your breasts while flicking his tongue around your clit

Uses his thumb to rub circles on your clit to give his mouth a break but doesn’t stop until you’ve cum at least once or twice, preferably in his mouth

Secondo

Roughly fingers you while eating you out

Spreads your legs wide so he can eat every inch of you

Loves to eat you from behind so he can finger your ass too

Grabs onto your legs and hips so he can pull your body closer to him

Wants to take his time and edges you - so he’ll alternate by doing other forms of foreplay (sucking on your nipples or pinching them, making out, fingering you)

Praises you (“brava ragazza”) for being so patient as he takes his time torturing you (“You will be rewarded, tesorina”)

Wants to do all the work so he’ll scold you if you start to grind against him

Loves to see his Papal paints smeared all over your thighs

Massages your ass and tits while eating you out

Terzo

Would die happy drowned in pussy

Wears the smell of you like a badge of honor the whole day

Desperate to eat your arousal and drink you if you squirt

In fact it’s a little game he plays with himself, to see if he can make you squirt (he’s almost always successful)

Dying to get you off this way before he fucks you hard into the mattress

LOVES when you ride his face; he wants to be smothered and barely able to breathe

Also into 69ing - you on top or laying on your sides

Favorite cunnilingus position is you on your back with your legs spread and one hooked over his shoulder while he finger fucks you and sucks your clit

Massages your g-spot when he knows you’re close to cumming

Darts his tongue in and out of your hole a lot (“Amore, how could I waste a single drop of you?”)

Suctions/sucks on your clit a lot and alternates that, flicking his tongue, and using the flat part of his tongue

While each papa has their talents and are very good at doing down, Terzo is the Prince of Cunnilingus - a cunt connoisseur, if you will

Immediately wants to kiss you during (so you can see how aroused he’s made you) and after because sometimes he’s sweet like that

Usually wants to fuck right after you’ve cum (while you’re still breathing heavily)

Copia

Kisses every inch of you

Moans as soon as he has you in his mouth; he can cum just from eating you out (pathetic little rat man)

Can’t help it and will stroke himself while going down on you, unless you have him tied up (to punish him for being a dirty, needy man)

Loves being submissive to you while pleasuring you - either kneeling underneath you while you’re standing or sitting on the edge of the bed/couch, or tied up to the bedpost while you ride his face

Wants to be used like your sex toy

Would gladly spend all day down there as long as you’re getting off

Heard somewhere that spelling the alphabet with his tongue will get you off, so he does that and stops at whichever letter or motion gets the loudest response

He’s got a little bit of washing machine syndrome going on - very sloppy and all over the place at times

Finds a steady rhythm, position, and stroke and sticks to it because if it always works why change it

Listens to your breathing get heavier and stays consistent with his speed and motion when you grip his hair and tell him “don’t stop!”

Wants to cuddle you after and kiss you and feed you snacks (one time he hand fed you fruit snacks while he was down there)

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aliidarling · 7 months ago

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the less i know the better pt. 2

RICK GRIMES x fem!reader x DARYL DIXON

part 1

nsfw content — please scroll if uncomfortable

summary: everything is fun but then u try and run away... they arent very happy :(

tags: nsfw obvi, p in v, forced entry kinda, double penetratrion, degrading, humiliation, anal, throat-fucking, creampie, manipulation, face slapping, mean rick and daryl, unprotected sex (wrap before u tap...)

nsfw content below !!

They kidnapped you. Were you really gonna let them Stockholm syndrome you into staying? That would be pathetic-- Plus, Negan would kill you. He’s probably already sending other soldiers out to find out where you were. You hoped he wouldn’t be on your ass about your disappearance when you got back.

Because you would get back. You’d make sure of it. It didn’t matter if they were so gentle with their hands and how they kissed you. In the end, they were from Alexandria and Negan wanted them dead.

You tried to keep these thoughts in mind as you swiftly snuck out of the house, light on your toes. You held your breath. It was late at night in Alexandria, the streets empty, and the subtle sounds of zombies gnarling outside of the walls the only thing audible for miles.

It was chilly. You hugged your thin jacket around you a little tighter, glancing around cautiously. You carefully walked towards the back of a few houses. After being here for some time, you had managed to pick up on some clues and hints on how to get out of here.

Just a few days ago you came across Carl and Enid sneaking out of the gates by climbing it and dropping down onto the other side. You thought it was dangerous, but anything to get out of here, right.

Placing a foot on the gate and your hand on one of the ridges, you started to shakily climb it. You felt the small creaking noises, making your heart thud.

Don’t fall, don’t fall, you thought to yourself. Being found dead after sneaking off would be very embarrassing.

You had barely climbed a few feet when someone’s hard grip clasped around your ankle and yanked you down aggressively, making you let out a loud high-pitched squeak.

The man manhandled you over his shoulder. You heard his grunt and immediately knew who it was, even if all you could see was his back. You struggled over his shoulder, thrashing.

“Let— Let me go!” You screech.

“Shut the hell up.” He growls darkly, slapping your ass as a way to silence you. Your squeak makes his grip harden, and he turns towards his house and starts walking.

“You’re so ungrateful.” Rick says lowly. His voice sends shivers down your spine. You had never heard him sound so mean. He had his moments in the last few weeks where he had gotten angry with you, yes, but you could tell this was different.

“You kidnapped me!” You yelled back in defense, scoffing at his audacity. You thrashed harder, kicking your feet and trying to get free of his hold. You manage to kick him in the gut, which makes him brutally slap your thigh after he lets out a grunt.

“Shut the fuck up, you have no idea what you’re in for. I’ve been treating you so nice, so gentle, and you go off and do this shit?!”

You glared at his back. “You forced me to submit to you and Daryl!”

“Like hell we did, all we did was shove a few fingers into that tiny cunt and you were moaning for us. We didn’t even have to sweet talk you, you’re just a slut at heart who’s depraved of male validation.”

Ouch.

You go silent as his words echo in your head, his vulgar language making you squirm slightly over his shoulder. Rick being the man he is, immediately notices and speeds up his walk, nearing his lawn.

“God, of course, you’re getting off on this.” He groans in annoyance. “I could beat the shit out of you and you’d be into it.” He snickers meanly. “Maybe I should.”

You let out a whine, wiggling some more. He enters his house and throws you down on his couch. He walks off to his coat rack, takes off his iconic brown jacket, tugs at his shirt collar, and sighs lowly. He swore, you were making him grow more grey hairs, and he wasn’t even that old yet!

“You’re stressing your old man out, sweetheart.” He coos mockingly, a dark glare being cast your way. You flinch and shrink on the couch, hugging your flimsy jacket around you.

“You deserve it.” You grumble. He rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mumbles.

Just a few minutes later Daryl comes barging through the door, his body language pissed. You stiffen in discomfort as his eyes come straight to yours.

“I’m sorry—“ You squeak quickly, but you’re silenced by Rick smacking your cheek. You yelp, clutching your cheek with a shocked look as you gaze up at the two men.

They both stare down at you with scowls and crossed arms.

“How far did she get?” Daryl grumbles, turning to Rick and giving you a stinky side-eye. You grimace.

“The gate—“ You start, only to get bonked harshly by Rick once again.

“Did he ask you? I don’t think so.” He glared. “Now shut the hell up, girl.” They both turn away and start exchanging whispers and growls. They were both pissed at you, you could tell. You didn’t know what to do.

After another few minutes, they both slowly turn to you again. This time, a different glint was in their eyes. One you recognized. You shivered as you started to lean back slightly, your frown deepening. They notice and snicker in amusement, Rick coming to grab your shoulders and push you down onto the floor.

You yelp loudly, your knees knocking against the floor as you stumble and land on your hands and knees.

“Stop it, that hurts!” You pout, leaning your weight on your thighs as you sit on your heels. Rick grabs your hands and pulls them behind you. You squirm in discomfort.

“Ouch.” You grumble. Daryl walks in front of you and starts unbuckling his belt. Your eyes widen, and in seconds you’re face to face with his large bulge. You gulp nervously, looking up at him through his lashes.

“You want me to…”

“Yeah, ya’ stupid bitch, it ain’t that hard. C’mon.” He huffs. You resist rolling your eyes at his language, frowning up at him before looking back down at the bulge shoved in your face.

You attempt to pull your hands from Rick to pull his boxers down, but his grip on your wrists tightens.

“How the hell do you expect me to suck you off when I can’t even move?!” You say with an exaggerated tone. This was so damn annoying. You couldn’t give the man the blowjob he was asking for because of him and he was getting angry?

“Figure it out,” Rick says from behind you. You hear the sound of Ricks's belt unbuckling, and the feeling of hard leather wrapping around your wrist.

“This is not fair, at all—“ You whine loudly as you squirm and tug at the restraint, your face still shoved in his boxers. You yelp when you find yourself getting slapped by Daryl. Your bottom lip trembles as you look up at him. That was mean.

“Shut up before I force it down your throat, lil’ girl. Now use your teeth to pull down mah’ boxers, hmm? Or are you too stupid to do that?” He scoffs, his hands coming to grab at the sides of your face and press your nose into the fabric of his boxers.

Your nose scrunches up as he does this, a frown painting your expression. You hesitantly bite at the waistband, struggling but eventually managing to pull them down just enough for his cock to spring out.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it.” You mutter to yourself, leaning closer and giving his tip a little kiss. His breath hitched, a snigger leaving his throat.

“Ya’ think you deserve gentle treatment after that stunt you jus’ pulled?” Daryl glanced at Rick with a look in his eyes, seeking approval for something. Rick, who was now kneeling behind you and starting to unbutton your jeans, nodded.

Before you could speak another word, Daryl’s large hands cup your head and start to push it down on his cock. “Lips around teeth, yeah, just like that, now c’mon, nice and easy, don’t want you to puke all over my cock.” He mumbles, eyes narrowing as he sees his cock slowly disappear into your mouth.

Your protests all go muffled as you feel him filling your mouth, your gag reflex having your nose scrunch and eyes water. Rick from behind you starts to shove his hand down your pants, rubbing at your thin panties. You let out a surprised yelp at the feeling, which makes Daryl groan at the vibration.

“Oh yeah, see— I knew you were just a lil’ cock hungry, now you got cock down your fuckin’ throat and you’re all better, right? Not gonna run away anymore, right? Shake your head for me, baby.” He coos mockingly as he starts to bob your head up and down forcefully.

Tears well up more as you give him a shaky nod, barely holding it together as you feel his head hit the back of your throat. You start to gag.

Rick from behind you stops his rubbing on your clothed-pussy and whispers in your ear, his hand coming to rub your throat.

“Easy now, sweetheart. Relax your throat.” He hums. You try your best to relax, squeezing your eyes shut as some gags leave you. Eventually, you relaxed enough for Daryl to start thrusting his cock into your mouth smoother, back and forth.

Daryl throws his head back, groaning at the way your throat hugged his cock.

“Jesus Christ, fuckin’— throat is like a vice.” He scoffs, his eyes barely open as he starts to thrust more hard. Your body squirms but is immediately held back down by Rick. His hands shove themselves back down your pants, going to rub at your clit.

While Daryl uses your mouth like a glory hole, Rick is snickering at how wet you are. His fingers glide across your panties towards the damp spot. You flinch at the contact and try to pull away from his wandering hands, blushing intensely.

Daryl’s grip on your head tightens as he feels you squirm. He somehow forced his cock deeper, making you let out a muffled cry. Tears stream down your cheeks at the intrusion in your throat, being fucked relentlessly.

Eventually, he cums in your mouth and pulls back with a low groan. He stares down at you, pumping his semi-hard on in front of your panting face. You use this time to breathe in deeply, trying to grab onto every breath of air you can take.

“No more, please—“ You whimper, blinking up at him. He doesn’t listen to you and pumps himself for a few more seconds before finishing all over your face again. You gasp as his cum squirts onto your expression, your nose scrunching up. You shrivel up, mouth twitching.

Rick holds back a laugh at how pathetic you look. He turns to the side to grab a towel, handing it to you with a condescending pat on the head.

“That was just humiliating, man.” He shoves Daryl’s shoulder, the both of them staring at you. You sat on the floor on your knees, drying the cum and tears off your face as you tremble, coughing every few seconds.

“Girl deserved it.” Daryl huffs. He glanced at you, Rick, and then motioned towards you. Rick smiles and nods. He quickly comes up to you, picking you up by your armpits. You yelp, dropping your towel and squirming. He picked you up so easily.

“Hey—“ You weakly protest before getting silenced by the large man carrying you. They both drag you into Rick's bedroom, setting you down on the bed.

You barely have time to do anything before their hands are all over you, Rick pulling your jeans and panties down in one go while Daryl’s sticky hands grasp your chin and pull you in for a kiss. You’re being manhandled and fondled, squirming and trying to pull away before eventually kissing back.

Rick's hands pull down his jeans, a large bulge in his boxers. The view of your throat getting brutally fucked must have made him hard, no surprise about that.

Daryl sits himself against the headboard, his large hand pumping his now fully hard cock, his other hand patting his lap.

“Bring er’ here, facing me. Wanna see that pretty face.” He says. Rick plops you down onto Daryl’s lap. You had forgotten about the belt around your wrists, but when you attempted to tug at your hands to wrap them around Daryl’s neck, you were pleasantly surprised. You grimaced.

“I’ve been good, c’mon, just untie me, please.” You attempted to plead with puppy eyes, feeling Rick from behind you grab your shirt and bunch it above your chest. He wasn’t able to fully pull it off because of your wrists so he just compromised.

“Shut up before we gag you.” Rick scoffs. He sits behind you, his hands coming to spread your legs.

“Should I use lube?” Rick says to Daryl. Daryl blinks before grumbling.

“Yeah, don’t wanna tear her ass apart.” He snickers.

Your heart drops as you start to squirm and protest..

“W-Wait, what? You’re not going in my ass! Please don’t!” You whine. Daryl grabs your head and shoves it into his chest, your voice going muffled. You let out a cry as he uses his hand to raise your hips and position your pussy above his hips, sliding you down gently. He shushes your whimpers and cries as you feel your walls get stretched out without prep.

The only lube provided was your natural slickness, and in the end, even with how wet you were, you were no match for his girth. Your thighs tensed as he slowly bottomed out inside your tight cunt. His head leans back against the headboard with a heavy sigh, blissed out from how snug you were wrapped around him.

Tears come back from the burn in your lower body, trembling. Your voice shakes, pleading quietly as Rick behind you spreads your butt cheeks and prods at your pucker. You flinch and curl into Daryl’s chest, shaking. He giggled and brushed his hand through your hair, his other hand holding your hips down.

“Don’t—“ You’re silenced by Daryl’s lips on your own. Your protests are muffled as you lean into the kiss slightly, your wrists sore from the harsh restraints.

“Tight fuckin’ ass,” Rick grumbles from behind you. You hear something squirt, before yelping when something cold is pressed against your pucker. You shudder, pussy tightening around Daryl, making him groan in ecstasy.

“Don’t make er’ cry even more, as cute as it was we don’t wanna damage any internal bits.” Daryl snickers against your lips. You whine.

“How about you just don’t go in my—“ You’re silenced by the feeling of a thick cock starting to enter your tight hole, eyes widening in the pain. You squeal loudly, trying not to sob from the pain but failing. You had never had anything in that hole, and now there was a man behind you forcing himself deep into it.

“Good girl, just take it, you deserve this.” Daryl hushes you gently as you mewl from the stretch, your body tensing. Rick groans from behind you, his hands tight around your waist, holding you down as he slowly but surely bottoms out.

Once he’s fully buried inside you, they go still, watching as you sniffle and let out tiny cries. You were shaking from the intrusion, lips pressed together tightly as you did your best not to let out any sobs. You failed. Being stuffed with two cocks in both holes, front and behind, was overwhelming and you had no idea how to even cope with something like this. The last time you even had intercourse with someone was months ago— and it was some smelly Negan lackey who was looking to get his dick wet, and you were just really desperate for relief.

Rick's hands massage your waist tenderly, humming into your ear as he feels your tight hole clench down on him. He lets out a raspy groan, readjusting his hips with a little shift and making you yelp at the friction. He holds back a laugh.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He cooed mockingly, grinning at Daryl. They both stared at your shaky body, before tightening their grips and starting to slowly thrust. Your eyes widened at the feeling of them both sliding in and out simultaneously. Your eyes squeeze shut as your lips fall agape, producing moans at how full you feel. Each time one would pull out, the other would shove themselves to the hilt.

“You’re not gonna run away, ya’? You love these cocks too much, stupid lil’ slut.” You couldn't even tell which one was saying what anymore, your brain all mushy and your body like putty in their hands. You let an incoherent cry in response. They both chuckle.

“She's braindead, what a dumb little bitch.” Daryl laughs at you as he starts to thrust harder up into your cunt, humming happily at the sounds he was forcing you to produce. He tightens his hold on you so he can have more leverage, leaning back and groaning. It felt so good. The other man behind you grabs the back of your head, pulling your hair back as his thrusts start to gain speed.

Soon enough, both of them were making you sob from pleasure as they wrecked you, battering your insides from every angle. Rick had his hand wrapped around you to rub at your clit, the other one holding your hips firmly.

Daryl passionately kissed you, groaning as he thrust upwards into your dripping hole, his hands fondling your breasts roughly. He pulled and tugged at your nipples, making your arch deepen.

“Oh, o-oh, please, I’m gonna—“ You choked out, tears painting your flushed cheeks, tugging weakly at your restraint. Rick pulled at your hair harder, groaning at how your walls tightened around him.

“You wanna cum? Hmm? Promise you won’t be a stupid brat and try to run away again?” He sneers, pressing his chest firm against your back, his thrusts starting to get sloppy. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, his cock twitching as he felt his orgasm start to near.

Your words were sloppy itself, whimpering incoherent rambles of words, desperate for a release.

“Y-Yes— Yes— p-promise!” You whined into Daryl’s chest, sobbing and shaking as they held you tightly and smothered you with their bodies. You were sandwiched completely, full, and happy.

“We find you running away again, we’ll slut you out for hours and force our cocks in every hole you have, got it? Don’t be an idiot, nod like a good girl.” Daryl huffs, pushing your head into his chest and silencing your moans and sobs. Your dumb little noises and pleas have them both snickering.

“C’mon then girl, we don’t got all day.”

Rick's fingers rubbing at your clit intensely, Daryl twisting your nipples, and their cocks shoved so deep in you eventually have you clenching down and spasming around them. You cum hard on Daryl’s cock with a loud mix of a cry and moan, quivering.

Just shortly after, they both finish in you, watching their juices drip out of your abused holes as they slowly pull out. Their eyes flicker to your face and how you were completely limp, lying on Daryl’s chest for support.

“Good girl, baby, took us so well. We’re so proud of ya’.” Daryl gently wraps his arms around you, smiling darkly at how they both ruined you. He motions to Rick to grab a pair of clothes and a towel for you.

Seconds later, Rick carefully took you from Daryl’s arms. He scooped you up and sat you down on the edge of the bed, spreading your thighs with a pat and wiping you off with a bathroom towel.

“How ya’ feeling?” Rick hums softly, smiling at you. It was like a complete switch from how they were just brutally fucking you.

“Tired.” You mumble lamely.

You hear a small chuckle leave both of them. Daryl gets off the bed to pull his clothes back on, but not before untying your wrists and pressing a sweet kiss to your red bruise. You frown as you gently rub your sore wrists, wincing.

“Sorry sweetheart, but that’s what you get when you decide to be all brave and run. But you learned your lesson, didn’t you?” Rick says sweetly. You smile weakly and mutter a shaky, “Yes sir.”, before raising your hands when he says so.

He slides one of his cotton tee shirts onto you. He smiles at the adorable sight of you and cups your cheeks, pulling you in for a small kiss. He then squished your cheeks as you let out a little whine, pressing kisses all over your soft skin and nose.

“Let’s get ya’ in bed, probably so tired. Poor baby.” He whispers softly to you, tugging on one of his pair of boxers before picking you up once again, carrying you to his bed, and tucking you in.

You lay there still, frowning as you were babied by the two men. You didn’t know what to say. You liked the feeling of them taking care of you, but the reminder of the situation you were in sent goosebumps down your back. They had kidnapped you and forced you to stay with them.

This was so fucked up. But what could you do? A part of you was starting to like them.

“Goodnight, baby.” Daryl ruffles your hair, climbing into the bed and nuzzling his face into your chest. Rick spoons you from behind, his legs tangled with yours.

“Night.” You say quietly, with no energy to speak up.

You had nowhere to run.

guys can u tell i’ve never had it up my ass

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes smut #rick grimes imagine #daryl dixon x reader #rick and daryl #daryl dixion smut #daryl dixon #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead smut #the walking dead #daryl dixion imagine

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