#a real instinct for the jugular | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astxrwar · 6 months

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ties that bind [3/8]

SUMMARY: Quentin Beck-- your old college biology professor-- is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.

RATING: Explicit

WORD COUNT: 7k+

CONTENT WARNINGS: extremely under-negotiated kink, character-typical behavior (negging, being manipulative and an asshole, etc), me bestowing upon reader!character my own shameless oral fixation/pathological lack of a gag reflex, gratuitous sex, overstimulation, me pretending that condoms are optional (they are not irl!) the most FUBAR relationship ever etc.

PART 1 | PART 2 | [PART 3] | PART 4

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, there are many things that you are immeasurably grateful for in the aftermath.

One of the most immediate ones– which might have been surprising in the moment, if there were any parts of your brain capable of engaging in conscious thought at the time– is Beck’s ability to be completely unmoved by anything . The knock on the door had made your blood run cold, sent a shock of nervous adrenaline lancing through your body that had cut clean through the not-unpleasant haze of whatever the fuck you had been feeling before that–

Beyond cursing under his breath, his eyes flashing dark with some unidentifiable emotion, Beck didn’t react– didn’t panic– at all. He had fixed you with a pointed stare and pressed a finger to his lips– be quiet – and then, apparently otherwise unfazed, he had reached for his belt from the desk and began working it back through the loops of his dress pants.

The knocking– a student, presumably, because it was office hours, after all– stopped after a few minutes, and then there was silence, and when that silence had dragged on for what you deemed to be an appropriately safe amount of time, you slipped out the door of his office, not looking back once. Beck didn’t say anything to you, and didn’t make any attempt to stop you from leaving – your brain had been buzzing, overstimulated and racing with frantic, scattered thoughts that you couldn’t hold onto long enough to complete before they would disappear from you and others would take their place, and because of that none of it had actually felt real then. It would have, probably, if you’d been forced to focus on him again for even a moment– but he didn’t say a word, and so you didn’t have to, and you were glad for that, too.

You don’t remember getting back home, only that you must have. It had been a Friday, another thing you’re grateful for, because looking at yourself in the mirror of your apartment bathroom after having mechanically directed yourself through the process of a too-hot shower, there was a rapidly-darkening bruise at the base of your throat, another right over your jugular– something you knew, instinctively, in a distant and far-away part of your brain, would be there for a while. The sight of it triggered a twinge of something, like an echo, the flutter of your slightly-uneven pulse quickening in response– but it was still too recent to really register, then, still felt like a fantasy, or some strange hallucination existing in the realm somewhere between a dream and a nightmare.

It’s not until probably about eleven at night that everything slots into place and the memory fully realizes itself, integrates into the collection of all the other facts and realities that you know to be true. You’re laying sprawled out on your bed, motionless, staring up at the slowly-turning blades of the ceiling fan in the dark; these moments trickle back in reverse-order, in broad strokes, mostly. And maybe it’s because it’s late and you’re tired and you’re not thinking straight or really thinking much at all, but also maybe for other reasons that you refuse to acknowledge or elaborate on– but the very first thing you recall in its’ entirety, in brilliant, blinding detail, is what he’d said to you, his mouth low over your ear and his breath coming fast and hot–

Come on, honey. It plays back in your head, the edge to it, biting and cruel, not really urging you on as much as just telling you, like he knew that he was going to make you cum and he knew that there was nothing you could do to stop him if you’d even wanted to–

The surge of heat that flushes through you at the memory is so immediate and overpowering that it shocks you to your core. Your breath catches and then escapes in a totally involuntary, inarticulate sound, and you cover your mouth with your hand and screw your eyes shut as tight as you can— because after that it’s like the floodgates have opened or the dam has been breached and whatever wall you’d constructed between yourself and what had happened is gone, destroyed, swept away in the rush of everything you’d repressed rearing up to the forefront of your mind again, drowning out any other thought in a sea of white noise.

The mess of emotions that surges up with it is thorny and unfathomable and entirely too complicated for you to even begin to extricate, but you can recognize immediate, surface sensations, and wanting is one of them, the strongest one, probably, followed by fury and frustration and shame, none of which, you realize– alone or together– even come close to the intensity of your desire. Which is fucking embarrassing, honestly, what the fuck had he done to you? What the fuck had you let him do? And more importantly why and how do you already know with such a crushing and steadfast and terrible certainty that you’d let him do it again?

Your mind brings to the forefront, completely unbidden, the thought of what Beck might be doing, right now– you wonder if he’s thinking about it, like you are, but your instinct tells you that he’s probably not. He’s probably doing whatever the fuck it is he normally does at this time, collected and generally unfazed; you imagine that if he had any idea of you, the state you’re in, he’d smile one of those infuriatingly condescending smiles like every other time he’s managed to burrow his way under your skin, and your cheeks and your chest burn with an all-too-familiar embarrassment.

It’s not fair.

There’s an ache between your thighs again, a need, pulsing and trembling and wearing incessantly on the foundations of your fucking psyche, and you really, really, really want nothing more than to ignore it, to just roll over and go to sleep and not give him another inch of your resolve or the fucking satisfaction, but–

But the look he had fixed on you, before he kissed you, it plays behind your eyes; the feeling when he did kiss you, finally, how it had sated that frustration inside in a way that the confrontation hadn’t, better than anything else ever had to a degree that it was fucking frightening.

You don’t push the thoughts away.

So. Yeah. You’re grateful for a lot of stuff, in the immediate aftermath. Most of all, you’re grateful that it’s Thanksgiving break– that there are a whole ten days before you have to see Beck again, if only because it’s reason enough to justify that touching yourself to the thought of him later that night isn’t going to just make this whole thing that much fucking worse.

Ten days, it turns out, is not actually long enough for any of what you’re feeling to fade.

Come Monday morning you’re so high-strung that your anxiety is palpable– you drop your backpack on the floor twice just trying to hang it on the hooks on the wall outside of the lab, which is apparently out of character enough to warrant a concerned Hey, everything all right? from Dr. Banner, which absolutely does not help. Somehow, you manage to spin something about underestimating what a ten-day-break from XL coffees does to a person’s overall tolerance for caffeine, a spur-of-the-moment excuse that you’re quite proud of, especially considering it gets a laugh out of both him and your fellow grad students.

You don’t actually see him at all that day. There are moments where you can almost completely forget about it, absorbed in lab busywork or chatting with labmates or grading assignments for Dr. Banner’s undergraduate microbiology class, but then there are also the moments where you’re alone and unoccupied and the thoughts are unavoidable, that same turmoil of emotions leeching up to the surface like a fresh bruise that you just can’t stop yourself from pressing down on.

Tuesday, too, is much of the same, and then Wednesday and Thursday after that; you’d have thought it would get easier with time, but it actually doesn’t– the longer it’s been since that day the fuzzier and more distant the memory, sure, but that frustration starts to build again in its’ absence. It’s kind of ironic, in a grating, infuriating way, the fact that you’re pissed off this time– for the first time– because he’s avoiding you, instead of the opposite. But it’s also so just like him– of course he’s unaffected, immune to this, and of course you aren’t, and of course he doesn’t give a shit. None of this is new, not really, it’s just different.

On Friday you end up having to stay late because one of your labmates fucks up a chemical extraction procedure that you were meant to be handling for the undergrads, meaning somebody has to remain in the lab for an extra three hours to run the dry ice bath and then transfer and separate the extract– it can’t be the person who actually fucked up, because they have work, apparently. But it could be you, of course, with nothing better to do, and you readily volunteer, because doing something is actually leagues better than sitting at home and wallowing in your myriad of unresolved issues– anger, mostly, but also other less appropriate things that you don’t want to think about.

So.

It’s five-thirty when the extraction is finally finished. You’ve run through the motions of locking up, putting all of the supplies back in their respective places, shutting off the overhead lights, kicking the door jamb out from where it’s wedged, the door itself having already been locked when Dr. Banner left at three. It’s November– December, now, actually– and so it’s dark and near-freezing outside by the time you’re done; the other end of the chemistry building is nearest to the parking lot, and so you decide that, in the interest of retaining feeling in your fingers, you’ll go down through the building and exit on the other side, thereby limiting the amount of time you actually have to spend out in the cold. 10/10, all-around solid plan.

Except Beck’s office is on this end of the building. You know that, and the knowledge prickles somewhere at the base of your spine as you sling your backpack over your shoulder and head in that direction, but you also know that it’s late, and that he doesn’t really ever try to hang around past four– much less past four on a Friday– so you’re comfortably certain he’ll have already gone.

(You’re wrong, because of course you are.)

You’d been thinking about what you were going to make for dinner, staring down at the faded tiling pattern on the floor and not really paying attention, until the sound of a door closing echoes down the hallway. You glance up, instinctively, drawn towards the noise, and–

Oh, fuck.

You see him before he sees you, and your brain kind of– short-circuits , freezes and stalls and shuts down like a glitchy computer. He’s turned with his back facing you, probably locking up. If you were thinking more clearly, maybe you would have turned back before he finished, but you don’t, can’t, frozen to the spot and unblinking.

Beck turns from the door, stowing the key ring in his pants pocket, and when he sees you his expression shifts from a kind of neutral ambivalence to one of those too-knowing smiles that had always struck you as just a little bit wrong in ways you hadn’t been able to figure out, not until he’d pinned you against his desk and–

You swallow, screw your eyes shut tight for a moment, and try your best to rid your mind of the thought.

“Hey,” Beck calls out to you, “Heard you might be here late, honey.”

His tone is deceptively mild, conversational, but even so the nickname still kindles that heat again, brings all those thoughts you were trying so hard to suppress flooding right back to the surface, the echo of come on, honey that had played back endlessly any time you’d so much as closed your eyes ringing in your ears, somehow even louder than your thundering heartbeat. It takes an embarrassingly long second before the rest of what he’d said starts to filter in, drowned out at first by the immediate surge of heat that had flooded you; he knew you were here, you realize, and he’d probably been waiting for you. Waiting to get you alone.

Three weeks ago that thought would have made you furious. Now, though–

“Yeah,” you say, still moving towards him– towards the door, fuck; even the way you phrase the thought in the privacy of your own head feels like you’ve betrayed yourself. You’re aiming for nonchalance in your reply but you miss that mark terribly, breathless with anticipation and unable to fight off the impulse to shiver. “Somebody fucked up an extraction that we needed to have ready for Monday, so I said I would stay—Dr. Banner’s gone to New York City for a conference, or I would have just come in over the weekend.”

You’re talking a lot, you realize, the words tumbling out of your mouth with a far greater ease than you’re used to when it comes to him; you know he’s able to tell, that he’s aware of the difference, he must be. But he doesn’t react or respond to it at all, just watches you, eyes dark and warm and expression infuriatingly unreadable.

“You’re a good student, to help out like that,” he says, after a long, unbearable pause, “Bruce is lucky to have you.”

A part of you has trouble comprehending the sentence as complete, still waiting for the other shoe to drop; the inevitable backhanded insult you’ve learned to expect whenever he says something even remotely positive, but it doesn’t come. That’s-- actually worse, somehow.

Beck tips his head towards the door. “Leaving? I’ll walk with you.”

That hum that had started in your body at the sight of him, the one that felt like it reached every part of you, even down to your bones; it ramps up higher. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t smile, but his mouth quirks up at the corners, like he wants to.

You walk in silence, your heart in your throat, a rush of energy flooding through your body, suffusing your cheeks with warmth and filling your ears with the thunderous echo of your pulse and driving a reflexive, arrhythmic twitch in your fingers that you try to hide in the bulky sleeves of your coat. This is probably the longest amount of time you’ve spent in each other’s company without him trying to upset you on purpose or you barely restraining yourself from ending up at his throat since– the last time. The thought of it– what had happened the last time, even as abstract and ill-defined as the notion was– still makes things worse, heightens your awareness of the space between your bodies; closer than you ever would have allowed him to be, before all of this. Still not close enough.

Beck trails to a stop at the end of the hall where the staircase to the upper floors sits across from the double doors that lead to the parking lot outside, having ended up a few steps ahead of you. You mean to just keep going; the door is within your line of sight, barely ten feet away, but it’s like as soon as you’re faced with having to move past him your feet are rooted to the ground, frozen, immobilized.

He’s staring at you again. You fold your arms over your chest, glad for the shapeless mass of your oversized winter coat that hides your reflexive, miniscule shiver.

“Ah–Y’know what, I forgot, there’s some things I need to grab for my lab,” he says after a moment, as if it had only just occurred to him, jerking his head towards the door to the supply closet that’s tucked underneath the adjacent staircase and offering you an apologetic grimace that feels— exaggerated. Pre-planned. Performative. “This’ll probably take a minute. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

You have a response already half-formulated in the pause that follows before he adds, somehow still casual, “Unless you think you could stay a little longer and help me out.”

The implication isn’t even really an implication at all, evident in the way that he’s looking at you, obvious and unrepentant, and the tremble that it elicits from somewhere near the base of your spine, that knot of anticipation in your belly twisting and turning and coiling tighter– you already want it, him, and you’re certain he must be able to tell, the way your pupils, which are probably dilated already, must blow out even wider, like planets, like deep, endless oceans of black–

“It’s late, though, and I’m sure there’s other things you’d rather be doing.” That edge is back, mocking, sly, manipulative like he’s trying to trick the words out of you– no, actually, nothing. He turns to the door underneath the staircase and reaches for the key ring he’d shoved in his pocket earlier; you’re jealous, somewhere deep down, at how steady his hands are, firm and methodical, as he flips through a set of near-identical keys until he finds the one to the closet.The click of the lock is nearly drowned out by the sound of your own pulse thundering inside your head, every inch as unsteady and as volatile as you feel.

The door swings outwards on creaking hinges. Beck fixes you with this look; like he’s already won, just by virtue of the fact that you haven’t moved. Maybe he’s right. He’s always been capable of deciphering exactly what you were feeling at any given moment in time, regardless of whether or not you wanted him to, always been better at getting you to rise to his bullshit than you ever were at getting him to rise to yours. He knows you, knows what you’ll do oftentimes much sooner than even you do. And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising— he’s a tenured professor, he taught you for four years, and he’s got nearly two decades on you. He was always going to be better at this.

Whatever. You don’t really care if you’re proving him right. You’re tired of fighting it, and you were never all that good at it anyway.

The inside of the supply closet is dim and dusty and cluttered and probably covered in cobwebs, but you don’t care. He’s touching you before the door has even closed all the way, stripping your coat from your shoulders and pulling you towards him by the waist, the press of his hand wide and firm and so fucking warm even through the fabric of your sweater; and fuck yes, god, even that, that one point of contact, it soothes that burning restless ache that had built inside of you for the past two weeks better than any of your own attempts at doing so ever did—

You’re the one who closes that last sliver of space, this time– and it should probably be surprising, how eager you are to do it, to drag him down by his shirt collar and push yourself up on your toes and kiss him, that nameless thing inside that’s followed you for the last two fucking weeks finally going quiet. He makes this noise against your mouth in the very first few moments, a rough and low and surprised sound, like he’s taken aback for a second. But it’s only a second, and then your back collides with the sharp plastic edges of the overstuffed rows of shelving that line the walls of the room hard enough that it forces the breath right out of your lungs, and in the moments where that gasp has your mouth opened up he licks into it, his tongue curling over your teeth and sliding against your own and wringing out a sound from you that you don’t even really try to stop this time.

Beck hasn’t even taken his coat off, you realize dimly. It doesn’t fucking matter. His thigh is pressed up between your legs, the pressure obliging the warmth there, and you can feel his cock already hard against the jut of your hip– you wonder, hazy and far-away, if he was hard before this, before you’d even kissed him, if he had been thinking about it the whole time he was walking you to the door. He works a hand up under your sweater, and you lean into it– rough, large, warm, god, he must just run hot, because you can feel him even in the spaces where your bodies aren’t touching, his presence, like the air around you is made a few degrees warmer for it.

When that hand under your sweater smooths down your abdomen to thumb over the button of your jeans there’s this frantic swell of panic at the immediate and overwhelming flush of heat that accompanies it, the trembling pulse between your legs— he hasn’t even touched you yet. He’s going to take you apart, again, and it’s not even going to be fucking hard. You want him to, shivering at the thought, but it’s your pride that stops you– for all that bullshit about being done fighting him, you’re not, really.

A four-year habit is hard to break. Go figure.

It doesn’t take all that much force to push him the grand total of two feet backwards until his back is to the opposite row of shelves in the closet; he lets you, or more accurately, he doesn’t resist, if only because you don’t think he’s expecting it. With the door closed the little room is dark, the shape of him just a darker outline against a field of murky, shapeless gray, the only light the sliver of it from outside that spills out at your feet. It works out, though, because you can see everything that clutters the floor– old paint cans and ancient long-retired confocal microscopes and unlabeled industrial-sized plastic buckets of god-knows-what– and you can see right where there’s the space for you to kneel.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Beck says when you do; the question is clearly rhetorical, amused and a little patronizing, like he thinks you’re out of your depth again. You hate that it gets to you, but it does, brings that familiar annoyance searing back, bright and vicious and spiteful in the pit of your stomach. It’s the way that he’s looking at you that really does it– like he thinks that this is beyond you, or maybe just that he thinks he’s somehow uniquely fucking special, impossible to satisfy, and all of that– every possibility, every interpretation– it all pisses you off.

“You’re such an asshole,” you reply, irritated, stubbornness ticking at the muscle of your jaw. “Do you want me to or not?”

Beck laughs at that, loud and sharp and something that might have even been pleased. He reaches to run his fingers through your hair and pulls, just a little, the pinpricks of pain rippling across your scalp as he forces your head back so that you’re looking at him, really looking at him, not just sneaking glances like you had been before. He has one of those bared-teeth smiles, something that base and instinctive part of you interprets as a challenge, even though it doesn’t really feel like it’s meant to be one. It feels like it’s meant to be a warning, maybe. Or a threat.

“Go ahead, honey,” he says, grinning wider.

Beck doesn’t react at all when your hands find his belt, his breathing steady and his expression even and his posture annoyingly fucking relaxed; doesn’t move to help you with it, either, satisfied to just watch as you work it open and tug his jeans and his boxers down his thighs. He’s still unaffected even when your palm slides over the hard outline of his dick through his boxer briefs, and, god, if that doesn’t just piss you off more– the way that he’s just so effortlessly immune to this, the same way he’s always been immune to any of your retaliatory attempts to incite him. The painfully obvious way that you’re not; the way the sight of his cock, hard, twitching lazily, makes this unbearable warmth pool somewhere inside of you, your breath catching somewhere, hesitating enough that you know he must notice. No, you– you’re whatever the complete opposite of immune is. Vulnerable. Hyperreactive. Exposed.

Except–

When you reach out to touch him, several things happen at once; the muscles in his thighs twitch and his posture stiffens and his breathing goes still, all just for a fraction of a second before he’s relaxed again. That tension is gone so quickly that you might have thought you’d imagined it, if it didn’t happen again when you lick a long wet stripe all the way up from the base of his cock and then again when you curl your tongue in a slow circle around the tip–

Maybe, you think, maybe he’s not really immune to any of it. Maybe he just hides it better.

It becomes more obvious when you put your mouth on him, not even really halfway; in the near-dark of the room you can see the shadow of him as he drags his hand down the lower half of his face, can hear, as wound-up and hyper-aware you are, the trembling breath as it leaves him, hitching when your tongue presses up against the underside of his cock as you pull back and move down again, further each time–

“Fuck,” Beck groans under his breath, the sound rough and low. “Oh, fuck, honey.”

Yes, you think, the rush of satisfaction so immediate that it takes you by surprise; whatever flicker of shame that inspires in you is ridiculously easy to silence. Beck makes another noise, wordless and low, pretense of invulnerability abandoned-- his other hand has wrapped around one of the supporting beams of the shelf, like he’s trying to steady himself, and when you finally reach all the way down to the base and stay there, just for a moment, unmoving, his grip tightens around it so hard that the flimsy plastic cracks in his fist. Your answering laugh when you pull back is more of a hum than anything, muffled by him, cheeky and pleased– but that ruins it, whatever small amount of control he’d granted to you, something bordering on growl vibrating out of him that you would probably call touchy if you were able to speak, and then his other hand fists in your hair and he pulls, hard, drags your head back down until his cock is buried in your throat and your nose is pressed right up against his stomach.

It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does— your tongue pressed flat against the base of his dick, your mouth flooding with saliva and your throat working around him and his hand on the back of your head, holding you there, the tremble that shudders through the solid muscles of his abdomen so close you can feel it — but your body is betraying you, again, again, just like before, your thighs pressing together with your hand squeezed between them, and even the insignificant pressure of your own palm through your jeans is enough that you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself from making some embarrassing involuntary sound if it wasn’t for him, the way he’s compressing your fucking voice box–

There’s the snap of plastic again, that same beam from earlier; he needs to let go of it, you think, the thought fuzzy as he pulls his cock out and saliva trails down your chin and then fuzzier still as he rocks it back in again, or he’s going to break it clean in half.

He moves like that for a while and you just let him, or worse, you fucking enjoy it; until eventually the pressure of his hand at the base of your skull lessens and his grip goes slack and you can move again, your tongue curling up around the tip of his cock and then pressing firm to the underside of it when you take him back into your mouth–

“God, honey, you’re such— such a terminal fucking overachiever, aren’t you,” Beck says, that edge in his voice, biting and mean, and you would roll your eyes at him if you could trust yourself enough to even open them, terrified that whatever way he must be looking at you right now would simply cause you to evaporate on the spot. The words alone are rough and cruel and dripping with condescension, but there’s still, contained within them, that begrudging admission that it’s good, that compliment hidden inside an insult or maybe the other way around, and it pleases you in a way that you know it really shouldn’t. He makes another sound, slurred and inarticulate, fist tightening in your hair— that control, it’s slipping through his fingers, that immaculate and insufferable level of self-constraint shattered and crumbling, and you’re dizzy with the thought of it; that you might be able to finally do something–even just once– that might actually get to him.

It doesn’t take long, after that. He wavers between letting you move, as willing and embarrassingly fucking eager as you are to do it, and moving for you, hand firm on the back of your head as he fucks your open, waiting mouth. You can tell when he starts to get close, passes the point of being able to fight it off just by slowing down, the muscles in his thighs twitching and his breathing turning rough and irregular, hitching and catching and forced out of his chest–

“Fuck,” He grits out, his palm suddenly flat against your forehead, pushing you back, away, muscles gone rigid and still. “Don’t.”

“Why,” you reply, breathless, aiming for something like teasing or taunting but ending up so shot through with desire that it doesn’t matter what you were even trying for anyways.

He doesn’t even warrant that with a response, just looks at you, eyes dark and pupils blown out so wide that you can’t even tell where the sliver of his irises even begins– he looks at you like you must be fucking stupid, like the answer is obvious, and—

You shiver.

Yeah. It is, actually, obvious.

He drags you up from the ground by the collar, pulls so hard that you stumble to your feet, off-balance, and nearly come crashing into him. He only looks at you— at your mouth, swollen and bruised and spit-slick and red— for a moment, and then he kisses you again and you melt for it without so much as a single fucking thought.

Beck forces you back against the other set of shelves; it’s not hard, with only about four feet of space spanning the whole room and with you swaying and unsteady and caught up in chasing his tongue as it roves through your mouth, for him to push you until the hard plastic corners are digging into your spine and the backs of your thighs again. He doesn’t let you touch him, grabs your wrist and pins it to the edge of the highest shelf up above your head when you try, fingers squeezing so hard that it hurts a little bit– that sends a sharp thrill of self-satisfaction flickering through you, the thought that he can’t take it, that you got him that close–and then he tears at the button of your jeans, the zipper, yanks them and your underwear only halfway down your thighs, just far enough to be able to–

The noise you make when he touches you is drawn from you so abruptly that you can’t soften it or even really try to make it sound less desperate; not that it would matter anyways, with the way that your body arches up, into him, how wet you know you already are despite having spent the last fifteen fucking minutes with his dick in your mouth and without him even really touching you at all–

“You fucking liked that– you were getting off on it, weren’t you, honey,” His mouth breaks from yours just to say it, like he knows what you’re thinking or maybe just like he’d been thinking the same thing, not even really asking as much as just stating a fucking fact, that stupid smug smile spreading wide across his face again.

“Fuck you,” you manage to reply, not even really succeeding in saying it with any amount of vitriol, voice breaking at the last syllable; all he has to do is touch you again and everything inside of you goes hot and white and blank , your free hand flying out to grab a fistful of his shirt, so tight that your knuckles are drawn and bloodless, squirming uselessly against the solid unyielding hold he has on your other wrist as he works two fingers inside of you and curls them and finds some horribly sensitive something that you hadn’t even known was there, rubs the rough pad of his thumb against your clit as he works them deeper and no, no, fuck, it’s not fair–

He doesn’t make you come like that, even though it probably would have been so easy, and maybe later tonight or tomorrow or sometime next week you’ll remember to be ashamed of how absurdly fucking easy it always is for him to get anything from you, even this, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care. He fucks you open on his fingers until you’re whining and rocking back against him and begging for it in all but actual words, and as soon as the muscles in your abdomen start to tense and the pitch of your moans shifts up higher he stops short and tells you to turn around. You don’t bother to suppress the sound that elicits from you, petulant, frustrated and wavering, but you still do what he says; when he tells you to bend, to put your hands out flat on the shelf, you do that, too, without even really thinking about it. There’s something in the back of your mind that’s absolutely indignant at your immediate compliance– add it to the fucking long list of things you’ll think about later– but it falls silent as soon as he takes the space behind you.

His hand skims your hip and you take in a shaky, shuddering breath– you can’t see him, what he’s doing, and everything in your body is still wound so tight, the combination driving such a vicious surge of anticipation that it feels for a second like you’re going to come apart at the seams, or that you might have already and just failed to notice.

Beck notches the head of his dick right between your thighs, presses forward a little, urges you up on your toes until he’s aligned just right– there, right there, you think, trembling, yes, fuck, come on, please— and then he leans over you, his arms caging yours, his much bigger hands covering your smaller ones so completely, pushing them harder into the gridded plastic lattice of the shelf. You can feel his breath against your neck, warm, the heat of his body bleeding right through his clothes, soothing the prickle of goosebumps that had spread across the exposed skin of your lower back where the edge of your sweater has ridden up, bunched around your waist. It’s cold, here, much colder than it had been in the hall– presumably because there’s no heat to the storage closet, because why would there be– and that just makes it better, honestly, how much larger he is, how fucking warm.

Please, you want to say, only remembering your pride at the last second, but then he moves closer and pushes into you anyways like he already knows what you want, and that’s fucking gone, too.

This time— balanced up on your toes, your hands braced against the shelf, the latticed plastic surface biting into your palms and his hands over them, keeping them there, your legs only spread as wide as the jeans pulled half down your thighs will even allow— you know it will take even less to break you than it did the day in his office. Beck is barely moving, short shallow motions as he works you open, but even still he’s already nudging something sensitive and electric inside of you that has your head dropping down against your outstretched arms, against his, too, where they overlay your own. It’s the angle, probably, you manage to think, flushed and shivery and barely breathing; or maybe it’s just him, and he’s just too good at this. He finally bottoms out and the noise you make– stretched out and filled up and satisfied, that stupid needy thing inside of you gone completely fucking silent at last-– is so unlike you that for a second you don’t even really register it as your own, even muffled as it is by the fabric of his shirt where your face is pressed to the inside of his arm. There’s a twitch in your fingers, like you’re searching for something to hold onto, and Beck obliges that with a mocking chuckle that rumbles out low in his chest and vibrates against your back– he threads his fingers through yours, his palms over the tops of your hands. There you go, honey, he murmurs against your neck, saccharine, patronizing, like you’re this poor pathetic helpless thing, and any other time you probably would have hated him for it. Maybe you still do, even now, and maybe that just makes it even better.

There is something– probably something significant– that is just deeply wrong with you both, you realize, and then he starts to fuck you in earnest and the thought vanishes.

This isn’t anything like the last time– every inch of you goes soft and pliant like you’re melting beneath him, not fighting it or fighting him or even trying to. Every time he rocks into you it wrings out this desperate hiccupping keen that might have just been the same continuous sound, stretched out, fading and then brought back to life again before it can ever really end. He releases one of your hands to reach down to touch you, the rough pads of his fingers dragging across your clit, and that involuntary noise he’s pulling out of you pitches up higher in response, taking on this breathless shivering quality that you recognize– you’re still fucking wound up from before, vibrating with it.

You realize far far too late that he fucking did this to you on purpose, made sure to keep you from touching him, make sure to get you close before he’d even started. The thought of him fucking you past your rapidly-approaching orgasm triggers something panicky and nervous inside of you; anticipation and apprehension and the sinking realization that you had missed something like you always do, and he had gotten the better of you, again. But there’s nothing you can do about it, really, not now, its’ approach inevitable no matter how hard you try to force your breathing to steady or your muscles to relax–

You know he must be able to feel it, just like last time, the way that you tighten around his cock, the shivering pulse of your muscles and the tremble that runs the length of your whole body. He still hasn’t stopped touching you, and he hasn’t stopped moving, either, the shelf and all its’ contents shaking with the rhythm of it, and you can’t silence the sounds or even try to mute them, the wordless inarticulate whine that pitches up higher each time his cock sinks back inside—

“Be quiet,” he pants against your shoulder. His hand– the one that had still been covering yours and pressing it harder against the latticed surface of the shelf– it moves up to your throat and then higher still, curling around your jaw, and you should remember to be embarrassed about how quick you are to just let him when he pushes his fingers into your mouth, should be fucking ashamed the way your tongue roves around them, instinctive, obedient, but you can’t think , can barely even remember to breathe. It’s somehow even worse, more overwhelming, now that he’s not bracing his weight on the shelf, the bulk of it resting against you, makes it so that his cock reaches somewhere even deeper inside, his other hand still splayed flat below your stomach, his fingers still against your clit, firm, not really even moving, the friction generated just from the force of him fucking you enough to make something drop out of the pit of your stomach like you’re free-falling because you know with a startling and crystal-clear certainty that you’re going to— that he’s going to make you— again—

Beck must know it too (of course he does, of course) because he presses the fingers in your mouth further in and down firm against your tongue to quiet the noise that breaks out of you when you come for a second time, something that probably would have been closer to a sob than anything, but stifled as it is it just comes out as another incoherent sound. You’re shivering, muscles in your calves and your thighs strung taut, sore and burning like they might give out under you, and when he starts to really touch you again you almost bite down on his fingers, hypersensitive and overstimulated and unable to even move to escape it, with the shelf in front of you and the weight of him pressed to your back–

Maybe he makes you come again, or maybe he doesn’t— it doesn’t really matter, anyways, the usually-clear delineation between your orgasm and the build to it has been erased, your body so high-strung you can’t even tell the difference anymore. It all just bleeds together, like trying to stay standing and upright in the ocean, in water that’s chest-deep, knocked down by a wave and only barely able to regain your footing before there’s another, and another, and another, rhythmic and relentless and entirely without respite. Beck chuckles, breathless, the sound low and mocking and warm against the shell of your ear, laughing at you, at the state of you, presumably, and it just drives that tide even higher, until you can’t keep your head above water even in the spaces between the waves.

You should have expected this, you think, with whatever part of your brain that’s still even capable of it— just like any other time you’d ever tried to get the better of him. He always pays you back tenfold.

It could be forever or it could be ten seconds before his own breathing starts to catch and turn ragged, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway, each of his thrusts making something bloom hot and bright across the backs of your eyelids, closed as they are– actual physical evidence of your brain short-circuiting, of everything falling apart; your thoughts, your sense of time, your tenuous, tattered hold on fucking reality. He moves both hands to your waist to pull you back against him, pace growing rougher, more erratic, and without his fingers in your mouth to mute the sound you have to bury your face in the crook of your arm to stifle it as best you can, fingers twitching uselessly, catching in the grids of the shelf and curling there even though it makes the tendons burn, holding tight like you’re trying to anchor yourself to it, to something , anything at all—

“God, fuck, yes,” Beck groans into the crook of your neck, one arm wrapped all the way around your waist and holding you there, flush against him, finishing so fucking deep inside that you think you can feel it in every inch of you, the steady, slowing pulse of his cock, the warmth of it, his trembling, indistinguishable from your own.

It takes a while for everything to settle, after that; for his breathing to steady and for your body to stop shaking and your brain to return to some approximation of functioning . You notice the details in pieces; the crisscrossed marks on your palms and forearms, bitten into the skin there from the latticed grid of the shelf, the ache in the muscles and tendons in your thighs and your calves , the feeling more pleasant than painful.

Eventually, Beck pulls out and his weight shifts away and a shiver runs right through you at the immediate chill of the air in the space he had occupied, the absence of that warmth; you try to straighten up, to stand, but make the fundamental mistake of letting go of the shelf before thinking to check if your numb, trembling legs can even support your weight–

The warmth is back, and you don’t fall. “Careful, honey,” he says, mocking, mouth pressed against your hair, steadying you in his arms; you don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s grinning wide again.

“You be careful, asshole, you’re gonna stain my sweater,” you reply, unthinking, only fuzzily aware of how it’s slid back down from where it was rucked up around your waist and the solid pressure of his dick against the small of your back, still mostly hard.

He huffs out a laugh.

“Oh, right , of course, my mistake. I’ll be sure to just let you fall next time,” he replies, languid and amused and still a little breathless— and something inside of you trembles, somehow, even fucked-out and shivery and already sated as you are, going a little more lightheaded just at the thought.

Next time.

You don’t even bother to argue or to even act affronted at the presumption, the ability to even shape the words, much less deliver them convincingly, beyond anything you’re capable of right then.

His grip tightens around you for a split second before he lets go, and you’re sure that, like everything, Beck must have noticed that, too.

#quentin beck x reader #ties that bind tag #mysterio x reader #jake gyllenhaal x reader #not actually i have a deep aversion to rpf but i want Attention and apparently ppl tag actors now

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stuffymcstuffsworld · 9 months

Text

My love is feral

Truly, you never meant to be so... animalistic, but that bitch had it coming messing with the children of babyls like they were just toys! Really, you showed restraint by waiting until now to dig your "fangs" into them. In fact, you were perfectly content with letting the other teachers deal with the garbage up until it escaped Robin-sans range.

There was no way you were letting the rat roam free off school grounds. Nobody messes with your kids. Luckily, they were already injured, so catching up was easy. The tackle was a surprise even for you, but instinct had kicked in at that point.

There was a tussle as you both grappled for dominance, but you weren't above getting your hands dirty, not when it came to something like this. Barbaric as it may have looked to your colleagues, you grabbed a nearby rock and had smashed it into your opponents skull.

In their dazed confusion, you swiftly took over and pinned them to the ground, knowing that if you hesitated, you would have been injured or died due to demonic strength. Sinking your teeth into the exposed flesh of their neck, you bit down, locking your jaw over the jugular.

You could feel the blood slowly oozing out as they tried to push and pull you off of them. You growled and angled your head to get a deeper bite in. And digging your nails or "claws" into their biceps. No way were you gonna let go. You tasted the metallic liquid on the tip of your tongue. Oddly, it felt satisfying knowing that you a human could injure a demon if necessary.

You felt more than saw Balam-Sans vines wrap around the both of you. But it wasn't until you were certain that they wouldn't escape that you released your jaw. Slowly looking up at the other teachers that were staring at you in shock. You blushed in embarrassment and slowly raised your hands up in sign of surrender.

Robin-San started to sing your praises about how fast you moved while Kalego-San scolded your reckless behavior. Balam-San picked you up and was trying to see if you were wounded. When Dali-San asked you why you would act on your own, you gave him an icy glare. "They messed with my kids. Nobody messes with my kids."

It wasn't a secret that at this point, almost every student in babyls saw you as some kind of guardian. Both the younger and the older students. It is just a more intimate and familiar way rather than an educator. They adored you, and you loved each and every one of those crazy brats.

Your love wasn't normal. When you loved something, you gave everything. You protected it fiercely. "I love each of those kids.... and my love is feral." You had said it so casually. It was as if you were talking about the weather or stating that you wanted honey in your tea.

You could feel the others eyeing you as if seeing you for the first time. "Just because I never had a reason to show my strength doesn't mean my strength doesn't exist. I will show these children how to be strong in the real way." Difiance shown in your eyes as you gazed down at your trembling victim. Deciding to up your performance, you locked your bloodstained lips. The sticky liquid had started to dry along your chin.

You smiled at them your best horror movie smile that would possibly win awards for the scariest face from the look of fear you were receiving. Yes, that would be a message. The child of Sullivan was a bloodthirsty psycho when it came to defending babyls. Fake it till you make it when walking amongst demons.

#mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #iruma suzuki #kalego sensei #naberius kalego #balam shichirou #reader #babyls

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mikhailwrites · 6 months

Text

The sharp edges of your heart / Ghost x Soap

Kinktober #24 (#31) - Free Day ( Knifeplay)

Then, the touch is gone; only the coldness remains. Hundredfold, as the knife makes its comeback, the edge of it pressing against Soap’s throat. The man cups Johnny through his trousers, humming in approval as he realises Johnny is half-hard already. Soap gasps but dares not move—the combination of fear and arousal clashes within him, clouding his judgement.

Last entry in the Kinktober challenge. I kinda burned out last week but wanted to do one last prompt.

Soap tugs at the restraints again. They rattle but don’t budge. He’s standing barefoot on a cold floor, arms tied over his head, feeling completely exposed because, well, he is. The black bag over his head doesn’t help, either.

The sound of footsteps makes him still. Soap tries to calm his breathing, to remember his training, but it’s hard.

“Well, well, look at you,” someone says in a deep, rich voice.

Soap stays silent. Not so much still as he feels something brush his abdomen, right where his tee exposes a bit of skin. He flinches, and a low chuckle follows it. “I’d stay still if I were you.” The man says, and Soap listens, because that doesn’t sound like an empty warning. There’s something hard and cold pressed to his stomach—about six inches in length, slightly curved at the end. It’s a combat knife.

Soap’s pulse picks up, and he feels his hackles rise. “You know,” the voice is back, very close to Soap’s ears, “it’s not a matter of if, rather than when you’ll talk.”

Johnny stays silent. If he talked, he would give them clues about the state of his mind. Could give them leverage to start really working on him. Silence is the safest option when dealing with a professional.

“Alright, sweet thing, suit yourself,” Soap startles when somebody grabs a hem of his tee. There’s a ripping sound, and the fabric on him slackens as it’s cut up. “I want you to know, I’m gonna save that pretty face for last…,” he feels the tip of the knife graze along his left collarbone, gently dipping into the jugular notch before the blade catches the chain and he hears the segment slide, the sound of metal on metal, as his dogtags get inspected. “MacTavish. J, huh? What does it stand for?”

Soap closes his eyes as if it could hide him. As if he doesn’t have a bag over his head. He can only imagine how he looks, hanged by his hands, tattered t-shirt hanging on him, dogtags gleaming on his chest, the trail of dark hair trailing down his belly, under the waistline of his trousers. The guy interrogating him thinks he’s pretty; that could be useful. “Jonathan? Jay? Josh? You don’t look like either.”

“John,” Johnny says. Maybe he could try to get more personal.

There are hands on him now, large, and calloused. Feeling him up. He’s cold, and the hands on him are warm. Johnny leans into the touch slightly. “Greedy, aren’t we, Johnny?” he can almost taste the smirk in those words. Then, the touch is gone; only the coldness remains. Hundredfold, as the knife makes its comeback, the edge of it pressing against Soap’s throat. The man cups Johnny through his trousers, humming in approval as he realises Johnny is half-hard already. Soap gasps but dares not move—the combination of fear and arousal clashes within him, clouding his judgement.

The interrogator seems to pick up on it, giving his prick a few jerks. The knife presses ever so harder into his neck, causing Soap to utter a small sound of desperation. This whole thing is playing right into his most primal instincts, and despite the training and the experience, he’s giving in.

“Please,” the word slips from his mouth as if it didn’t even belong to him. At once, Johnny snaps back into attention.

The hand in his crotch stills and the knife is taken away. “You ready to talk, Johnny?”

“Fuck you!” Soap spits out. Ha wants to lash out but reins it in, since he has no idea where the knife is at.

The man laughs the insult off. “Real eloquent there, mate,” but then he sobers up, “but suit yourself.”

Johnny feels both hands on his waist, steadying him. That means the knife is nowhere near his body at the moment, so he starts to thrash around. His hands are going numb at this point, but he’s strong enough to pull himself up a bit and try to kick the interrogator.

Unfortunately, he cannot see, and the other man has every advantage over him. Grabbing Johnny’s belt and tugging it with enough strength to throw Johnny off-balance. “Feisty, I like it,” the man throws in, and then Johnny feels something hot and wet on his navel. Is the bastard licking him?! He does, just as he starts undoing Soap’s belt. Soon enough, Johnny feels his trousers, unbuttoned and unzipped, slide down his thighs, unable to stop it.

The knife is back, the tip brushing the soft skin of his inner thigh, trailing up, right along the hem of his briefs. The flat side of the blade presses against his cock, hard and straining, leaking in the tight confines of Soap’s underwear. Johnny moans, arching ever so slightly. It’s madness, but it’s the sweetest kind of madness imaginable. The thrill of it, like setting up a charge and holding the detonator. Only this time, someone else is holding it, and that’s oh so much better.

The knife moves but never leaves. He feels the tip sliding under the hem of the briefs on his right leg. The sharp edge is pointing up as it bites into the fabric, effortlessly tearing it. The sound only riles him up more, but he mustn’t move if he doesn’t want to become much more intimate with the knife.

The briefs fall off him a few seconds later. His prick is free, standing proudly. “Ready to talk yet, Sergeant? Or do you want to wait until I fuck you with the knife to your throat?”

The sound Soap makes at that is a cross between a surprised yelp and a needy moan. “Guess I have my answer then,” the man chuckles. There are steps, the unmistakable sound of the belt clasp being undone, and the zipper is next. Then he squeezes Johnny’s arse, parting the cheeks. Soap feels his breath pick up in anticipation. There’s something about being helpless and completely exposed that just gets to him.

He sucks in a breath as he feels cold lube being poured onto the crack; it contrasts starkly with the warm finger that circles his hole. Soap jerks a little bit, unsure if he wants to arch away or into the touch and the cold. He doesn’t have a choice, of course, bound and suspended as he is. The only thing he achieves is forcing the finger deeper into himself. The first impulse is to clench. The pain is mild and fleeting. Then he relaxes.

Soon enough, one finger is not enough, and Soap is eagerly fucking himself even on two, mewling and pleading for more. Despite the room being rather cold, he feels as if his body is on fire. And most importantly, he needs to do something about it.

A strangled “yes,” escapes him as the fingers are replaced by a blunt cock head. The man angles himself just right before holding Soap’s hips and pulling him close, sliding smoothly into him with one fluid, well-measured motion until he’s bottoming out, their bodies flushed. Johnny sighs as if he’s the happiest man alive, bound and filled.

“Tell me, Johnny,” the man whispers into his ear, his breath hot and wet, even through the bag. Johnny cannot find it in himself to keep up the resistance. He’s feeling way too good, and, more importantly, he needs the man to fucking move already!

“I love you, Simon,” he says, letting his head fall back to rest on Simon’s shoulder. Just like this, he let go of his secret.

“That’s a good boy,” Simon praises him as he yanks the bag off his head. Johnny blinks a few times, but the light in the room is kept low on purpose. He gasps as Simon withdraws, only to snap his hips back with force. He holds Johnny around the waist with one hand while the other sneaks up around his chest, pressing the knife to his throat again as he keeps nailing him with short, hard thrusts. Johnny keens, blissful and completely at Simon’s mercy. The hard edge of the knife, the hot skin pressed to him, the knowledge that he had no choice but to take it. It’s too much to bear.

Johnny feels as if his breath got punched out of him just as he cries out, coming undone and untouched. Simon grunts into his ear, a rough and quiet “fuck yes, Johnny!” as he keeps going faster, harder. His grip on Johnny’s hip is bruising, but the one on the knife stays precisely controlled. Johnny feels Simon shudder as he thrusts once, twice, and then buries himself as deep as he can as he comes, moaning, pressing his forehead against Johnny’s temple as he fills him.

Johnny sighs weekly, slowly coming down from the post-orgasmic high. His arms hurt like hell, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not with the way Simon still holds him close. Not with the knife still pressed to his throat. He’s more than content. He’s happy.

Because as real as this all felt, he always knew he was safe. The edge of the knife at his throat is the dull one; the hands touching him might feel rough but would never hurt him. The voice close to his ear sounds cruel, but the man it belongs to is one of the most caring people Johnny knows. The man torturing him is Simon. His husband. And this whole scenario has been thoroughly negotiated and agreed upon.

#call of duty #ghost mw2 #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #soap mw2 #soapghost #ghoap #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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shibaraki · 2 years

Text

tags: GN reader, established relationship, spoilers for chapter 282, prosthetic limb, PTSD symptoms (flashbacks; mildly graphic description of injury and canon self amputation), hurt/comfort

wc: 1k

“Let me help with something”.

Shouta subtly leans into the doorframe as to relieve his right side of the weight and hopes you don’t take notice, instinctively cautious. You’re still wearing your pajamas, sleeves pushed up to wrinkle around your elbows as you prepare breakfast, knife in one hand and tomato in the other.

You’re drawn to his voice mid cut, knife hitting the cutting board as you glance over to him. Your expression pinches in concern. “Good morning love,” you speak with a gentle yet scolding intonation to your words, “where are your crutches?”

He shifts back a little more onto the right as if to visually reassure you, and is internally thankful that no discomfort follows the sudden movement this time. In the wait for his new permanent leg Shouta’s residual limb was fitted for a temporary prosthetic and it’s been somewhat awkward getting used to putting it on by himself — but he thinks he might’ve finally gotten the hang of it.

You make an aborted motion towards him as he starts to walk over, lingering anxiously with hands held out just in case he falls. He can’t resent you for caring, for not wanting to see him hurt again. Aligned with the phantom sensation it feels almost as if the lower half of his leg is entirely asleep, with none of the uncomfortable static. But it’s stable; he doesn’t feel as if his knee is going to give, or that his ankle is going to collapse.

“See?” he murmurs once close enough, supported against the kitchen surface as he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your parted lips, “I’m fine. It’s getting easier”.

You chase his mouth as he moves back to kiss him again, the heels of your palms cradling his cheeks as you keep your fruit-soiled fingers held away from his face. “Of course it is,” you huff fondly, “my incredible husband. Are you ever gonna let yourself rest?”

He smiles, straining at the seams. Your question, though spoken with affectionate mirth, stirs up feelings of guilt resting in the sediment of his chest. This year had been unlike any other, especially in terms of his own injuries, and you hadn’t been sleeping well because of it. Still, he can’t apologise, because he isn’t sorry. And you don’t want him to be either.

“Will you keep asking questions you already know the answer to?” he counters, encircling your wrists so he can bow forward, breathing as he tucks his face to your jugular and nuzzles. After days of being in the hospital his scruff has grown back in, scratching the soft skin of your throat.

“Stop distracting me. I’m trying to make your breakfast,” you complain with no real malice behind it, “you need to eat before your medication, Shouta”.

“Then let me help,” he repeats. You relent to his request without much of a fight, already aware of how difficult it’s been for him to just sit around and wait. Shouta enjoyed relaxing, sure, but only when it came after something actionable; teaching a class, carrying out patrol, or even four hours of paperwork — not nothing.

“I guess you can take over the tomato station then,” you indicate towards the knife and chopping board, two more left to slice, “but that’s all! I’m doing the rest, got it?”

He hums roughly in agreement. This would have to do. The knife’s handle is smooth against his palm as he grasps it in one hand, the other steadying the first tomato atop the chopping board. It glints under the dull ceiling lights, and a pebble settles in his stomach as he begins.

Inhale. He pushes his weight forward and the skin dimples slightly, resisting the knife's edge that has blunted with time until it cuts, and the fruit bursts open. Exhale. Dark red coats his hand and splatters across the wooden surface, a viscous mess of seeds and juice settling between old cracks. It smells like… smoke. He watches the tomato’s flesh ooze between his fingers, eyes burning with the reflexive urge to blink.

“Shouta?”

His leg throbs, the knife carved through it. There is… Blood is pooling beneath him, saturating his clothes, or so it might be. It’s hidden by the black fabric, sodden where it sticks to his skin. Somewhere there’s the reverberated boom of a quirk induced explosion and wind from impact, the helplessness in his students voice, the panicked anger. A solid silhouette is rushing him, pale hand caging his face. Shigaraki. He’s here, in your shared apartment. He’s here—

“Shouta!”

He’s brought to the surface as the knife clatters against the countertop, slipping helplessly from his grip. Your arm is tight around his waist, a hand pressed right where his heart sits. He sucks in a startled breath and holds it, trembling in place as you call for him.

“Come back to me, baby. I need you to blink for me,” your voice is thick with emotion, pleas cloying in your throat. He can hear that you’re crying: “I promise we’re safe, Shouta. You have to blink, please”.

He does once, so quick that you can barely tell, just enough to moisten his eyes. Your praises are muffled and disjointed beneath the intrusive drum of his pulse, but soothing all the same. You’d always quietened his thoughts, always known the right thing to say, always been a proverbial lifeboat. He wanted to soak in your patient love as if it were a hot bath, one he never had to get out of, one that would never get cold. It’s safe, warm. He’s here, not there. Not anymore.

He blinks again, for just a few seconds longer, and he breathes again. “That’s it. No need to strain yourself my love. We’re home,” you give a wet exhale as you lean against his shoulder, “you’re home”.

He rests his cheek atop the crown of your head and the two of you remain embraced in silence, his residual limb beginning to ache, a radiating pain behind his right eye socket. “All my years as a Pro and I’m reduced to this because of a tomato,” he mutters tiredly.

He feels it when you tilt up to look at him, and so he looks down at you, foreheads meeting as you reach to cradle his jaw. The pad of your thumb traces across the scar curved along his cheekbone and his eyes fall closed.

“Next time I’ll put you in charge of the rice”.

#bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader

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animetrashlord-007 · 8 days

Text

Warnings // yandere, strangulation, Stockholm Syndrome

His fingers dig into your jugular. The more pressure he applies, the closer you teeter toward the long sleep. Speckles of light filter through the darkness encroaching your vision. His eyes, narrowed and cruel, linger long past the point of consciousness.

Spluttering awake, your throat grates like sandpaper when you call his name. The moon moved mere inches while you were out. It shows little interest in your affairs – it never does. No one does. From a young age you learned a hard truth: in death we all walk alone. One can just hope they’re of no burden when their time comes to a violent end.

Once more you call his name and wait.

Akaza never strays too far, not when he has a point to prove. Not mere weeks ago you would’ve considered your punishment not only complete but also much too severe. Funny how things change. Funny how love can open your eyes, how it can liberate you.

Catching the flicker of a shadow you twist, kicking up dust in the process. Always so proud, his every step exudes strength. At least his anger abated. Your hand instinctively raises to your throat. It hurts to touch. For the briefest moment as you pull away, your fingers stick to the tender flesh.

“You were right,” you say, voice strained.

He stands before you in all his glory and you once again find yourself wondering when your fear transitioned to adoration. When, when, when did your heart switch teams? When did it choose to race for him rather than from him? You’re filled with thoughts of him. It doesn’t change anything, doesn’t make him yours, but you’re a broken record with a one track mind. ‘Tell me, my love, tell me you love me.’

“Have I ever been wrong?” he snaps.

There’s an edge to his tone but no real bite. Call it delusion, he’s much too sweet when it comes to you. Such a monstrous beast can only be tamed with kindness and you’ve given him every last beat of your tattered heart. That’s why he takes the time to correct you, to guide you with a firm hand. It’s too much – it’s too much! Too much for the you who deserves nothing, who should’ve died alone that day. Not worthy, yet chosen. Chosen. He chose you!

Gratitude pours from your broken lips until all you taste is blood.

#midnight delights #akaza #kny akaza #yandere #yandere akaza #yandere anime #yandere x reader #akaza x reader #yandere kny #kny x reader #anime x reader #yandere demon slayer #kny x you #yandere male #animetrashlord 007

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tgrailwar-zero · 4 months

Note

(Oh I just realized. We're distant, but we're still connected to our Servants. Theoretically, our voices should reach them even from an extreme distance.)

[Message to Kukulkan, I would like Setanta to hear us, but I don't mind either way.] Hey, Invader? How's the dance floor? Sorry for the interruption, we're on the roof and a Lair Servant's attacking the body Sigurd made for us. Shouldn't be too much of an issue, but d'ya mind letting Lord Sigurd know that the Servant Setanta is breaking Sacred Hospitality? Thanks.

Your mind slowed- expanding seconds into what felt like minutes into what felt like days. The young warrior was already headed towards you, blade ready. There wasn't time to talk, to sit back and chatter. Any breath would be wasted.

And as you realized that, as this rush of words spilled out like a deluge of confusion, he was already several steps closer- and his blade was in an upswing, going right for the jugular.

Your first two encounters with Lair Servants had been relatively nice. QUETZALCOATL had essentially gave her key away, and ASCLEPIUS had been in such a confused and frenzied state that he had left himself open. Even encountering MUSASHI, she had the courtesy to hesitate.

Looking at the expression in SETANTA's face, this was the look of someone who had wasted time talking before and had paid the price for it. This wasn't just a Lair Servant, this was a Servant that had ravaged the Solar Cell alongside you, before actively spilling your own blood in retaliation.

In this moment, SETANTA's expression held no hatred, no malice, just the cold determination of someone who wasn't planning on failing twice. If you wanted to stretch the definition, he had given you mercy by speaking to you before attacking- letting you react, and at least gain a vague grasp on the situation.

Based on that brief memory, he had almost killed you- and you had almost killed him. And a quick comparison now, even with him being 'younger', you had lost more than he did in terms of ability. That painted a promising picture of what you may be able to do in the future, sure, but you'd need to actually live long enough to see it to make any real use of it.

As per your first realization, if he had been in a Spirit Origin that was just slightly stronger and slightly faster, you would have died.

He was going to kill you.

So, for the sake of a survival instinct, another realization manifested itself. Practically scrambled to the forefront of your collective minds.

Any time you could spend talking to a wild hound would be better spent fighting back or getting away.

This was time for you to spend this precious few seconds to take stock of your situation, have whatever internal discussion and decision making you needed, remember what you could, and survive.

#thgw story #thgw: chapter 4 #main post #endless whispers

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voiceoffenrisulfr · 5 months

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Hail Hydra - Chapter Five

The torture turns violent, and Bucky struggles to cope. CW: Stab wound, shock collar, humiliation, forced nudity. Prompts filled: ‘Jugular, December 5th prompt, Dead Dove December ‘Dead’, December 5th Prompt, Hurtcember 2023 ‘Impaled’, December 5th prompt, Whumpcember ‘Got to Do What You Got to Do to Survive’, Winter Wonderland Bingo (2) ‘Humiliation’, Fandom-Free Bingo (Frosty Edition)

Check it out on AO3 here, or below the KR with the boards!

The heat sapped my strength and resistance far quicker than the cold ever did. It took a matter of hours for the dizziness and dehydration to have me slumped over, sweat pouring from my body in rivulets. The sun hadn’t yet begun to rise before the darkness closed in, finally unable to fight the weight pulling down my muscles.

I’m getting real sick of waking up to that face. Hands slapped my cheeks firmly, and I groaned weakly, lids flickering open reluctantly to find sharp green eyes staring at me through thick spectacles. “Ah – he wakes! Not dead yet, I see.” “Not yet,” I rasped, averting my gaze. “Despite your trying.” He smirked, tutting under his breath. “I suppose I will just have to keep trying, hm?” A needle sunk into my jugular, and I hissed through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to spit fury at him, his warnings from the morning still ringing loud in my ears. “What do you want from me?” I asked quietly, grimacing at the syringe of fluid being pushed into my neck. “I don’t know what the Germans did to me. I can’t tell you anything. Why not just let me go?” He tutted again – a patronising sound that set my teeth on edge, and I winced automatically. “We do not need your words, Американский. We need your body’s secrets.” With a sigh, he ran a fingertip over my sweat-sticky forehead, and I couldn’t help but sigh, his touch delightfully cool on my clammy skin. “But! First things are first. Do not let it be said we do not take care or you...” My restraints were removed, and I bolted upright, biting back a yowl as a sharp metal bar impaled my good shoulder at my haste. Another infuriating tut as the was buried in my flesh and muscle had me shaking fiercely with barely contained rage, but he only smiled sickeningly. “Will you never learn?” Bridling under his gaze, I snarled wordlessly, hand raising to wrap around the iron, intending to bury it between his eyes without hesitation- but my hand dropped in surprise as my body convulsed, torso dropping back to the table as spasms and writhes made my muscles contract, jaw clenched against my will. Each second felt like a lifetime as burning energy stirred my limbs without my consent, until I finally relaxed, shaking and panting. “... Shall we try this again, упрямый Американский? Sit.” I moved slowly, hesitantly upright, wincing at the pain in my shoulder, fingers curling instinctively as I fought to remove the rod submerged beside my collarbone. He smirked, leaning closer to yank to metal from my body, but I swallowed my grunt of pain as three inches of steel were dragged from me. “Better...” His fingers curled around the device at my throat, eliciting a pained wince as he dragged me to my feet, the skin beneath still sensitive from the shocks. “Now... Strip.” “I-I... What?” He smirked, leaning forward, a small control in his hand. “Don’t make me ask again, упрямый Американский.” Swallowing dryly, my fingers shook despite myself as I stood a little taller, meeting his eye, every bit as stubborn as he called me as I began to unbutton the heavy woollen jumpsuit still clinging to my body. I won’t let them humiliate me. I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do to survive. It’s better than dying. The wound in my shoulder ached as I wriggled free of the heavy material, kicking off my boots to remove it entirely before straightening, back stiff, to glare at him. My skin crawled as his eyes ghosted over me, and he smiled once more. “Good. It seems you can obey, with the right motivation. Ivan, hose down this dog and put him back in his cell. We are done for today.”

As it turns out, ‘hose down’ was not a figure of speech. I was forced, naked and trembling, out into the snow covered yard, where dozens of Soviet soldiers paused to stare and smirk, the only sympathy found in a pair of pale eyes that met mine steadily rather than probing my flesh like all the others. The remote now rested in Ivan’s hand, so I made no effort to resist as he secured me to manacles attached to the wall, willing to be hosed if it meant avoiding another round of electrocution – my muscles were still clenching intermittently. The temperature was below freezing, and the frost beneath my bare toes made my feet ache, but it was a welcome relief after the intolerable heat – at least, until he turned the frigid, high-powered hose on me, eliciting a yelp audible over even the sounds of the populated yard and earning a few snickers for my pains. The cold seeped into my bones immediately, nausea wracking my body at the rapid change in temperature, but I simply closed my eyes until Ivan deemed his job complete and unchained me. I was tossed back into my cell with a threadbare blanket – cold once more, but only as it had been upon my arrival. Curling up in the corner, knees clutched to my chest in a desperate attempt to preserve my body heat while I dried off, I could only wait patiently for him to come again, wondering absently about the needle plunged into my neck.

I was still trembling lightly by the time he slipped into my prison, tray in hand. The water was gone first, swallowed desperately – despite the easing of my symptoms, I was still painfully dehydrated, lips cracked and sticking to my tongue. He pressed against me to keep me warm as I ate, murmuring apologies for his failure to intervene in the yard. But I understood. The penalty for going against your unit was not one he could afford to pay – and it would, in all likelihood, end with us both dead. With a soft sigh, I rested my head on his skinny shoulder, exhausted by several nights with little sleep and shitty rations. “...What did they inject me with?” I murmured, leaning heavily against him. His fingers probed my throat gently, and I winced at the feeling of him palpation a mass under my skin. “...To track you, I think. Or maybe... Neutralise you. If they cannot control you.” I flinched, my own hand raising to my neck, fingers brushing his as I found the small, hard lump before wrapping around the collar at my throat. “They seem to be controlling me pretty effectively…” He grimaced sympathetically, one hand smoothing my hair, my eyes closing despite myself. “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.” “Bucky, you-” “They’ve already left me for dead with sickness, frozen me, melted me, stabbed me, injected me, and tore my arm from my body. How much more until I can’t come back from it? Until it kills me?” I whispered, tears leaking out unconsciously, vulnerable in the darkness and his arms. “I won’t let that happen,” he vowed softly, squeezing me tighter. “You’ll be okay, Bucky. I promise.” @whumpcember @hurtcember @deaddovedec @fandom-free-bingo @seasonaldelightsbingo

#fandom: marvel #Character: James Buchannan 'Bucky' Barnes #Rating: E #Please heed CW #Winter Soldier origins #fanfiction #mine #writers on tumblr #writing bingo #tem speaks #cw: torture #CW: branding #December 5th #I know I'm behind #I got ill ;-;#CW: stab wound #CW: shock collar #cw: forced nudity

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tomtenadia · 2 years

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Thicker than blood - 1

Are you ready? After the prologue it’s time to get into the story and meet our Rowaelin.

CW: mostly blood for now and language

----

Aelin waited in the dark until her wishes came true. A feral grin spread on her face putting her elongated teeth on full display.

A man, a good looking one at that, separated from the group and she could smell the booze wafting off him. She hoped for some drugs too but for one night she could settle for a smaller kick.

With the darkness on her side Aelin followed him from a distance. Her heightened vision did allow her to keep track of the man even from afar. The man left the busy road and turned on a side street and crossed through a park. Bingo.

She picked up her pace and ended up ahead of him. Like the predator she was, Aelin waited until the man finally turned the corner then quickly grabbed him and dragged into the darkness.

Hellas, he smelled delicious. Inebriated the way she liked them. The man trashed in her arms but could not compete with vampire strength. Fight or flight instincts kicked in and she licked her lips. Fear made the blood even juicer. She pushed him against the trunk and licked his neck, stopping to kiss his jugular now pulsating under her lips. Another sniff as his blood turned sweeter and then her fangs pierced his skin.

Agent Whitethorn hated the clubs district run. He believed in the idea of protecting humans and all, but why did he have to look after idiots who got wasted and high as kites and put themselves in danger? Yes, they could not stop the humans to have fun but he just wished they paid a bit more attention and made his life easier.

Vampires loved inebriated humans and he was not a saint. When he was younger, that had been a guilty pleasure of his before he got snatched up by the paranormal police and offered a deal. Get clean. Work with them. After three months in a rehab facility he had taken the offer and converted to synthetic blood. It was not as tasty but it was better than an existence in a government controlled facility created to hold deviated vampires. For the ones beyond hope of being reintroduced into society. He hated those facilities, but he had lived through the great fire of Orynth and had no intention of seeing the humans that pissed again. So he followed his boss’ orders and kept an eye on the warmbloods.

He strolled leisurely around the streets, trying to block out the jarring sound of drunk humans on the streets. It was deep winter in Orynth and he could not believe how certain females walked around with such scant clothing. How could such a fragile body cope with the harsh winters with that minimal cover? And far too much skin exposed. That was a clear invitation for any predator lurking about.

He sighed and shrugged in his dark coat. It was just for pretence since he could not feel the cold.

A few females noticed him and waved at him and cheered. He ignored them. After Lyria he promised himself no more. She had been a human and he had fallen hard for her. He never told her the truth abut his real identity and created a parallel life with her and an explanation for many of the things he did. It had been a hard six months based on lies. Until she was killed. Her body found discarded in an alley and drained of all blood.

He never managed to catch the killer. He had no clue or anything that would help him solve the case. Regular police had just labelled it as a rogue vampire attack and filed it away in a cabinet. He had not stopped working on it though. He had chased trails and clues to the point of madness. Ignored all of his other cases and just concentrated on that one. For a brief spell he thought he had finally found a lead, but when it turned out to be a massive blunder his boss had reassigned all of his cases and sent him to the patrols unit as a punishment for disobeying his orders and keep working on a case that was already close.

The agent stopped dead when he caught whiff of an immortal and a scent of lemon and verbena mixed with alcohol. The vampire was nearby so he sped up the pace. He reached a park and saw a human sitting in a daze on a bench. Vampire fangs contained a toxin that was released with the bite to subdue mortals. It would fade after an hour and the human would be left with no marks or recollection of what happened.

Rowan ran to the human “are you okay?”

“I think I am lost.”

He smelled the alcohol mixed with lemon and verbena and knew that a vampire had fed on him. Not enough to kill but just enough to make that immortal a possible danger.

The agent extracted his badge “I am with the police, I will take you home.”

The man nodded silently and eventually Whitethorn managed to pry out of him an address and luckily for him it was not very far.

Human dropped off, he went back to the park and examined the area. The club district was at least two blocks away. He followed the scent and knew that the human had been followed. A prey for a very dangerous predator.

He reached the district and the trail led to the rooftop of a club. That’s where it stopped but also where it was at his strongest. Female. The vampire was definitely a female.

After drinking, Aelin felt good. Her mood had improved already, but she was not satisfied. The human was the drunkest of the group but not enough. She needed a target that was high as a kite. She needed that. So slowly Aelin traced her steps back to her original perch but when she arrived she spotted a man in the distance. A vampire who smelled of pine and snow and the hair so silver it almost reflected the moonlight. His smell was intoxicating, screaming with a calling far more powerful than any drugged human. Rutting hell, she would drink him on the spot if it wasn’t that it was illegal. The only exception was when two vampires were mates and legally married.

She knew he had sensed her when he turned and his pine green eyes landed on her. The man was stunning, a good 1.90m from her point of view. Muscular and oh so perfect.

He took a step closer but Aelin backed away. She hid better in the shadows and in her cloak. No one could recognise her. She knew she reeked of alcohol and if anyone knew the Galathynius’ heir was a junkie, it would put her in a sea of troubles.

“Do not come close.”

“You know it’s bad to drink from humans,” his deep voice, had a lilt from Wendlyn.

“What are you? A cop?”

The man smirked and gods, Aelin almost combusted on the spot.

“Paranormal unit, agent Whitethorn,” he extracted his badge and showed it to her.

Damn. He really was a cop. A frigging cop from the paranormal unit. Her day just got worse. He moved closer once more and when Aelin looked behind she realised her back was against the wall. He had her cornered. With her eyes she scanned the roof for an exit but he noticed her wandering gaze

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

With a growl Aelin bared her fangs and the man laughed and was now just a meter away.

She looked up at him in his pine green eyes and for a split second she felt like a human who was being fed upon. In a daze. But as soon as he moved closer she reacted and attacked him. He was quick at blocking her attacks and pushed her against the wall once more.

From her thigh belt she extracted a knife and flicked it in her hand. Aedion kept telling her that knives were not for women but Aelin had been training in secret for a century. She loved knives.

“Come on youngling, show me what you have got.”

Aelin raged inside. She was 250 years old.

“I am not young.”

The man in front of her scoffed “you are what, barely a hundred?”

“I am 250, you bastard.”

He laughed. A harsh laugh that echoed in the night “Live a few more centuries then we can talk.”

Aelin ran at him with her knife ready for attack. Damn he was fast. Faster than any vampire she had ever faced. He blocked every single one of her attacks as if he was fighting a weak human.

Until out of probably pure luck she got a hit, but then he grabbed her and together they rolled on the ground and she ended up on him. His cheek bleeding gently. His scent became stronger all of a sudden and as of instinct she licked the wound and was not ready for the barrage of emotions that hit her.

Aelin stood quickly and started to ran and did not realise that he had grabbed her cloak.

The last thing that agent Whitethorn saw were blue eyes with rings of gold and the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen in his long immortal life. What he did not foresee was that those eyes would haunt his dreams very soon.

Aelin did not stop for anything. She just ran and did not stop until she reached her flat in one of the nicest parts of central Orynth. Being the heiress of one of the ancient families had its perks, but Aelin also worked as ME at the local morgue. No one knew her true identity. They knew she was a vampire but she would wear contact lenses and use the name of Celaena Sardothien.

She loved the job. In her life she had acquired a few medical degrees but at the end, pathology became her calling. She was fascinated by the human body and loved investigating the causes of death. The bonus was that human blood stopped being appealing as soon as the heart stopped, so at least that was a branch of medicine she could practice safely. She did not believe in the pills Aedion had invented for those vampires wanting to stay around human and also work in an hospital. It was her nature, she was not repressing it.

Aelin burst into her flat and ran into her bedroom and only then she realised her cloak was gone. Damn. She had no contacts either. If anyone spotted her… did the cop had a look at her?

The cop… his blood.

She paced furiously the room trying to remove from her mind what she had felt. It was impossible. One gigantic cosmic joke at her expenses.

Was that karma punishing her for taking advantage of humans? Because it could not be possible. Not that man. Not a vampire who would easily lock her up in a government facility and let her rot there.

She knew it happened. It had been the case of her parents. But their parents loved each other.

She shook her head. No. That man was not her mate. It was a mistake and fate had a sick sense of humour.

Mate.

She ran to the fridge and took a bag of fresh blood and poured it in a glass. Working at the hospital had it perks. She drank the blood in one go and then walked to the shower, eager to remove the scent of that night from her body.

Mate.

Fuck.

Agent Whitethorn remained seated on the roof. It offered a good vantage point on the area. In his hands the cloak he snatched from the mystery woman. Her scent still strong around him. She caught his attention in more than one way. But although she was the most beautiful woman he had seen she remained a problem. An intoxicated vampire was a danger and the more it drank the more the control on their selves slipped. He remembered the hunger. His body screaming for more blood to the point of madness. He never killed but the list of the people he drank from was endless. That was not a part of his life he was proud of. The paranormal unit had given his a chance at redemption. He wasn’t sure he deserved it but took it anyway. Three months in a cell screaming in pain while he was weaned off the drugs and alcohol and his body adjusted to the synthetic blood was a fate he did not wish on anyone.

He sighed and then pillowed the cloak and lay down on the roof and placed under his head.

Whitethorn closed his eyes and a pair of blue eyes with ring of gold stared at him in the darkness.

TAGS:

@rowaelinismyotp @swankii-art-teacher @courtofjurdan @whimsicallyreading @themoonthestarsthesuriel @aelin-bitch-queen @bruiseonthefaceofhumanity @acreativelydifferentlove @mis-lil-red @thegreyj @sailorsassley @leiawritesstories @clairec79 @morganofthewildfire @sv0430 @heartless--aromantic @autumnbabylon @rowanaelinn @backtobl4ck @susumaus98 @gracie-rosee @mybloodrunsblue @tanvee1231 @avenrebekah @whoever-you-choose-to-love @theywillnotsingforme @universallytreepost @black-daisy-water @goddess-aelin

#rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #rowan x aelin #aelin x rowan #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #aelin galathynius #vampires au #throne of glass fic #throne of glass fanfiction #enemies to lovers

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