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sleepymarimo · 10 months ago

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toji x fem!reader // sfw! a little meet cute moment with some sprinkles of sadness synopsis: reader cleans and maintains abandoned graves, including that of toji's late wife.

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 doesn’t visit his late wife’s grave often, if ever.

it’s easy to say that it’s because he doesn’t care, that he’s lost all respect for the world and those on, or buried beneath it. yet, the reality is that he’s ashamed, a bit of a coward. how could he face her again? how could he read the letters of her name knowing he’d been unable to grant the one request she’d given him? take care of megumi.

he doesn’t know why he’s walking in the direction of the cemetery, an old, surely run down patch of land that’s now nestled between some homes just outside of shinjuku.

maybe the weight of his most recent job gets to him. maybe it’s nearing what would’ve been their anniversary. maybe the weather reminds him of her funeral, in which him and baby megumi were the only attendees.

a rock gets kicked a good few meters away as he remembers that day. her family had cut her off after she’d married him, seeing nothing good coming out of their future, feeling disdain at the mention of their daughter marrying man with not a thing to his name. toji scoffs. perhaps they were right.

the overcast sky does nothing for the scenery ahead, which consists of old, rusted cemetery gates and a wall made of dull, greyed stones.

however, a splash of color stands out against the monochrome background. it’s all instinct, the way his senses hone in, but it’s not because you’re the only other person in the cemetery, not because your colored scarf makes you particularly identifiable.

no, it’s because you, a stranger, are standing in front of his wife’s grave.

despite the numerous leaves on the ground, the rather quiet environment, you don’t hear him approach.

you’re focused on your task, your brows ever so slightly knitted, a bristly brush in your hand which you use to scrub away at any debris wedged between the letters of this grave. dust, mud, leaf litter… it gets removed with each gentle movement.

a bottle of cleaner is in your other hand, spraying the stone every now and then when it gets too dry or when a particularly stubborn piece of debris refuses to be erased from existence.

one little stain catches your attention, so much so that you ignore how the autumn wind nips at your cheeks. it’s just about removed. a little more, a little more…

“what are y’doing?”

a small gasp leaves you, or maybe you choke on air, and your hands retract from the gravestone as if you’d been burned. you take a couple of steps back, a natural response, wanting to put some distance between you and whoever else has decided to join you in the cemetery.

the sudden move results in you kicking over your coffee cup, your mind a mess as you crouch down and keep it from spilling any further. you put your tools away, too, placing the brush and spray bottle into a tote containing a few other items.

toji doesn’t mean to intimidate or scare you.

it’s just… how he is. it’s in the energy he carries, how he presents himself to the world that’s done him more harm than good. he’s suspicious of you, reasonably so.

when you finally stand and look up at him, he can see the anticipation in your eyes. your hands fidget, unsure of whether to retreat into your pockets or rise in self defense.

“i’m so sorry,” are your immediate words, sincere. “i didn’t know she had visitors.”

she.

why are you talking about her like you were a part of her life? toji is sure he’s never met you before. he doesn’t remember his late wife saying a thing about weirdos who hang out in cemeteries, either.

those green eyes of his narrow, just a bit. he doesn’t have to say anything more, his stance is enough. you haven’t answered his question and he isn’t going to ask again.

“i, um, clean graves,” you answer after a few heartbeats, a little put off by his stare. “i’ve been coming by for the past year, clean up every month or two. i usually wait and make sure no one comes by. i thought it was abandoned, i’m so sorry.”

the situation isn’t entirely new to you. it’s not the first time you’d been ‘caught’, and the reactions you’ve gotten have ranged from grateful to furious, but it’s jarring each time. how could it not be? you’re not a fool, you know these people meant something to someone, that they represent more than the headstones ever could.

your eyes remain on his, equal parts apologetic and bashful, clearly genuine.

toji’s posture relaxes, just a bit.

a part of that has to do with the smidge of guilt he feels. abandoned. he couldn’t be surprised. after all, he never visited, never paid for cleaning services.

perhaps a normal person would say thank you, but the words fizzle out on his tongue. he’s not one for such words, or at least that’s what he tells himself.

“it’s fine,” he ends up saying, curt, to the point, not giving away the extent of what he’s thinking or feeling.

even those two words have you feeling relieved, a long sigh leaving your lips. you can’t deny that you’re itching to leave, still a little unnerved. being alone with a strange man in a cemetery isn’t exactly on your bucket list, so you reluctantly reach down and grab your things.

your bag gets slung over your shoulder, but your coffee… well, you’re pretty much left with an empty cup now. the liquid had spilt all over the concrete floor when he’d spooked you earlier.

“i’ll leave her alone,” you promise him, truly not looking to cause any conflict. “sorry again…”

for a second, toji considers leaving it at that.

his eyes drift from you to your empty cup. he should feel bad, should be a decent person, but can’t find it in himself to reassure you.

he needs a nudge, and that nudge is given to him in the form of an acorn falling from the tree rooted over his wife’s grave.

the small object hits him right on the head, reprimanding him for his actions. toji grunts, his hand coming up to rub at the spot where the damn thing whacked him. he should’ve sensed it, should’ve been aware of its existence as soon as it snapped off the branch.

his eyes look up toward the sky, almost glaring, and for a second he can almost hear her voice, scolding him.

“don’t be mean, toji!”

with a click of his tongue, he looks back at you. you, who’d taken care of his wife in death as he’d cared for her in life.

inhaling, he decides to screw it all and take a step toward you. maybe being a decent human wouldn’t kill him. maybe.

“look, i didn’t mean to freak you out or make you spill your drink,” it’s the closest thing to an apology he’ll give, but it’s better than nothing.

he recognizes the logo on your cup, then nods his head toward the cemetery gates. “let me at least buy you a new one,” he offers, though by the sound of it, it’s quite clear he wants to do this for you. “what’s your name, anyway?”

you tell him, then he gives you his.

the sun starts to burn away at the clouds, warming the earth just as you’re about to leave the cemetery. things grow a little brighter, a whole shift in the atmosphere.

toji doesn’t comment on the gust of wind ushering you two out of the gates, the rustle of leaves which could pass as a hushed cheer. no, he won’t say anything, not even if the breeze on his back feels like the hands of his late wife, pushing him toward something new.

his eyes flicker down, watching you, noting the curve of your cheeks and the slope of your nose. he shakes his head, steels his heart, ignoring the small jump it does as you look back at him.

no, he won’t say anything, not at all.

#toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji fluff #toji x reader #i rlly like this one i cant lie #lowkey inspired by that one tik tok account of the person who goes around cleaning abandoned graves #yet again I must ask: do we see the vision

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ravcnism · 2 days ago

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WITHDRAWAL. — BOB REYNOLDS X Male!READER. (NSFW.) MDNI.

Summary: Bob had lived an entirely different life before the Sentry project, and this life was lived with you.

## TAGS: More Hurt than Comfort, (Rough) Make-up Sex, Bottom!Bob, Top!reader, AMAB reader, Oral (Reader receiving), P in A, Smut with Plot, Dark themes, Dacryphilia (seems to be a staple in Bob fics)

## WARNINGS: Mature language, mentions of Drug use, Relapse, Toxic Codependency, Mentions of domestic abuse (not between reader and Bob), Dubcon, Overstim

Note: I have no intention whatsoever of romanticising BPD. I just think that the life that Bob might have lived pre-Thunderbolts* is severely unexplored. This fic might have doubled as a character study of sorts. Also I had to rush the ending because it was just too long.. this is 6.3k words

There was an odd weight to your apartment door. A kind of resistance that felt as though it knew what was hiding behind it. Like it had soaked up every argument, every cold-shouldered silence, every cyclical apology—and had it hanging there, rusting its hinges. You had your forehead against the wood. You caught the scent of something sweet. Sharp. Something chemical; something that smelled like it was burned, or spilled, or everything at once. And though guilt churned through your stomach like acid, you wished the lights would stay off. Just long enough to pretend no one was home.

You twisted the knob and forced yourself inside. The apartment was still. Not the calming sort of still, but the kind that settled after a seismic shift. It was unnerving, and heavy with something secret. It was as though the room was trying too hard to look normal. The lightbulb above your head flickered. If it were due to the overdue electricity bill, or the fact that it hadn’t been changed in seven years, you had no idea. And you were too tired to discern which was which.

You removed your coat, dropped your keys in a bowl. They missed and landed on the floor with a sharp clatter. You didn’t move to pick them back up.

The kitchen light was on, flickering, too. That one might have been due to the bugs in the wiring. One of the chairs was pulled out just slightly from the table, crooked. There was a half-empty glass on the counter—still water, cloudy near the bottom. The smell of oranges was stronger here. Cleaning spray, maybe. Or that weird body wash Bob liked when he was spiraling—the kind that claimed it smelled like ‘citrus resolve.’

You didn’t call his name.

You’d learned not to, on nights like this.

Instead, you stepped deeper into the apartment. Past the fridge with the half-torn takeout menu taped to it. Past the jacket he always left on the back of the door. You paused at the hallway, head tilted, listening. There was music playing. Barely. Something tinny and far away. A speaker in the bathroom, probably. You couldn’t place the song, but it was too upbeat for this quiet.

The lights were on in the bedroom. Just a sliver beneath the door. You stood there, staring at the line of light like it was a fault line. Like stepping over it meant something would break.

You opened the door like it might bite, your hand white-knuckled against the knob.

Clothes were scattered across the bed, most of them clean. Some weren’t. A drawer hung open, one of his sketchbooks splayed face-down on the floor like it had fallen mid-thought. The TV was on mute, frozen on some cartoon that he had likely forgotten. And there was that goddamn smell. Not awful by any means, but sharp and familiar. That body spray he only used when he wanted to seem together. You remembered it from motel bathrooms, from nights spent pacing sidewalks outside emergency rooms. You didn't remember it fondly.

You stood by the doorway, your hand still clutching the knob as though it was tethering you to a different realm. Like letting go would thrust you into a reality you weren't ready for.

Bob was on the bed, his back against the wall, legs curled up beneath him like he’d tried to fold into something smaller. Something ignorable.

His eyes flicked up at you the second you stepped in. Wide, rimmed with red. Not crying. Just raw.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Too soft. “You’re home.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to ask what he’d taken. The glaze over his eyes, the slight tremor in his jaw—you’d seen it before. You’d lived it before.

Still, you found your voice. Low. Controlled. “What is it this time?”

He looked away, jaw clenching. Then shrugged. “Nothing heavy.”

You stepped inside, closed the door behind you with a quiet click.

“Bob.”

It was his turn not to answer, holding his knees closer to his chest. He pretended to take interest in the part of the room where the wallpaper peeled. He shook and fidgeted like a guilty dog.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your expression dazed, distant. Elsewhere. You sank into your flimsy mattress, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You said you were done.”

Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours. The tremor was worse now. Not in his hands, but in the way his breath hitched. Like he already knew this was coming. “I—I was.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He flinched. Real, visible.

His head dropped. Shoulders curling in like he could vanish into the wall. “I was trying,” he said, small. “I swear to god, I was. I just—today was bad, and I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you again. So I thought—just something to smooth it over. Just once. Just—just today.”

Your brows furrowed, jaw set tight. Your eyes were on the ground, staring blankly at the cracked floorboards. Your hands found each other, massaging your sore knuckles.

The silence stretched. Then kept stretching.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. You sat there, still, unreadable, unreachable. Bob could feel the air thickening like it had weight. Like it was pressing down on him one inch at a time. He called your name, soft and broken. It was a quiet plea, desperation in its smallest form. You ignored him.

The quiet was worse. The quiet gave him nothing to work with, nothing tangible to hold. It left his ears ringing and his stomach churning like he was waiting to be shot. You always knew what to say, even when you were upset. And he could always handle that; your bitter truths and your begging to be believed, to be listened to. Silence, in comparison, was cataclysmic. He couldn't allow it. He had to know every single thing that was happening in your brain, good or bad. He had to know, otherwise he had nothing. Otherwise, he couldn't fix it.

And though you had never once raised a hand at him, he realized that he would much prefer it over this.

His father had taught him that he could take a punch. That he could dress a wound and numb it down with ice. His mother taught him that people could die alive—and that type of dying was a quiet thing. No amount of bandages or ice packs could bring people back from that. He would not lose you the same way.

His breath came faster now, shallow and uneven. He didn’t realize he was rocking slightly until the motion pulled his focus inwards, like he was trying to cradle the version of himself that had hoped you’d still care. “Baby,” he tried again. “Babe, please. Look at me. It wasn't that bad. I'm fine, see?” He hardly realized the tears that were already streaming down his cheeks. “You can be mad,” his voice cracked. “You can yell, you can be angry, just talk to me, please?”

Nothing.

He bolted forward, stumbling to the floor. He fell to his knees to look up at you, placing himself on the space between your thighs. “Hey.” His hands were clamouring to hold yours. His trembling fingers held your palm against his cheek. You weren't looking at him, still. “Hey, look at me. Look. I'm sorry. Baby, I'm so sorry.” His face was flushed from his tears. “When I'm on it, I'm someone else, okay? I’m someone better. When I'm the right amount of high I turn into the guy you ran away with. The guy you were in love with. I just want to be that person for you. I just—I want to be someone else for you.” The words burst from his lips like water from a broken pipe.

Something heavy hung by your shoulders. Something thick and unspoken, like it was clogged in your veins and keeping your blood from flowing. Exhaustion? Fatigue? You couldn't really tell. Or maybe you could, but you didn't have the strength to name it. Your ears were ringing from his voice, from the words and explanations you had heard over and over again. Your hand was lifeless against his face. Then your eyes finally met his.

Bob’s breath hitched.

He looked up at you like you were God. Not a god, but God itself. Like you hung the moon, lit the sun, created the world as he knew it. “Please,” he begged, a broken man in prayer. “Please, please. I'll be good. I'll be different. You know I always try. But I can't do this without you.”

Your hand slipped from his grasp like water, your fingers falling from his cheek. There was no fight, no final word. Just a slow, deliberate pull—and then, absence. Then a lingering warmth where your palm had been, gradually turning into a sharp sting.

He wished you'd hit him.

He couldn't move. He watched as you stood, stiff from the weight of the day. You didn’t look at him again. Not even once. You turned in that steady, automatic way people do when they’ve stopped hoping a moment can be salvaged. Your footsteps were soft across the floor. Familiar. Each one landed in his chest like a heavy stone.

He had hoped for something. A word, a sigh, anything. But the silence was definitive. You didn’t speak. You didn't throw things. You didn't tremble with the anger that he had known so well. You only walked; past the chair where he used to sleep when he couldn’t calm down. Past the half-finished cup of coffee he’d made you that morning. Past the version of him still begging at your feet.

And then, the bedroom door clicked shut.

It wasn't hard, nor angry. But enough to say: No.

Bob felt everything come crashing down. Every bitter emotion, demanding to be felt, came clamouring for his attention like a thousand grimy hands.

It started small, a breath caught too deep in the chest. Then a second one. Then a sound. Not quite a sob, not quite a word. His hands curled into fists on the floor, palms burning from where they'd pressed against tile, and he folded forward like his body couldn’t hold the weight anymore.

The cry tore out of him without permission.

He tried to smother it into the floor. Tried to hide it, even though there was no one left to hide from. His forehead pressed to the cold ground, shoulders shaking, breath hitching in broken rhythms that didn’t match time anymore. He felt as though his skin would melt from his body, as if every nerve had been lit aflame and was burning through his bones.

And he laid there, on the ground, making a mess of your bedroom floor. He wailed as though a deep, ancient grief had made home of his heart. Like he had lost you to the sea, lost you to time. He kept crying until he couldn't breathe—until his head spun, and he had no tears left to shed. He knew nothing else to do but cry. And so he cried, and cried, until he felt like he had finally punished himself enough.

And you sat in the living room, staring at the dark, listening to it all.

The only light came from the streetlamp that bled a faint orange through the curtain slats. It painted everything in soft shadows.

He sobbed like he was wounded. Like they were pounding nails into his wrists. The sound of his cries crushed you, but you had nothing left to give him, no strength he could lean on. The only thing you could do was sit and wait. Like a butcher who had slit an animal's throat, you stared and waited for the blood to run out. That, you had the patience for.

He didn't want to hurt you. That was the worst part.

He was beautiful in the mornings, when he wasn’t drowning in that ocean of his. When he made your coffee and sat on the couch with one knee tucked under him, scribbling in a notebook he never let you read. When the sunlight would catch in his curls and bask him in a golden halo. When looking at him promised a life well lived. He smiled like it hurt to do anything else. He loved you and there was no denying it. That love was there, just as present and relentless as the dread. It was why you had followed him, why you threw everything away and ran.

Life was easier back then. Guised by the daze and ignorance of a teenager, but easier still. You were seventeen, brave, stupid, in love, and desperate to tear a boy away from a life that he didn't deserve. You’d thought love meant going with him wherever he went. Even if that meant peeling out of town in a rusted car with no brakes, no plan, just a pocketful of gas money and the warmth of his hand in yours.

He laughed like he meant it. Sang with the radio until he lost his voice. You'd drive across cities and he'd hold his hand out the window like the wind knew his name. You'd have sex in the back of your car, dance and drink in parking lots, taste the nicotine off his tongue on rooftops. He was a burning beacon of light. Even when he was reckless. Even when the moods came on too fast, when his joy tilted toward mania and his sadness felt like drowning—he shone. So bright you mistook it for safety; for home.

You thought you could hold him through the worst of it. You thought staying meant saving.

Perhaps that was where it all went wrong. That lone, lying promise. It had ruined you both.

Time passed in strange shapes. Not minutes. Not hours. Just long, drawn-out stretches of silence that folded into one another until you could no longer tell how long you’d been sitting there. Bob’s cries quieted. Not all at once, like threads pulled too thin. First the sobs, raw and splintered. Then the hiccupped breathing. Then only the occasional shift of weight on the floorboards, the kind of movement that told you he hadn’t left, just curled in smaller.

Eventually, even that stopped.

You waited, still, thinking, unmoving.

And when you couldn't keep it in your chest any more, you finally stood, hands heavy as you pushed yourself off the couch.

Your feet dragged across the floorboards and took you back to the hallway in front of your bedroom. There was no hesitance to open it this time, no trembling pause. Just an unmistakable weight sitting in the pit of your stomach. The hinges creaked slightly when you swung the door open.

Bob was still on the ground, half-asleep and surrounded by the day's mess, clothes, water bottles, some toppled books. He stirred upon hearing you. He sat up, slowly, like his body was sore. He looked up at you and met your dull eyes. His were wide, raw, red and ruined. His mouth opened. Whatever plea he wanted to say had died in his throat. Instead, he blinked, his tear-gathered lashes fluttering at your form. He called your name again. It was a fragile, broken sound.

Silence hung between you, thick and suffocating. You walked forward. Bob’s breath hitched. You picked him up from where he laid, sliding your arms beneath him, one behind his knees, the other behind his back. You lifted him, and he clung onto you like it was second nature. It didn't take long for him to start crying again. His tears ran down your neck like a small stream. His body was soft and pliant in your hold.

You placed him on the bed, gently, as though you didn't want to damage him any more than he already was. His arms tightened around you as you sank into the mattress. He made a small, unintelligible noise. Bracing yourself with your fist, you lifted your head to look at him, his body trembling beneath you.

Your brows were fixed in an indifferent frown. “What.”

He sniffled, and his glistening eyes looked up at you like you were his entire world. Maybe you were, but you wouldn't have known—wouldn't have cared. Not at that moment. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. Even in the dim light you could see how flushed his face had gone from his crying.

You sighed a breath out your nose. “I know you are.”

Bob shook his head. “I am. I really, really am.”

You opened your mouth to deny him a second time, but he had moved swiftly; urgently. He sat up and pushed you into the mattress, his hands splayed over your chest. You landed with a soft grunt, your hair lightly hitting the headboard. “Bob-”

He wasn't listening. His breath had gone shallow and he was straddling your waist like his life depended on it. You watched his shoulders rise and fall with the rhythm of his erratic breathing. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. The fabric of your shirt had bunched into his fists. “Let me show you. You need to know.”

You stared at him with something like anger, but closer to disbelief. “Do you think you can just fuck all our problems away?” Your voice was louder, more stern. He shrank a little, but he didn't move. You let your head fall back, hands covering your eyes. “Jesus christ, Bob.”

He stammered out his next response, managing a small: “I just want to make it better.” And this was the only way he knew how. The only way that felt within his reach, his only tangible solution. The last thing he could still control.

You could have lost it then and there. You could have shouted, could have laid it all bare. You could have lectured him about communication and space and every other thing he couldn't fathom to manage. You could’ve listed every unmet promise, every moment of silence where there should’ve been growth. It should have been your cue to leave. But you were being stupid, and you knew it. You would stay, waiting for a moment that would never come. Whatever this was, it wasn't something you were going to fix. Maybe someone else could, but it wasn't going to be you.

No.

“Please..”

Not you.

You removed your hands from your eyes, revealing a darker gaze. It started in your jaw. A slow clench that locked your teeth together before you even realized it. Then your throat tightened like your own breath was starting to burn. Your hands stayed loose, but you could feel the tremor starting behind your knuckles. The kind of quiet rage that didn’t shout or slam doors. The kind that sat in your ribs like a hot stone and dared anyone to touch it.

You stared at him, and every second he didn’t say the right thing—or anything, really—made it worse. Your pulse ticked up in your ears, steady and sharp. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t have to. Your silence was a room at boiling point. It crackled between you both.

Bob's breath shuddered.

You grabbed him by his collar and dragged him down with you, mouth crashing into his with the kind of heat that burned both ways. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender. It was teeth and breath and rage. You kissed him like he owed you something. Like if you kissed him hard enough, he’d finally understand.

His hands held you, hesitant, unsure if this was forgiveness or punishment. It didn’t matter. It was something. In the dark empty void that had been you, Bob was relieved to have gotten something.

You turned again, flipping him over with ease. Bob clung onto you like he'd disappear if you weren't touching. Though your lips hadn't left each other still, your hands had managed to tug his pants away and leave him in his boxers. His shirt was the next to go, discarded and left to be forgotten in the corner across your dim room. The sheets ruffled beneath your frenzied movements, Bob's breaths interrupted by his own moans.

Your teeth found his neck, immediately drawn to the spot you knew he liked best. He made a small, choked sound, his fingers clinging onto your hair. “Please,” he cried, despite having no idea what he was asking for. Your hot tongue seared against his skin. “Baby.”

Everything blurred—where his lips ended and yours began. Where the sheets bunched and the moans caught and the kisses turned frantic, wet, open-mouthed, biting. It was all tongue and hands that didn’t know how to be still, tugging, clawing, grasping.

Somewhere between one ragged breath and the next, you’d rolled, knocked pillows to the floor, limbs tangled, your bodies twisting in a fevered knot. Neither of you registered the shift until Bob’s back hit the mattress with a choked gasp and you crawled over him like a storm given shape. His fingers scrambled at your hips, greedy and trembling, pulling you down to devour your mouth again—but you broke the kiss.

He whined. And before he could complain, you said, “Off,” with a tone so demanding it made his breath catch.

“W-What?”

“Off the bed.”

He didn't hesitate. There was no room for it. He slid from beneath you to do as he'd been told. And when his knees hit the cold floorboards his back straightened with an uncomfortable grimace. A brief chill ran through his body, doing nothing to satiate the heat that had been pooling in his stomach. His eyes never left yours. He watched as you followed, sitting over the edge of the bed, one hand curled tight in his hair.

He looked up at you like he’d die if you asked. Already panting. Already wrecked.

The cold seeped through his skin. He was bare, flushed, kneeling with his legs trembling and his mouth parted. His chest was rising fast, lashes wet, lips swollen from too many kisses. You had him between your thighs, your belt only half-undone.

He swallowed.

“You're sorry?” you said, voice low and thick. Your tone wasn't of acknowledgment but of mockery. Bob felt his heart leap. Your hand squished his cheeks together in one rough move. “Yeah you're fucking sorry.”

He whimpered, tears gathering in his eyes once again. “I am,” he swore. “Baby, I am.”

“Prove it.”

You let his face go, fingers returning to tug on his curls. Bob made quick work of your belt, tugging on your pants like a man starved. It was clumsy, but he had managed. After a few desperate tugs, your cock sprung from your boxers, a soft hiss leaving your lips when it met the cool air. Your grip on his hair tightened.

His mouth met your length, hot and slick. Each flick of his tongue was a line of apology written in the sweat and salt of your skin. You tugged on his wild, ruined curls, urging him closer. He moaned at the contact, forcing himself to take the rest of you down his throat. He gagged, but he persisted, maintaining his breath, gripping onto your thighs. You groaned.

“Look at me,” you demanded.

And he did. God, he did. His wet blue eyes met yours and showed you an ocean's worth of devotion. You let him cry against you. Broken, mouthful sounds. Hot tears streaked down his cheeks and soaked the insides of your legs. He had made a proper mess of himself, his version of a lamb for slaughter. He was yours. He'd carve it into stone, he'd scream it into the heavens. He was yours, no one else's; and he was eager to remind you.

Your eyes never left him. You watched him grow desperate. “Keep going,” you breathed. He whimpered in compliance.

And when he brought you to the edge, it was with his whole soul bared. Mouth open, jaw aching, breath shaky. Like he thought if he gave you enough pleasure, it might purge the rot inside him. Like if he made you cum hard enough, you’d finally believe he could still be good.

He had found a rhythm, but your hand slipped under his chin. He stopped, his mouth pulling away from your cock with a wet pop. His tongue rushed a few more licks in.

“Bob.” Your voice tore through him like thunder

His lips were slick with you, cheeks flushed, streaked with salt. His chest heaved like he’d run miles—like this had broken him open and left the pieces shaking. He looked up, eyes blown. “N-No.” He sniffled, a shaky hand lifting to hold your wrist. “Don't stop me. I don't want to stop.” He blinked up at you, breath caught somewhere between fear and devotion.

You didn’t speak. You stared down at him like a verdict, a god deciding whether or not to forgive.

Then, slowly, you pulled him upwards. He came willingly. Like a marionette with cut strings, he rose only because you willed it—shaky legs, slick hands, breath stuttering with every inch closed between you. His body pressed to yours, flushed and trembling.

“Why’d you stop me?” he whispered, voice raw, broken open in your hands. “I—I was doing it right, wasn’t I? I wanted to—please, I need to—”

You kissed him again. Hard, rough and hungry. His moan stuttered into your mouth, and when you finally pulled back, his eyes were dazed.

You pushed him back onto the mattress, the bed frame creaking in protest. Bob’s breath hitched when your body pressed him down, forearm braced against a stray pillow, caging him in. His hands were already there, gripping your arms, your back, like it would stop his vision from spinning. You grabbed his wrists and shoved them above his head, pinning them to the sheets. He gasped, a sound that came from deep in his throat, half a whimper, half a broken yes. He arched beneath you.

Your hands were ice on his flushed skin. Your fingers ran down his bare chest and sunk into his soaked boxers. He gasped, tossing his head back. His breaths were faster, then, far from controlled. Your palm met the heat of his cock, pressing to satiate some of his need. His hip bucked against you. He anchored his forehead against your shoulder and mewled against your neck. Your other arm was behind his back, holding him up and keeping him steady.

“Breathe,” you muttered, watching the way his face contorted in anticipation.

He could only whimper in response. He was grinding against your hand, gripping your shoulders. He looked down to see the way you were touching him, the way his cock and your fist had made a tent in his wet underwear. The view only drove him closer to the edge. “Please,” he managed, voice raw and broken.

“Please, what.”

“More.”

You grinned, taunting; cruel. You pushed two fingers into his cheeks and pressed, slow and slick, until gasped against you like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. The pained cry in his throat didn't keep his thighs from spreading wider, his back arching like offering, like worship. Like this was a temple, and you were his god. He clenched around you, his cock twitching under the fabric. His breaths were shallower than before and you felt each sob through the way he tightened around your digits.

“Easy,” you said again, firmer this time. “Breathe, baby.”

He took a shaky breath, and you sank your fingers in until they were gone. You relished in the sensation. The stretch, the tight heat of him swallowing you up inch by inch. He was hot inside, velvety, tense around your knuckles like his body didn’t know whether to let you in or beg you to stop.

“Ah—shit,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “It’s—fuck, it’s tight—”

You moved a little slower, letting him feel every bit of it: the blunt pressure, the slight resistance, the slow glide of your finger working deeper. “You can take it,” you murmured.

And he did. His hips rolled without meaning to, body instinctively chasing the friction, the contact. You could feel every flutter of his muscles around your finger, the way he tried to breathe through the stretch.

“That’s it,” you said, dragging your touch back a little, then pressing in again—shallow thrusts, easing him open. “You’re doing good.”

A whimper slipped out of him, high and broken. His cock was leaking now, hard against his stomach, pink and untouched. Then he grew louder. He was flushed everywhere, sweat blooming at the back of his neck, his thighs shuddering under your grip. Your fingers arched upwards, reaching for the right bundle of nerves, and he screamed. “Yes!” he cried. “Oh, fuck. Right there. Please, oh—” His moans were raw and involuntary.

His mind had gone blank. It refused to think of anything other than the sensations you were putting him through. “Fuck—shit!—” His voice was high and ruined. And when he felt that familiar knot unravelling in his stomach, his eyes shot open in panic. “Wait, don't. Baby, stop, I'm gonna—”

His body jerked so hard he nearly twisted out of your grip. His spine arched up, mouth open in a silent cry as his cock pulsed and spilled onto the sheets. It came in thick, hot ropes, slicking down the bed and his stomach. His body clenched tight around your fingers like it didn’t know how to let go. “Oh—” he choked, voice trembling and breathless. “Oh my God—”

You didn’t stop. Not right away. You slowed your fingers, easing the motion but keeping the pressure, drawing out every twitch, every spasm, until he was trembling under you, boneless and wrecked. And when you finally slipped your fingers out, wet and glistening, he whimpered again—soft and small and completely undone.

He was still twitching when you kissed his cheek. He had one leg bent, the other stretched across the bed. His skin was practically glowing from the heat, his chest and thighs slick with sweat, stomach streaked with cum. His glassy eyes did their best to look at you but they were unfocused and half-lidded, like he was floating somewhere past the edge of himself.

You leaned over him, hand sliding along his thigh, gripping hard enough to make him flinch. “You with me?”

He blinked at you. His face was flushed red, lips parted like he didn’t know how to breathe without you telling him. “I—fuck, I don’t know. I-I came—”

“Doesn't matter.” You flipped him over in one swift move, his face pressing against the pillow. He raised his ass despite his trembling knees. It was instinct, second-nature. He felt too sensitive, too raw, but he didn't dare move away. You sat back, gripping his hips and dragging him towards you with ease. He let you handle him, pliant and shivering, already slipping into that floaty, fucked-out space where everything you did was gospel.

You dragged a hand up to have your fingers brush against his softening cock. You felt him tense. He looked over his shoulder and watched you spit at your length before stroking yourself. The sound that left Bob’s throat was pathetic; pure, desperate want. You lined yourself up against him. There was no teasing this time, no slow mercy. You pushed in with a single, steady thrust. The heat of him was molten, tight and pulsing. He cried out, hands scrabbling against the sheets, back arching like you’d lit a fuse inside him.

“Fuck!” he whined. He was shaking already, sobbing through clenched teeth as you filled him. His cock was hardening again, his body betraying him, greedy for more, even through the ache.

You began to move in a deep, brutal rhythm. There was no patience, no thinking, just need. Just the wild, punishing snap of hips that said: This is for everything you put me through.

Bob screamed into the pillow. Muffled and raw, like it was tearing through his throat on the way out. His fingers clawed the sheets, back arching, legs trembling against your grip. He was glassy-eyed, spit-slick and tear-stained, his whole body jolting with each thrust. You moved with no intention of slowing down.

“Look at you,” you snarled, leaning over him, your chest pressed to his back as you drove in harder.

He choked on a sob. “I—can’t—it's too much—”

“You can,” you growled, nipping at his shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You will.”

He whined again, cracked and high, his cock leaking onto the sheets, already flushed and twitching like he was close. He shouldn’t have been. Not after the way he came just from your fingers. But he was, desperate for more, for you.

“God, please,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—fuck—I love you—”

You shoved his face into the mattress. You slammed into him, again and again, unforgiving. The sound of skin on skin, the wet slap of it, the ragged breathing and wrecked sobs. It was obscene.

“Please—” he managed, tears streaming down his face. “Please—don’t stop—hurts—feels so good—fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

You reached down and fisted his cock in your hand, stroking him hard and fast.

He screamed.

His whole body bowed, locking tight like he was being electrocuted. He came again, hot and helpless, spilling over your fingers and the sheets beneath him. His legs spasmed, his sobs turned wordless.

But you didn’t stop. You kept going, through it, past it, using his spent, sobbing body the way he begged for. The way he deserved. His cries turned to mewling, too sensitive, too broken to even hold himself up. His face buried in the sheets, tears streaking down his cheeks, mouth open in breathless moans. He was limp beneath you, trembling and twitching, wrecked in every way a man could be. He couldn’t even lift his head anymore. He could only breathe, shallow and fast, like his body was stuck in some loop between pleasure and shock.

He made a sound that might have been your name, his thighs jolting, ass flushed and puffy from the use. His head lolled to the side. You leaned over him, wrapped a hand in his sweaty curls, and yanked his head back just enough to see the wreck of his face. Red-eyed, mouth open, drooling, barely there.

You hissed at the sensation, at the look on his face. Bob moaned—a ragged, keening thing—and that was it. You slammed into him one last time, groaning loud against his spine, your body locking tight as you emptied yourself into his flushed ass. Heat. Pressure. The shudder of your own climax wracking you hard.

You stayed buried in him for a second, hips twitching, breath catching in your throat, fingers digging into his skin like you needed to anchor yourself there. Like he was the only thing keeping you real.

The room had gone thick and heated, your windows fogged up from the frenzy of it all. Your ragged breaths fell into rhythm as the both of you gathered yourselves, coming down from your highs in a slow, gradual slope. Your muscles burned, your hips ached. But the urgency had slipped. That red, ravenous thing inside you was satiated and snarling no longer. You ran a hand down your face, sighing as the world and your mind became clear.

You looked down. Bob was still underneath you—twitching faintly, pliant and open, like something peeled apart and left in the sun. You eased your weight off him, not all at once, but carefully. As though your sudden absence might hurt more than the pounding he just took.

You laid yourself next to his unmoving figure, your chest still rising up and down. There'd been nothing but silence at first.

His muffled sob was the first thing to tear through the quiet.

This time, you turned. This time you looked at him and held nothing else in your eyes but the love that simply refused to leave. You sighed, your hand pressing flat against his back. “Hey,” you whispered.

He turned away like he could hide it all from you again.

You turned him over, your gentleness a stark contrast to the roughness of before. His eyes met yours, still red, still hurting. “Will you leave me?” he whispered back.

Your answer came too fast, too sure. “No.”

You couldn't recognise the look on his face. You didn't know if it was relief or penance, but it was real, and it was vulnerable. He reached for you again, and this time, you let him. You sat up, pulling him to your lap and allowing him to hide his face into the crook of your neck. He wrapped his arms around you and you held him tightly, your forgiveness in its final form. Your fingers combed through his ruined hair and your other hand rubbed circles down his back. “I know,” you murmured. “I know, Bob.”

He cried against you until he fell asleep. And you stayed, holding him, soothing him, for as long as it took.

The next day, he'd wake up, pepper your face with kisses, then drag you into the shower. And you'd relish in it all. He'd sing again, making you breakfast, packing your lunch, stealing more kisses before waving you off to work. The next day the sun will shine and he will smile at you like it had always been that good. And it will be good. For a while. At least, until the next slip-up happens. The next argument, the next ‘just this time’

And you'd do it all over again.

Because you realized, as you held him, staring at his sleeping face, that love like this didn't give you a choice. You didn’t tell him it would be okay. You didn’t lie. You merely laid in the dark and breathed with him in the quiet, in the ruin, in the aftermath. Because love like this didn’t need saving—it needed surviving. And as long as he was breathing, you’d stay. Because you always had.

Because you always would.

#bob reynolds x male reader #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts x reader #marvel x reader #x male reader #male reader insert #male reader

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cherrytry · 2 months ago

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hey so when was anyone gonna tell me WD is literally named after a lubricant/rust removal spray brand, or was i meant to learn that on my own

like she literally mentioned that her name has numbers at the end. am i just stupid. I think im just stupid but i didnt realise until now 😭😭

#wonderlust #jrwi #just roll with it #jrwi wonderlust #jrwi wonderlust spoilers #<- kinda maybe idk to be safe ig?!?

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reds-writings · 1 year ago

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if only tonight we could sleep?

the dora lange case had come to a close...but was it really ever over?

(pairing: rust cohle x fem!reader)

a/n: inspired by getting lost in the sound of the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me album. this is set somewhere in the same world of jealousy, jealousy!. your feedback, as always, is greatly treasured!

word count: around 2.6k

warnings: angst, canon-typical death (mentions of what happens at the Ledoux shootout), nudity (showering together!), cursing, dread, etc (minors go away)

The Dora Lange case had finally been closed once and for all. All the bullshit and danger that had accumulated over all these weeks could finally cease to continue. You’re sure that even within the next twenty something odd years or so when all of this would be well blown over and buried you would never be able to truly process the fucked up-ness of it all.

Your mind was thoroughly numb and all of your limbs ached to no end. You could feel everything you’d endured catching up to you as your body finally allowed itself to let go. Adrenaline and sheer will had been what kept you from fully crumbling during the case’s most crucial and final moments. The shit Rust and Marty decided to pull with that druggie Ginger had already left you worse for wear. Discovering Ledoux and the horrors that were transpiring in that shithole was something you couldn’t let yourself dwell on for too long lest you wanted to find yourself having a complete mental breakdown. Bodies and skulls being blown to bits right in front of you. The sight of rich blood and scattered brain matter sprayed to stain onto your boots. Finding those kids like that…you’d never get over it. One was sentenced to a life of trauma that left her catatonic and the other one deceased. You’d had the naive thought more than once telling you if only we'd all been a bit quicker…

But there was no point in dwelling on all the ifs and maybes. That was a guaranteed one-way ticket to self-induced insanity.

You should feel relief that this is over. The weight of one of the many atrocities committed in the world removed from your down-trodden shoulders. Solved. A monster taken down and put into the earth where he couldn’t return to cause more strife. Why couldn't it feel over? Where was the relief?

You didn’t know much of what Rust and Marty felt on the matter, too busy dealing with keeping your stories straight on just how you all had come across Ledoux’s hideout instead of finding the time to have a heart-to-heart on how much this might’ve permanently screwed with your heads for ages to come. You knew well enough that ending the case like this wasn’t easy for either of them given their respective standpoints when it came to kids. Marty discovered those children and both men had carried them back. Rust had shouldered the burden of carrying that poor boy. A small choice of action that had your heart twisting even more painfully than you thought it already had during it all. The Texan could go on and on about the world being shit and there being no control over the horrors one would be put through trying to live life but you found that it was he who tried the hardest to shield others from said pain and horror whether he was aware of it or not. He cared a lot more about the human race than he let on but it would be more than ineffectual trying to convince him of that particular truth.

Things with Rust had been all over the place since the fiasco of a night you had after the bar as well as any event that followed afterwards: surprise, surprise. The time you’d initially aimed for to really sit down and decipher where it was exactly you saw the two of you headed had found itself slipping away at every possible chance. Neither of you was to necessarily blame, as the nature of your work was in constant demand of your full attention, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

You guys weren’t even truly anything yet and it was already this arduous. What kind of shelf-life did a pairing such as this really have down the line? It was more than likely that acting on any idea of pursuing Rust romantically was destined to never end in your favor. He was your coworker for Christ’s sake. Yes, there was no one else who could probably understand what it is you go through like each other but it was harder to separate other crueler aspects of your lives as well. Everything would get in the way of professionalism. It already had when it came to the showdown with Ginger.

Trying not to let your thoughts go down the usual Rust rabbit hole it found itself in you decided that you’d take the longest and hottest shower you hadn’t had the luxury of taking in weeks. Any extra time you had lately was reserved for quick and cold rinses to keep yourself up and at 'em’. Relaxation in any sense of the word was hard to adjust to after long stretches of work such as these. It was like your body had forgotten how to just be. Nothing was chasing you and there was no clock ticking over your shoulder to mock you that time to get shit done was running out. The empty quiet that followed would never not be unnerving to you. You had nowhere to be and nothing to do.

Where was the fucking relief?

With a huff, you set aside the jack and coke you’d been cradling out on your front porch in the dwindling evening light. The air was more balmy than the stifling hot you’d experienced day in and day out though your skin still held that essence of a humid dew that kept your hair and clothes sticking to you like a second skin. Dusting off your pants you made way to get on up from your depressing reverie only to find the outline of a familiarly limber figure at the end of your driveway. How the hell hadn’t you heard him pull up?

“Are you gonna stand there like a regular ol’ weirdo or get up here?” You feigned nonchalance at his sudden presence but your heart told another story with the quickening pace it decided to adopt.

Wordlessly, Rust ventured his way up the pathway and onto your shabby porch. He eyed the abandoned drink you had by your side so you offered it up to him. He loosened the tie around his neck and undid the first two buttons of his dress shirt before accepting the silent offering. It took two long gulps before the glass was drained.

There was a heavy silence for longer than what was comfortable. Where could you even start? You didn’t want to catch yourself in an awkward fumble trying to gauge what it was he exactly needed from you as it was clear there was a purpose in him showing up without a warning. The set of his posture made it seem like he was curling in on himself more and more by the minute. He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye, fearful that it would be his complete undoing. This visible deflation in action made you feel panicked for not knowing what assistance you could offer without having him pull away.

“...D’ya wanna talk about it?”

Rust shook his head softly as if in a daze. His eyes growing glassy and increasingly distant while he stared at your porch’s floorboards.

At a loss, you cleared your throat shakily, “Well I was just about to hop in the shower. You can come inside…hang around if you want. We don’t have to talk or nothin’...o-or we can if that’s what you wanna end up doin’ after havin’ some quiet.”

No reply.

“Well, there’s beers and whatnot in the fridge if you choose. Don’t be shy to helpin’ yourself.” You got up and squeezed his hand gently, warm and calloused like you’d been dreaming about since they held you. That already felt like ages ago. He still made no move.

“I’m here.” Was all you could say and with that, you loosened your grip and headed on inside then upstairs to your bathroom. After setting out some comfy clothes and shedding out of the day’s stiff attire for all the press work that entailed you waited for the shower to reach its desired heat. The person looking back at you in your steadily fogging mirror was almost unrecognizable. Bruises from recent incidents had barely begun to make their way towards the fading process. Skin so sullen and hair even duller. When had you started to look so tired? This beaten down? You felt sorry for anyone who had the displeasure of viewing your walking corpse as of late.

The spray of the showerhead above you was nothing short of heavenly. Any pain and misery melted away to be forever cast down into the depths of the tub’s drain. Your bones felt like lead as you let yourself stand there, waiting to gain the sense of motivation to start washing yourself clean. It could’ve been ten minutes or even ten hours before the sound of the bathroom door clicking ajar had you opening your eyes. The silhouette of the cause of your heart’s aching and beating stood beyond the fogged glass as if at a loss of what to make himself do next. You said nothing, not wanting him to feel as if he was unwanted or on the other hand forced to join you. To expose himself beyond what a casual act of nudity could display already.

It was another elongated moment before you heard the clink of a belt and the rustle of clothes being discarded. You were so far gone that it hadn’t occurred to you he was about to see you at your most vulnerable. He’d witnessed you at some of your lowest, shittiest points but this was crossing into an entirely new territory.

And yet you didn’t feel as scared as you thought you would. You didn’t find Rust to be as judgemental about the physical as he was about the metaphysical.

The shower’s sliding door worked its way open and you didn’t turn around until a few moments after it had closed. The look on his face was similar to the one you’d been subjected to all those weeks ago after the bar. One of true fear. Fear of being seen at his very core. Open and raw. Fear that you’d take this all in and decide to turn him away in disgust or disinterest. Rust’s eyes didn’t wander down any further than your face. He wasn’t here out of primal desire. He needed something…someone…you to help him hold himself together for just this moment. Any and all strength he usually had keeping him upright had escaped him after the weight of everything finally penetrated his psyche.

You found your hand making its way up to his face, tracing dampening tendrils out of his line of sight before cupping his jaw. That empty blue fluttered closed, giving himself a moment or two before completely relinquishing himself to your gentle touch. Your other hand met the other side of his face before you leaned forward to touch your forehead to his. The downfall of water in the small cubicle drowned out any other possible thoughts or worries that could’ve been had in the current moment. There was nothing and no one else that mattered.

One kiss to his nose, then his chin, and finally his trembling lips had large palms come up to rest on the supple flesh of your hips, steadily gripping you as if you’d float away from him. You separated for a moment as his hands traveled up to clutch at your back. Before he could bring you closer you kissed him gently once more before succumbing to his grasp. Settling with leaving barely-there imprints of your mouth on the expansive skin of his chest and neck, your own hands brought themselves up to return his embrace. You felt the soft press of a peck linger on the side of your head as his grip grew a bit tighter. Seconds passed until the subtle shaking of broad shoulders had you clinging to him impossibly tighter. His sobs were not all that audible but the shuddering breaths he’d take in every now and then were more than enough to clue you in on just how much he was hurting. Tears began to burn behind your own eyes as your pain melded with his.

Here you were, just two broken people who gave up all notions of stoicism to completely and utterly crumble in front of each other. Fully at each other’s undeniable mercy.

- - - -

You didn’t know how much more time had passed after holding each other but as the water began to grow more frigid you made haste to help each other wash up. You both stepped out so you could wrap yourself in your own towel before making your way to your linen closet to fetch him one as well as to not have him left wet and cold for too long. With your mind a bit clearer from the emotional release experienced, you finally came to realize the presence of the exceptionally athletic physique in front of you. He seemed to be in the same state of appreciation towards you and you caught yourself feeling hot in the face as you clumsily thrust a towel in his direction.

“You don’t have to be shy in front of me.” His voice sounded raw from lack of use. The first words he’d uttered since he’d come here.

You tucked a wet piece of hair behind your ear, trying to casually meet his stare, “I know. Just didn’t expect us to end up here when you showed up is all. It’s just catchin’ up to me…” The pinch of your chin between long fingers drew you to kiss him again.

“You’re everythin'...and then some.”

You fought a self-deprecating scoff but he said it as if it were the most simplest fact in the world. You had no choice but to believe him.

“Let’s just find you some clothes. I am in dire need of one looong hibernation after everythin’. You too, mister.” You flicked his chest then slinked out of the bathroom. You finished any of the necessary preparations for bed by the time he had wandered into your room. The window you cracked open let in a gentle breeze while the warm glow of the few candles that had been lit danced in the haven you created. Whether you wanted a form of light for the sake of your own comfort or it being done out of some subconsciously innate need to keep Rust out of the dark for the night, you didn’t care to unpack.

Climbing into bed once and for all, you lay facing each other. Letting peace and stillness settle in.

“We did it y’know…it’s over. We can be okay.” You couldn’t help but say. Feeling the need to find something to reaffirm the so-called fact that should’ve been comforting at the end of all this. Anything to soothe underlying anxiety as the heavy shadow of the unknown and incomplete loomed over you. It should’ve been over but Ledoux was but a small piece to a hugely fragmented puzzle. Both of you knew it deep down but hadn’t the strength to confirm it out loud. Afraid to shatter this sense of temporary false security.

This was far from being done and dealt with. From being fully uncovered.

Rust didn’t say anything else as he pulled you into the warmth of his chest. Caging you in with no choice but to surrender to the silent feeling of safety he was trying to provide you. You could only pray that the two of you could make it through anything as you both found yourselves victims to the passing of time and any other trials it had ready for you.

Especially with whatever was waiting for you on the other side of Carcosa.

----

a/n: ahhhh! hurt/comfort is always a guilty pleasure. sorry for the immense dread at the end. i'm thinking of cooking up another fic that draws back to what exactly went down with our trio and ginger if that's something of interest to you all! thanks for reading!

#reds-writings #rust cohle #true detective season 1 #rust cohle imagine #rust cohle x reader #true detective imagine #matthew mcconaughey #true detective

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shimera · 8 months ago

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Cars fandom this is for you

I'm currently working at a car painting workshop, so if y'all are interested in some info about nuances of a paint job process, rust removal, fixing holes and stuff like that for your fics or anything let me know-- I'm on a verge of making a somewhat long post haha because it's way more complicated than the way it's usually portrayed (and I don't mean touching up a scratch with a spray can or something)

Upd: made it and it's LONG

#pixar cars #disney cars #pixar cars 2 #cars 2 #cars 3 #oh and ini d it could be useful too i just realized #initial d

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floridaboiler · 2 years ago

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What Is The Main Ingredient of WD-40?

Before you read to the end, does anybody know what the main ingredient of WD-40?

No Cheating.....

WD-40 ~ Who knew!

I had a neighbour who bought a new pickup.

I got up very early one Sunday morning and saw that someone had spray

painted red all around the sides of this beige truck (for some unknown

reason).

I went over, woke him up, and told him the bad news.

He was very upset and was trying to figure out what to do ....

probably nothing until Monday morning, since nothing was open.

Another neighbour came out and told him to get his WD-40 and clean it off.

It removed the unwanted paint beautifully and did not harm his paint

job that was on the truck. I was impressed!

WD-40 who knew?

"Water Displacement #40".

The product began from a search for a rust preventative solvent and

degreaser to protect missile parts.

WD-40 was created in 1953, by three technicians at the San Diego

Rocket Chemical Company.

Its name comes from the project that was to find a 'Water

Displacement' Compound.

They were finally successful for a formulation, with their fortieth

attempt, thus WD-40. The 'Convair Company' bought it in bulk to

protect their atlas missile parts.

Ken East (one of the original founders) says there is nothing in WD-40

that would hurt you.

When you read the 'shower door' part, try it. It's the first thing

that has ever cleaned that spotty shower door. If yours is plastic,

it works just as well as on glass. It's a miracle!

Then try it on your stove-top.

It's now shinier than it's ever been.

You'll be amazed.

WD-40 Uses:

1. Protects silver from tarnishing.

2. Removes road tar and grime from cars.

3. Cleans and lubricates guitar strings.

4. Gives floor that 'just-waxed' sheen without making them slippery.

5. Keeps the flies off of Cows, Horses, and other Farm Critters.

6. Restores and cleans chalkboards.

7. Removes lipstick stains.

8. Loosens stubborn zippers.

9. Untangles jewellery chains.

10. Removes stains from stainless steel sinks.

11. Removes dirt and grime from the barbecue grill.

12. Keeps ceramic/terracotta garden pots from oxidising.

13. Removes tomato stains from clothing.

14. Keeps glass shower doors free of water spots.

15. Camouflages scratches in ceramic and marble floors.

16. Keeps scissors working smoothly.

17. Lubricates noisy door hinges on both home and vehicles doors.

18. It removes that nasty tar and scuff marks from the kitchen

flooring. It doesn't seem to harm the finish and you won't have to

scrub nearly as hard to get them off. Just remember to open some

windows if you have a lot of marks.

19. Remove those nasty bug guts that will eat away the finish

on your car if not removed quickly!

20. Gives a children's playground gym slide a shine for a super fast slide.

21. Lubricates gearshift and mower deck lever for ease of handling on

riding mowers.

22. Rids kids rocking chair and swings of squeaky noises.

23. Lubricates tracks in sticking home windows and makes them easier to open.

24. Spraying an umbrella stem makes it easier to open and close.

25. Restores and cleans padded leather dashboards in vehicles, as well

as vinyl bumpers.

26. Restores and cleans roof racks on vehicles.

27. Lubricates and stops squeaks in electric fans.

28. Lubricates wheel sprockets on tricycles, wagons and bicycles for

easy handling.

29. Lubricates fan belts on washers and dryers and keeps them running smoothly.

30. Keeps rust from forming on saws and saw blades, and other tools.

31. Removes grease splatters from stove-tops.

32. Keeps bathroom mirror from fogging.

33. Lubricates prosthetic limbs.

34. Keeps pigeons off the balcony (they hate the smell).

35. Removes all traces of duct tape.

36. Folks even spray it on their arms, hands, and knees to relieve

arthritis pain.

37. Florida 's favourite use is: 'cleans and removes love bugs from

grills and bumpers.'

38. The favourite use in the state of New York , it protects the Statue

of Liberty from the elements.

39. WD-40 attracts fish. Spray a little on live bait or lures and you

will be catching the big one in no time. Also, it's a lot cheaper than

the chemical attractants that are made for just that purpose. Keep

in mind though, using some chemical laced baits or lures for fishing

are not allowed in some states.

40. Use it for fire ant bites. It takes the sting away immediately and

stops the itch.

41. It is great for removing crayon from walls. Spray it on the marks

and wipe with a clean rag.

42. Also, if you've discovered that your teenage daughter has washed

and dried a tube of lipstick with a load of laundry, saturate the

lipstick spots with WD-40 and rewash. Presto! The lipstick is gone!

43. If you spray it inside a wet distributor cap, it will displace the

moisture, allowing the engine to start.

My discovery, Ants don't like it..................

P.S.

As for that Basic, Main Ingredient.......

Well.... it's FISH OIL....

Now This Is Definitely Worth SHARING!!

#WD-40

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icybluepenguin · 1 year ago

Text

The Sweetest Screams

Summary: Astarion relives a night of torture under Cazador. You wake him up and help him feel better by telling him how you see all the parts of him. Inspired by his lines “I am more than what you made me” and “I feel safe with you. Seen.” This is kind of exploring how he got there.

Pairing: Astarion x gender neutral Tav/reader

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Dark, Whump, Torture, Graphic Description, Emotional Abuse, Physical Abuse, Cazador, Godey, breaking bones, cuts, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Comfort, feeling seen & safe, Praise, Love, Astarion Has A Bad Time, I'm Sorry, but then he gets put back together again with lots of love and fluff

Note: Extra extra thanks to @brabblesblog and @leomonae for taking their time to beta & edit this. 💙 Go check out their work, they're amazing!

This link will take you past the torture, if you want to read the comfort/fluffy part: Skip hurt only comfort (goes to Ao3)

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“Astarion…”

The dark singsong voice in his head sent a shiver down his spine. It was cloyingly sweet and full of false enticement.

He balled up the shirt he'd been working on and hurried to hide it, together with his needle and thread. He didn't want his siblings to find them; he knew he wouldn't be able to come back for a while.

“Come to me, child.”

Astarion had no choice but to obey.

What had he done wrong? Has he not been the very model of obedience lately? Even his siblings had noticed, calling him the master's little lapdog. Had he not brought back a beautiful half-elf for his master?

He huffed at himself. As if it ever mattered what he had or had not done. There was only one thing that tone of voice meant.

Astarion knew where to find him. Even without the vague sense he always had of where his sire was, Astarion knew what to expect tonight.

The master was bored.

Astarion made his way down dark hallways, his feet moving on their own. He felt like he was floating. He passed no one on his way– was that his mistake tonight? He had come back too early, before the others, and so was the only target?

The stench of the kennels wafted over him as he opened the door. Decay, despair, rust. Fetid and heavy.

The master was there, as expected, sitting in an ornate chair that had been dragged in just for the occasion. A body slumped on a table next to him; still alive, but barely. The man Astarion had brought back not two hours ago, now with a huge, dripping gash on his neck. The scent of blood made Astarion feral, his hunger roaring through his dread.

It was going to be a long night.

“Is this how you greet your master, boy?”

The master dragged a finger through the oozing blood on the body, bringing it to his lips to lick it off. Astarion's mouth watered, his whole body aching for a taste of it.

Astarion knelt, back straight and head bowed. “Good evening, Master. H-how can I serve you?” He hated the tremble in his voice he could never get rid of. Hadn't he been tortured enough by now? Shouldn't it not bother him any longer? Why must he be so weak?

“Remove your clothes. We do not want them getting stained, do we? They are already pathetic.”

And whose fault is that, Astarion couldn't help but think, and then cowered into his own mind, stripping his shirt off faster, as if it would erase his blasphemous thought. He folded his clothes with trembling hands, quickly, terrified to be seen as anything but obedient.

“We will make lovely music for the master, won't we, little one?” Godey chattered as Astarion placed his folded bundle somewhere the spray of blood wouldn't reach it. “We are so lucky he is joining us tonight. We will put on a good show for him.”

The skeleton’s genial, eager voice washed over Astarion as he planted his feet, shivering uncontrollably, his eyes unfocused and pointed at the wall. There was nothing to do now but endure. He couldn't stop this.

“Start with his face, Godey. I want to see his lovely features covered in bruises.” The master took another drink from the body, blood coating his lips. “And you, Astarion. Stand still and scream prettily for me.”

Godey's bare finger bones creaked as they folded into a fist. Astarion closed his eyes, knowing that bracing for the blow was useless, but the instinct hadn't died yet. Pain bloomed across his cheek; he barely had time to gasp before the other side was punched - harder. It split his lip, his own blood bright on his tongue.

He swayed on his feet, dizzy and starving. When was the last time he ate? The scent of rich, fresh blood filled the air, the master playing with his meal as he watched. Astarion, so, so desperately hungry, almost bared his fangs for a taste. He could never touch that blood, even if he were not too weak to take it. But he wanted it so badly even the cracking of his cheekbone from the rain of blows didn't ache as much as the hunger did.

Astarion knew what the master wanted. A tiny, contrary part of him– a part he had tried hard to crush– demanded he make the master earn his screams. He could indulge in this small withholding, this smallest sip of power, couldn't he?

It wouldn't matter either way. They would destroy him, it was inevitable as the sunrise.

He could barely see now, his eyes swelling nearly shut. His head was spinning. He staggered down to his knees, hands splayed in front of him to keep him from falling on his ruined face. He thought there were tears, but he couldn't feel them.

“Do not slouch, boy.”

Astarion tried to stand, but his brain seemed to slosh in his head and he collapsed back down. The earliest wounds were already starting to heal. But it was slow- it had been so long since he'd fed.

“Weak,” the master sneered, the word full of disappointment and disgust. “I told you to stand still. Such a simple command and yet you cannot follow it.”

Godey’s hand grabbed his hair, the bones scraping on his scalp, pulling back to bend his neck at a cruel angle. There was something in its other hand, something red with dried blood.

When the blade touched his skin, he begged. It was what they wanted. In a slurred, breathy voice, he begged for mercy, for forgiveness, for the knife to stop slicing his skin into hideous art.

He begged for death.

It did not matter. There was no rhyme or reason to this.

His pleas were worthless. He was worthless. Nothing he did changed anything, now or ever. He was nothing. Weak.

“Please, I'm sorry… Just kill me, please, let me die…”

The master sighed with frustration. “Always such yapping from you. Are you never out of words?”

His only purpose was to be entertainment. For his master, for his victims. He only existed to be pleasing, and his pain was pleasing to them.

He couldn't even do that right.

The master stood. Astarion rocked back and forth, whimpering, trying to pay attention to the master's movements, to anticipate what the master would want from him, but the burning, stinging, overwhelming pain consumed him.

An elegant hand held something wriggling and squeaking to Astarion's face.

Fresh.

Alive.

It's a trick.

His body acted before he could think. He snatched the treat with greedy hands and sank his fangs into its twisting body before it could be taken from him. He drained it in huge gulps, finishing far too soon, sucking on its empty body long after it had ceased to give him blood.

“Disgusting. Have you no manners, boy?”

The master's eyes glowed a brighter red and magic seized him, yanking him to his feet.

The rat dropped from his mouth and he whined, still starving. His wounds were healing faster, burning through what little nourishment he'd gotten. He knew it was a trick, food was always a trick. It didn't matter. He wanted more.

His body was contorted, forcing him back to his knees, arms extended in front of him.

The master grabbed his chin, examining the closing cuts on his face and the rat blood that had dripped down his neck. “Not even a ‘thank you’ for your dinner? What an unruly child. After all I have done for you– such wasted effort.” His palm cracked across Astarion's face, making his head snap to the side, making his broken cheekbone shriek with renewed vigor. “At least we have stopped your yapping, for once.”

Haven't I been obedient, didn't I bring you a beautiful meal? he wanted to wail. What more can I do?

The master wiped his hand clean of blood on Astarion's hair and returned to his chair. “I have not heard him scream yet. Break his hands. That is always a delightful sound.”

“Oh yes, we haven't done this in a long time. Last time, you sounded so pretty, little one,” Godey hummed as it rummaged for something out of Astarion’s sight.

Astarion's stomach dropped like a stone, his muscles yanking helplessly against the magic. Beat him, flay him, drain him, but–

He sobbed, “Please, I've been good, please, I'll be so good,” knowing that mercy did not exist in this room. They would cut him and break him until they tired of it, dragging his pulverized body to one of the blood-stained palettes until he healed enough to do it all again.

And again.

“Stop making such a fuss, little one. Godey will take good care of you, just like always.” The skeleton raised a pair of large pliers into Astarion's view.

The metal jaws were intensely cold on his finger. No, no no-

He screamed for them. He screamed until his throat was raw, until his voice was gone, and still he screamed. The master's pleased laughter cut through his own noises to ring in his ears. The master's delight wouldn't save him. Nothing would save him from the crushing, crunching, ripping–

“Astarion. Astarion!”

He jerked.

There was no pain.

The air smelled clean and… sweet.

He stared blankly up at a face that had skin and softness, not naked bone.

You. You were there. He was in your tent in… Rivington. Yes, that's where he was. Not the kennels.

“You were screaming.”

He swallowed, noticing the soreness in his throat.

“They're getting worse, the closer we get to Baldur's Gate, aren't they?”

“Well, it's not as if I have any happy memories to meditate with,” he said, trying to wave it away even though his voice was hoarse. It was getting worse, the closer he got to home. Instead of memories that he could replay as an observer, detached, he felt swallowed by them. Forced to relive every torturous detail. He held his hands in front of his face to be sure they weren't crushed to a pulp. He could almost still feel it.

He was desperate to kill Cazador. Every second of delay was interminable. He wanted to be truly free of the man, to see his corpse at his feet and know that Cazador would never touch him again. And if he could take all of his potential power for himself? Even better.

But he was also terrified to his very core to see his old master again. What if he couldn't do it? He was stronger now, but he still felt too weak for this. And what if something happened to you? He would never forgive himself.

“I’m sorry that I woke you,” he said. “Go back to sleep, darling. I'm fine.” Guilt made his stomach twist. You got precious little sleep as it was, and he was making it worse. After all you had done for him. Ungrateful. Unruly.

“Yeah, that's not happening. You were screaming. I'm not going back to sleep and leaving you alone.” You cupped his face in your hands, rubbing his temples with your thumbs. “Tell me about it.”

He didn't want to; wanted to shove it down and pretend it had never happened, like every other time. He hated to burden you, to make you listen to him yapping. You deserved better.

“Astarion,” you said gently. “I know that look. Try me. Please.”

He felt so brittle under your touch. Ready to shatter into a thousand pieces if he wasn't careful. Gods, he wanted to tell you everything as much as he didn't want to tell you a single thing.

“It was just…” He struggled for a quip, but nothing came. “It was a memory of Cazador's torments. Nothing special.”

“Come on.” You stood, grabbing his hand to urge him up. “We're going outside.”

“Outside?” He was completely baffled.

“Yes.” You pulled the blanket off the bedroll and led him out, the both of you barefoot and in your nightclothes.

The moon was bright and low on the horizon, its silver light shining on you as you picked your way across camp, still holding his hand. Astarion inhaled deeply, the cool air filling his lungs. He hadn't even realized he had felt trapped in the small space of the tent but now, as a breeze tickled his hair, he couldn't imagine going back inside.

He couldn't stand to keep the words trapped inside either. They came haltingly at first, half-mumbled as if he hoped you wouldn't hear. But by the time you were spreading out the blanket on a patch of soft grass, the memory was pouring out. It was easier out here in the open with you not staring at him, while he choked back emotion, trying and failing to stay aloof and sarcastic about it all.

You sat next to him, fingers laced through his in silent comfort.

When he was done, he waited for the pity, for you to see him as a broken, pathetic thing. He knew you couldn't make these memories go away, could never remove the pain of them. You couldn't make it so he hadn’t lived them.

But you surprised him again.

You squeezed his hand just a little too hard. “We are going to destroy that rat-bastard. There won't be enough pieces of him left to fill a chalice when we're done with him.”

He coughed, a laugh stuck in his throat from the uncharacteristic venom in your voice. “Well, I do appreciate that, darling. It wasn't even the worst night,” he shrugged. “Or maybe it was one of many similar worst nights. Hard to pick, really.” He sighed. “It was usually one or the other of them. But nights when Cazador was bored… When he wanted to be… entertained, those held an extra layer of humiliation.”

He pulled his hand from you, wrapping his arms around his knees, curling his body around the sudden crushing pressure in his chest. Weak. Pathetic. Disgusting. Never obedient enough. Never good enough.

He strangled back the tears that threatened to fall. “I was nothing to them. Less than a dog. Just… an object to be broken at their whims.”

Astarion put his head on his knees, huddled as tightly as he could get, but the shame and despair and fear wouldn't stop growing. Weak.

“And this wretched contract. All the shit Cazador put me through, the centuries of torment… just to be consumed so that he can attain greater power?” Why, why did that hurt? He hated Cazador to the very depths of his soul. Being discarded, though, even by him, being so worthless that only his death mattered at all crushed his heart.

Bitterness twisted his lips and he huffed. “Being consumed. That's what I was made for.”

“Astarion-”

“I'm only good for entertainment. I'm a toy. Sex or torture, it doesn't matter.” I don't matter.

“That's not true at all.”

“Oh, isn't it?” he snapped, head jerking up to glare at you. “How did this start then?” He gestured between you. “You just had to sleep with the sexy vampire, didn't you.”

He bit his lip hard. Lashing out was easier than being honest, pushing the hurt onto someone else, being the one to wield the knife for once. He cowered deeper into his knees. And after he had woken you and you were staying awake with him. Ungrateful. Unruly. Weak. Pathetic.

But you didn't rise to the bait.

“Why are you even with me?” he asked in a quiet, broken voice - the question that had been lurking in the back of his mind since you'd chosen him, the question that begged to be answered whenever he looked at you but that he could never utter, terrified of what you would say. “I’m too much wasted effort. I can't give you anything. Not sex, not safety…”

“What in our time together gives you the impression that I am someone concerned with safety?” There was a bit of laughter in your words, incredulous but gentle. “I was never with you for the sex. It was nice-”

Even drowning as he was, Astarion couldn't keep from retorting, “It was more than just ‘nice.’”

Your slightly exasperated smile warmed his hurting heart.

“Fine, it was mind-blowing in every way. But that was not and is not and never will be why I love you.”

You had never said it before. Love. But you said it so clearly, so naturally, as if there was no question at all, that Astarion's eyes welled with tears. He blinked them back.

You touched him carefully, drawing his head up to look at you but giving him the chance to pull away. “I love you, Astarion. All the broken pieces, all the rough edges, all the contradictory mishmash. I love the gleeful little noise you make when we find some good treasure. And the pride on your face after you open a particularly hard lock. I love watching you read, I love watching you embroider, I love watching you try to learn necromancy. Mm, if I were worried about safety, I probably shouldn't let you do that.”

Something started to uncurl from the tight, painful ball in his chest as Astarion watched you talk about him with bright enthusiasm. He hadn't realized how much attention you'd paid to the small details of him.

“I love listening to you. I love seeing you smile. Gods above, I love seeing you smile.” You smiled to yourself at the memory of it. “I've watched you grow from being so afraid– understandably– to trusting us. Trusting me enough to let me know you. And I am so glad you did. I'm so glad you're here.”

“And I'm beautiful, don't forget that,” he said with forced airiness to deflect, adoring the praises and uncomfortable with being so seen at the same time.

“You are unfairly beautiful. But that's not what this is about. You are brave, Astarion. You've thrown yourself into battles with goblins and cultists and a hag, fights that would have given trained soldiers a fright. You don't take shit from anyone. Not even explosive wizards or transdimensional warriors or whatever the hells Withers is.”

Your voice lowered and you touched your forehead to his. “I love you. All of you.”

Three little words… everyone's favorite. He had used them to con hundreds of people. Hundreds had said it to him in a lust-driven haze. This was something so vastly different.

He could feel it. It wasn't just three little words. It settled in his ribs, sweet and precious and sincere.

“May I kiss you?”

The question surprised him. But now that you had asked, he wanted it badly. To feel connected to you, to this new life, to feel like he was wanted.

“Please,” he said.

But you didn't lean in as he expected.

You picked up his hand, laying a soft kiss on each joint. You kissed his palm, turning it over to kiss the other side. You laid another on his wrist and then did the same with the other hand, slow and methodical. These weren't teasing or erotic. It was, he realized, as if he were a small child. You cupped his face and pressed your warm lips to his cheek, to the bridge of his nose, to his brow.

Everywhere that he had said he'd been hurt.

He couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They surged up in a tidal wave, the simple kindness of your kisses flooding him, and he buried his head in your neck with a whimper.

“Shh, I've got you,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “It's okay.”

He wrapped his arms around you, clinging like he'd be lost without you grounding him. His hands clawed into your nightshirt; all the longing and doubt and fear and rage that he'd been shoving away crashed over him, impossible to ignore, impossible to hold. It poured out of him in gasping, ugly sobs.

You just held him, rubbing his back, occasionally murmuring something comforting or encouraging.

He cried until he was empty, until the raging storm had passed and all he felt was exhausted and drained. His grip on you loosened, but he didn't let go. He listened to your breathing, consciously pulling air in and out of his lungs to match. It was soothing.

He was a mess and so was your shirt. He felt shaky and vulnerable, tender like a new wound.

But he didn't feel weak.

“Here, my love,” you said, holding your wrist up. “Eat. You'll feel better.”

He almost dissolved into tears again. There was no trick, no hidden motive, just food because he needed it.

Taking your arm, he did his best to bite gently. It was the least he could do. You hissed and tensed but wouldn't let him pull away.

“Just stings a little more than I expected. I'm fine. Eat, please.”

It was exceedingly peaceful, watching the sky slowly lighten and the stars fade, slumped against your shoulder with the rich taste of your blood in his mouth. You stroked his back with your free hand, and he thought, maybe this was what home was supposed to feel like.

Loved. Wanted. Seen.

Master Post

#my writing #This is the doc that gave me such anxiety editing #Not even because of the content #I asked for help and these lovely people gave it #And my brain went absolutely haywire with guilt lol #but it's done now my brain can calm down right #right???#brain: outlook hazy try again later #hurt/comfort #dark fic #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

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